Location Report: Ojochal, Costa Rica

"Ojochal Witch" and the purported burial site deep in the Costa Rican rainforest:

The Whispers of Ojochal

The jungle pressed in tight around the small clearing, the calls of unseen birds and insects filling the heavy air. Hanging vines and broad elephant-ear leaves obscured the sunlight, casting everything in a greenish pall.

Miguel pushed aside a branch as he stepped into the little grotto, sweat already beading on his brow. He'd heard the stories of course - every kid growing up in Ojochal had. The tale of Doña Amara, the bruja who could control the weather and curse those who angered her.

Some said her powers were a gift from the ancient forest gods. Others claimed she'd made a pact with the devil himself, trading her soul for the ability to channel the dark forces around them. Miguel's abuela used to cross herself whenever Amara's name was mentioned, warning him to never go looking for her resting place.

But at 16 years old, Miguel was too old for silly superstitions, he told himself. He was a modern Costa Rican youth. There had to be a rational explanation behind the legends.

The object of his search looked disturbingly out of place amidst the primordial tangle of roots and vines. A simple stone slab, about the size of a casket lid, lay flat on the ground. Crudely carved into the rock were indecipherable symbols or writing, eroded by centuries of wind and rain.

Miguel felt his pulse quicken as he carefully cleared away loose foliage and humus, exposing more of the ancient-looking artifact. This had to be it - Amara's grave.

As he leaned in closer to examine the strange markings, a few loose pebbles shifted under his foot. Miguel jumped back with a surprised yelp before catching his balance. Laughing at his own irrational fear, he bent down again...and froze.

In the faint indentation left by his foot, something organic and desiccated had been uncovered. Something with bony protruberances and dried, withered fingers.

A desiccated human hand.

Icy dread prickled the back of Miguel's neck as he saw the thing was attached to an entire drained husk of a corpse bundled under the leaves. Amara's corpse.

All the old wives' tales and campfire stories came screaming back in a rush. About how Amara had enslaved spirits to guard her wretched remains for eternity. To drag the souls of trespassers down into the very pit of the underworld.

Miguel's mouth opened in a soundless scream. All around him, the jungle seemed to inhale a collective breath. Then the eerie quiet was shattered by a raucous chorus of screeches - a million famished beaks and claws emerging from the shadows, summoned by the desecration of this unholy site.

As the winged horde descended with murderous raptor shrieks, Miguel stumbled backward, finally finding his voice in one long, agonizing wail that echoed through the understory.

In the days after, some of the more superstitious locals heard the tale and knew it to be the fatal consequences of ignoring Abuela's warnings about the Ojochal Witch. Others dismissed it as a tragic accident, another victim of the manifold perils dwelling in those ancient forests.

But they all avoided that eerie little grotto from then on, leaving whatever malign presence still lurked there to its eternal rest.

————————-

Location of the grave of the Ojochal witch: 9° 4'19.99"N 83°38'27.57"W corpses