Cases of Witchcraft in Colonial Mexico

When we think about historical witchcraft trials, we usually picture mass panics in Europe or New England. Crowds surrounding gallows, accusations of flying through the night sky, people accusing each other of devil worship, maybe people being burned at the stake. But in colonial Mexico, the one we normally don't hear about as much, the reality of magic was very different. Under Spanish rule, society was organized under a strict system that placed white European men at the top. and legally categorized people by blood, color, and ancestry. Indigenous peoples, Black populations, and women of all backgrounds were at the bottom of this social ladder, facing severe limits on their legal rights, bodies, and personal freedom. When official legal and religious institutions offered no protection or justice, marginalized people turned to an underground market of folk magic known as brujería. You've probably heard of it. Unlike European witch hunts, colonial Mexican brujería was domestic, everyday kind of thing, and deeply personal. It was used by wives, lovers, servants, healers to survive domestic abuse, deal with relationship disputes, cure unexplained illnesses, and regain control over their own lives. I didn't know much about brujería, but the more I looked into it and where it came from, the more stories I started to find. Most of what we know about these stories specifically, the ones I'm going to tell you about, comes directly from surviving Inquisition archives, where official Spanish scribes recorded the exact words of witnesses, victims, and accused healers. I found some pretty interesting stories in there, so I'm going to tell you about them right now. My name is Edwin, and here's a horror story. Our first story takes us back to the earliest years of Spanish colonial rule, to November 1536. Now, if you're completely new to this, as I was, this is when Spain was beginning to take over Mexico and impose its religion and beliefs on everyone. The Spanish conquest was still fresh, and church authorities like Mexico's first bishop, Juan de Sumarraga, were aggressively using inquisitorial trials to put an end to native religious practices and force Catholic conversion across New Spain. In the city of Texcoco, a Spanish noblewoman named Catalina Lopez arrived at the home of Don Pablo Xochiquetzin, an indigenous nobleman who had been appointed to govern Mexico City following the death of Moctezuma. Now, Don Pablo was pretty sick. Catalina and a group of local Catholic nuns had been visiting his home regularly, bringing Spanish medical remedies and praying for his recovery. But on this particular day, when Catalina and the nuns reached the front door, Indigenous members of Don Pablo's household stepped outside and said, you cannot come in. The servants explained that the Aztec shaman named Martín Ocelotl was inside the house treating Don Pablo. Martín had specifically forbidden the Spanish women from entering. He told the household that the Spanish remedies the nuns and Catalina were bringing were not curing the nobleman at all, but instead were killing him. As Catalina stood outside the door, the indigenous servants revealed even more surprising details about the healer inside. They told her that Martín was performing brujería for Don Pablo, and that he was already legendary across the Mexica world. According to local belief, Martín was immortal, having previously returned to life after Emperor Moctezuma had him dismembered and cut into pieces. Catalina took what she heard straight to Spanish authorities, testifying against Martín in court. November 1536, the Mexican Inquisition formally charged Martín Nocelotl with committing acts of sorcery and divination, making deals with the devil, spreading indigenous religious beliefs against the Catholic faith, and shapeshifting into a tiger, a lion, and a dog. Now, in front of these judges of Spanish Christian men, Martín' s authority as an indigenous leader meant nothing. While the judges praised Catalina Lopez and the nuns for their Christian devotion, they condemned Martín' s medical intervention as dangerous heresy that went against colonial order. He was convicted and sentenced to exile. Throughout the mid-16th century, friars continued to use the inquisitorial force against native leaders, jailing, flogging, and even burning people at the stake, such as Don Carlos of Texcoco in 1539. until indigenous populations were formally exempted from inquisitorial jurisdiction in 1571. But the trial of Martín Ocelotl stands as one of the earliest documented clashes between European authority and indigenous spiritual healing, showing how folk magic became a form of resistance against colonial rule. The year was 1709. We're in Mexico City. A Spanish man named Lorenzo Martínez Montañez walked into the local tribunal of the Inquisition to file a formal charge against his former mistress, a mestiza woman named Bonifacia Miranda. Lorenzo claimed that Bonifacia had placed an amarre, which is like a magical binding spell on him, to take away his virility. In colonial Mexican society, when husbands or lovers mistreated their partners or walked away from relationships, women frequently sought out folk practitioners to perform these kinds of spells as revenge. Because of this, amares became a common explanation for sudden male impotence. That exact situation happened to Lorenzo when he suddenly found himself completely impotent with his lawful wife. Lorenzo had previously fathered a daughter with Bonifacia. When he tried to end their sexual relationship while insisting on remailing the child's godfather, Bonifacia was like, nope, and became really angry. She cursed Lorenzo directly, warning him. that he would remember her always. So when Lorenzo looked back on their affair, he remembered that Bonifacia had frequently served him hot cocoa and food during their time together, things widely believed in colonial culture to be perfect ways of secretly