Demons and Desire: Another Look at The Possession of Alba Díaz

I'll be honest—I'm not a fan of demons. Or demon-related things. Suffice it to say I won't be re-watching The Exorcist (1973) anytime soon, maybe not ever again. Blame it on the recovering-Catholic part of me—or my newborn spiritual side, or my own superstitions. But demons? That's energy I don't want to touch.

Cover Isabel Cañas' The Possession of Alba Díaz

And yet, like Rose Padilla noted in her thoughtful review for this very same publication, Isabel Cañas's latest novel offers something irresistible: "a bit of alchemy, angst, and a world of tensions" that transcends typical horror. I made an exception for The Possession of Alba Díaz mainly because I really can't pass up the opportunity to see a Latina lead being a baddie—especially if it means she's wrestling with the forces of evil. And boy, am I glad I took that chance.

Where Padilla rightly praises Cañas's crafting of Zacatecas's silver mines as "a historically significant site of interlocking tensions between the Old World and the New," I want to push further into how this setting becomes a character itself—one possessed by its own demons. This story has it all: part historical fiction, part horror, part romance. But what sets it apart is how demonic possession takes root not just in bodies but in the land itself, weaponizing the monstrous energy that colonialism has already planted there.

The key ingredients Padilla identifies—capitalism, greed, the depletion of Indigenous cultures—are all present. But Cañas adds layers: the pressure of family obligations and societal expectations, class strife split along both racial and ethnic fault lines, the church with its well-manicured officiants, and generational secrets long since buried but only now coming to light. And of course, the pleasures of alchemy, science, and literature that both protagonists use as shields against their world's darkness.

More Than a Rebel

At the heart of it all is Alba Díaz de Bolaños—the aforementioned baddie lead. Padilla captures Alba's "audacious spirit" beautifully in her description of the confessional scene, where Alba plots financial independence while performing piety. But Alba is more than rebellious; she's navigating her debut on the marriage market with the strategic mind of a general, fending off offensive suitors and quite literally, predators.

Her marriage pact with Carlos Monterrubio isn't just strategy—it's survival. And when she meets Elías, that "black sheep" with his "tortured past" that Padilla describes, their recognition of each other goes deeper than romance. In their respective entrapments, they look into each other (hungrily, I might add!) and see not just desire but a shared yearning for freedom that threatens everything they've carefully constructed.

Demon as Metaphor and Monster

Padilla astutely notes that Alba's absence is "doubly felt" when she becomes (dis)possessed. But I'd argue this possession isn't absence—it's hyper-presence. The demon that recognizes Alba's despair as "an unfortunate home" doesn't erase her; it amplifies everything colonial society has tried to suppress in her. Having escaped the matlazahuatl plague in the city, Alba and Elías wage their battle in Mina San Gabriel, where the demon manifests as "a hellish ghoul, freshly spit up from the bowels of the earth."

This isn't just about literal demons—it's about personal and systemic ones. Cañas pulls quotes from real historical guides and levels a critique of the religiously robed who "so systematically and ceremoniously discounted the humanity of their fellow human beings, all in the name of 'the holy.'"

Where Padilla sees the novel examining "female bodily autonomy against the backdrop of class, patriarchy, and religion," I see Cañas going even further—asking what happens when darkness travels across seas through colonial forces of commerce, military, and religion, and makes a home. What happens to our minds? Our bodies? Our spirits?

The demon becomes a manifestation of what happens when nature is plundered for her riches, bought and sold—not unlike, as Alba ponders, a married woman in 1765. The careful weaving of Alba, the land of the mines, and the demon allows for a deeper reflection on colonization's many horrors.

Desire as Resistance

While Padilla finds the cathedral climax occasionally heavy-handed, I read it as necessarily theatrical—matching the performative nature of colonial power itself. But most importantly, this is a story about desire: desire for freedom, for independence, for the basic right to make your own choices. That's what I love about this book—if freedom and independence are so bad, then why does it feel sooo good?

Padilla's conclusion that "of all the evils in the world, what most needs exorcising are the ideologies preventing us from living, loving, and being, without fear" perfectly captures why this novel matters. Cañas explores the tensions between light and dark, love and hate, good and evil—and all the grey spaces in between where real life happens.

If you're looking for your next read—what I call a decolonial-feminist-historical-fic-romance-with-a-baddie-who-battles-with-a-literal-demon-and-makes-it-look-hot read—look no further. This one is for you. And just in time for spooky season!

Like Padilla, I'm now eager to dive into Vampires of El Norte and explore more of Cañas's world where horror becomes a lens for examining historical trauma and where love stories become acts of resistance. Enjoy, baddies!