The Beans of San Isidro

The small village of San Isidro, nestled in the hills of El Salvador, had long been known for its rich coffee. The volcanic soil and cool mountain air produced beans that seemed to carry something special, a depth of flavor no other region could match. For generations, the coffee farms had thrived, passing down their secrets from parent to child.

Isabella inherited her family’s plantation after her father’s death. It was a modest estate, but it produced some of the finest coffee in the region. She had grown up among the fields, watching the beans ripen under the sun, feeling the earth beneath her feet. But there were stories — old stories her father never liked to talk about, stories of disappearances during the Civil War.

One late afternoon, Isabella was overseeing the clearing of an old, overgrown field at the edge of the plantation. The workers hacked at the dense brush, their machetes ringing out through the quiet air, when one of them shouted. Isabella rushed over. The blade of the man’s tool had struck something buried in the earth. As they dug, they uncovered a skeleton.

Isabella’s heart raced. The bones were old, brittle with time. Yet, the grim discovery was not an isolated one. As the workers dug further, they found more bones, buried deep beneath the coffee plants. Skeletal remains, dozens of them, hidden just beneath the surface.

The authorities came, and the bones were identified as victims from the time of the Civil War, people who had gone missing from the village, thought to have fled or been killed in the conflict. But as the news spread, so did the whispers among the elders of San Isidro. They spoke of an ancient practice, a ritual long forgotten, that was said to bless the land.

Decades ago, when crops failed and the plantation owners grew desperate, it was rumored that sacrifices were made. The old ones said that the blood of the sacrificed fed the soil, ensuring the coffee would flourish. The bones in the earth were not just victims of war, they claimed—they were part of a curse.

Isabella tried to shake the rumors. She had a plantation to run, after all, and harvest season was near. But the air seemed to grow heavier as the days passed. The coffee plants, though thriving, gave off an unnatural energy. The beans grew larger, darker, almost as if they had been nourished by something more than just the soil.

The harvest was more bountiful than any in recent memory. Isabella’s coffee was praised far and wide. Buyers from across the world clamored for the unique flavor. But something strange began to happen. Those who drank the coffee reported vivid, unsettling dreams. They dreamed of shadowy figures rising from the ground, of cold hands grasping at their throats, of whispers in a language they could not understand.

And then the deaths started.

The first was a wealthy importer in New York, found dead in his apartment after drinking Isabella’s coffee. His face was twisted in terror, his body contorted as though he had struggled against something unseen. Then a café owner in Paris was found dead in a similar manner. The news spread, and with it, a growing sense of fear.

Isabella could no longer ignore what was happening. She sought out Abuela Consuela, the oldest woman in the village, known for her knowledge of the old ways. The frail woman listened as Isabella recounted the strange events.

"The dead are restless," Abuela Consuela said, her voice barely above a whisper. "They were never given peace. The land remembers, and the coffee carries their souls."

Isabella begged for a way to stop it, to undo what had been done, but the old woman shook her head. "The dead do not forget. You cannot unearth them and expect them to stay silent."

The next morning, Isabella returned to her fields, where the beans continued to grow, black as night. She felt the weight of their presence, the unseen eyes watching her from the earth below. The coffee would continue to flourish, but at a price. Those who drank it were inviting the dead into their bodies, carrying the souls of the forgotten with every sip.

And despite the deaths, the world could not resist. The demand for Isabella’s coffee only grew, each cup a dark, bitter reminder of the lives lost beneath the soil. Even as the village tried to forget, the land would never let them.

The dead had become part of the harvest. And they would never stop growing.