performing domestic sorcery. He even claimed under oath that during their intimate moments, he had felt something physically cross over his, uh, Unable to find Bonifacia to demand that she reverse the spell, Lorenzo went into his parish priests in terror and he said, hey, I did this and I need help. So his confessor directed him straight to the holy office for help. Now this trial record, the one that we're looking at here, gives us this interesting look at how sex, power, and magic were connected in everyday colonial life. Lorenzo was so terrified of Bonifacia's unseen power that he willingly confessed his own extramarital affair to church officials, fearing her curse much more than any religious punishment for cheating on his wife. Because colonial legal and social structures allowed men to have affairs with little accountability while leaving women with virtually no legal options, folk magic became an accessible, though forbidden, way for women to strike back. By taking advantage of men's deep fears about sexual performance and female revenge, Bonifacia managed to turn Lorenzo's own guilt and paranoia into a powerful form of revenge. And now we look at another story. This one's from 1709. The Inquisition in Mexico City received formal statements from several women accusing a mestiza healer named Agustina de Lara of practicing witchcraft. These accusers were ordinary women who had initially gone to Agustina for love magic, but later became scared, confessed their sins, and reported her to the church authorities. That's kind of messed up. Among them was a Spanish woman named Isabel de Tobar. Isabel and Agustina were comadres, or close friends, which made Isabel feel comfortable confiding in Agustina when her lover abandoned her and left her heartbroken. So to help her friend win back her lover, Agustina asked Isabel for a few hairs from her intimate parts, promising to make a remedy that would bring the man back. A few days later, Agustina handed Isabel a mixture of foul-smelling powders containing her ground-up intimate hairs to rub onto her lover's clothing, along with enchanted lump of sugar to secretly put into his food. Now it sounds ridiculous now, right? But people are performing these things even today. We're going to hear about them a little bit at the end, so stick around. However, Isabel quickly became so scared of the moral consequences of using brujería to save her relationship that she threw the magical items away and rushed to report her own actions. She also reported Agustina's instructions to her parish priest in the holy office. A few months after Isabel came forward, another witness named Marta Picón gave a second statement against Agustina. Marta was a castiza woman, meaning that she had one mestiza parent and one Spanish parent. And mestiza is a Spanish and indigenous child, like a child born out of that. Okay. Anyway, this was a person who worked inside Agustina's household as a domestic servant, right? So Marta testified that... she had witnessed Agustina's magical business firsthand, explaining that women regularly visit the house to buy potions and substances designed to make men fall in love with them. To make these remedies, Agustina relied on a larger network of suppliers, purchasing raw herbs and dried hummingbirds directly from indigenous people who provided similar magical services. Marta told the inquisitors that Agustina was unusually confident, and that was very suspicious. Even after Agustina's own magical mentor was arrested by the Inquisition, Agustina openly bragged to Marta that she did not fear the Holy Office and felt completely capable of outsmarting the judges if she was ever questioned. In the end, both Isabel and Marta were absolved by the Inquisition after promising to complete assigned acts of penance. But as for Agustina, no further records exist in the archives showing that the Holy Office ever managed to bring her to trial or punish her. So now we move a few years forward to 1715. A mestiza woman named Magdalena de la Mata came before the Inquisition in colonial Mexico to confess her involvement with folk magic. And remember, Under Spanish colonial rule, married women had very little independence and were expected to obey their husbands completely. Husbands often believed that they had the right to physically abuse their wives, leaving women with almost no protection from civil courts. Magdalena faced this exact situation after her husband gave her a severe beating that left her bloody and bruised. Desperate to stop the violence and protect herself, Magdalena reached out to an indigenous woman named Beatriz. was known in the community for her knowledge of magical binding spells. Beatriz provided Magdalena with a specific ritual amarre, similar to the first story, designed to make her husband sexually impotent and stop his physical aggression. But after receiving the spell, Magdalena felt deeply conflicted between her need to protect herself and her Catholic upbringing, which taught women to submit to their husbands and strictly forbade folk magic. Feeling guilty, Magdalena could not bring herself to carry out the ritual, and within a day, she confessed everything to her priest. Because her plan involved brujería, the priest sent Magdalena to the Holy Office of the Inquisition. The people reviewed her case, absolved her of her sin, and assigned her acts of penance. Then, there's this interesting one. In 1733, a priest named Fray Diego Núñez went before the Inquisition in Colonial Mexico to accuse his enslaved mulata servant, Manuela de Bocanegra, of casting a spell on him. Now, Diego claimed that Manuela had placed a diabolic curse on him, causing him severe physical pain, temporary paralysis, extremely painful urination, and forcing him to physically expel small foreign objects through his genitals. Now, from a modern perspective, Diego's symptoms are strongly... they seem a lot like... common sexually transmitted diseases. But at the time, the terrified priest was convinced that diabolic witchcraft was responsible. Diego traced the origin of his illness directly back to Manuela and her sexuality. Shortly before getting sick, Diego had caught Manuela with a lover and harshly scolded both of them. Believing this confrontation gave Manuela a strong reason to seek revenge. Diego accused her of taking advantage of their domestic relationship by secretly putting magical substances into his food. Now this case was especially alarming to colonial authorities because it involved several layers of power, right? We have a man, a woman, master and slave, white and black, and priest and ordinary citizen. It was like, whoa, this is a pretty serious thing because it's also showing that for an enslaved woman like Manuela to drain the strength of a Spanish priest, meant that Diego felt as though he had been lowered to her status. This created deep anxiety among colonial men who feared losing control over marginalized populations. Now, when I see these kinds of things and I analyze it this way, I think a lot about how this hasn't gone away in many, many years. It's still present today. But let's continue with the story here. Desperate for a cure, Diego went out to find a local mulatta healer named Gertrudis to help break what he believed was Manuela's spell. At first, Diego felt hopeful about Gertrudis' treatment, but his health quickly deteriorated. To his horror, Diego soon discovered that Gertrudis was not only a seller of sexual magic herself, but was also a close personal friend of Manuela. Realizing that the two women were allies, Diego concluded that Gertrudis had been secretly working with Manuela all along to keep him incapacitated. Now, while Inquisition records not reveal how the trial ended, the story of Manuela and Diego shows us how power worked in colonial society. Even within a society built on strict hierarchies, marginalized women built networks of friendship, care, and mutual support among themselves. By combining their knowledge of herbs and folk remedies with deep fears of Spanish men in positions of authority, women like Manuela and Gertrudis found ways to quietly reverse the balance of power, and actually protected one another when they had no legal rights of their own. In the centuries since the colonial Inquisition trials, the practice of brujería has never disappeared. Today, Latin American folk magic and traditional healing are practiced not in secret, but in but openly across modern urban neighborhoods and border regions. Unlike modern religions like Wicca, which follow established rules and covens, brujería remains this decentralized folk tradition that varies by region. Now, it's a practice preserved and passed down across generations, primarily by women who served as household leaders and spiritual protectors. In modern cities, the practice often centers around botanicas. You've probably seen these stores, right? They're neighborhood herbs and spiritual shops that serve as community gathering places and spiritual pharmacies. Clients visit these shops to purchase candles, herbal sprays, saint statues, or consult directly with traditional healers. A clear example of this, where you can see this modern practice, can be seen in Chicago, Illinois, where a Mexican immigrant named Victoria Taufique operates a shop called Botanica Victoria in the Paseo Boricua neighborhood. Victoria learned the traditional healing from her mother as a natural part of her upbringing, and later combined that knowledge passed down through her family with formal studies in botany and chemistry. Clients from a wide variety of backgrounds visit Victoria to receive palm readings, spiritual counseling, herbal remedies to help them deal with emotional distress and find direction in their lives. Along the United States-Mexico border, researchers like Reyna Muñoz a faculty fellow at the University of Texas at El Paso, point out how folk healing remains an active part of daily life. Simple household practices, such as rubbing garlic on mosquito bites, wearing a protective deer's eye charm called an ojo de venado, are passed down through families as part of a living border tradition. Every once in a while, I'll see huge signs of amarres, or éxito en el trabajo, which are meant to get someone to stay with you or help you have success at work. I see it followed by like a huge phone number on there. And I almost think nothing of it now. It's so common. And if you're from Southern California and listen to Spanish language radio, you might have even heard ads for these people. For a certain amount of money, they'll improve your life. Now, when we look at why people turn to brujería today, the main reason remains very similar to what it was during colonial times. In the 17th and 18th centuries, marginalized women used folk magic because civil courts gave them almost no legal rights or protection against abuse and abandonment. Today, many people still face serious obstacles, including a lack of health insurance, high medical costs, problems with immigration documents, and language barriers. So when official health care or social institutions leave people without support, traditional healers step in. to offer accessible care that fits their cultural beliefs, including help for emotional distress, known as susto or nervios. I think brujería has a very, very specific job in our society. Because whether you're in a colonial Mexico City household or a modern urban botanica, brujería continues to serve the same basic human need. Helping people find healing, gain a sense of control, make their own decisions, when official systems fail them. This episode of Horror Story was written and produced by me, Edwin Covarrubias. If you have any comments, questions, or want some of the material that was used to come up with this episode, please email me. This stuff was super interesting to research. Anyway, that's all I have for you this week. Thank you very much for listening. Keep it scary, everyone. See you soon.