Cross-Cultural Creepiness : Nothing Is Quite as Frightening as a House of Horrors, Latino-Style : <i> Neither Halloween nor Day of the Dead is as scary as the legends handed down in Mexican and Chicano families. Richard Montoya of the comedy troupe Culture Clash recounts his memories. : </i>

Our Mexican American parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents never waited for Halloween to scare the living daylights out of us kids who would easily fall victim to horrifying tales of death, abduction and, yes, domestic violence. These fanciful tales have been honed down throughout the centuries, concocted by Spanish invaders to provoke fear and guilt in wild savages who would have only to turn to Christianity for salvation.

Yes, my radical Chicano father used the same tactics as the oppressive Spaniards to get us children to buckle down out of sheer fear and guilt. It would not have been so bad if our elders had waited for Halloween or Dia de los Muertos to tell us these frightful tales--then at least we could gear up, hide behind shiny plastic costumes like Casper the Friendly Ghost and gobble down pounds of candy. But, no such luck!

I don’t think Mexican parents are any more or less cruel than other parents--they just take delight in the oral tradition. What else could it be?

Fear was a spectator sport and exaggeration its evil twin when I was a kid. I always wondered, and now I know the awful truth, why my best buddy Joshua would never stay the night at my house--he was scared to death of our Chicano house of horrors. Heck, at his house his mother politely told us to hush as she swaggered through the day with dignity and a hi-ball. At our house my parents made us smash helpless pinatas, yelled at us to callate el hocico! (Shut your animal mouth!) and told us gruesome folk tales--and that was on a good day!

At night, and just before we drifted into sleep, our bedroom door would open. We kids were tucked in and ready for slumber, but not before my aunt would get a hold of us--the aunt with no teeth and a faint mustache. She was there for one reason and one reason only, to tell us the wonderful, bedtime folkloric story of La Llorona! (yo -do- na, for you monolingual readers)--who killed five kids in her sleep! Why would she tell us this right before bedtime?

Hunched over for dramatic effect, the toothless wonder was backlit by the hall light--a brilliant entrance, an imposing silhouette, the creature from the blue front room! And for the millionth time she would say: “ Mijos , tonight I’m going to tell you about La Llorona !” Noooooooooo! we would scream. “ Esa muchacha took her kids down to the river and she drownded the little mocosos ! Ay! Que fuerte la mujer Mexicana!” (“How strong the Mexican woman,” my aunt would marvel.) “Oh yes, mijos, her little boys were troublemakers. They never did what their mother said, they did not do their homework and only watched TV!”

It didn’t matter that the story took place in the 19th Century, and why should kids do as their homicidal mother says anyway? “ Callate el hocico! Now, you just go to sleep and don’t forget to pray to La Virgen de Guadalupe, and don’t forget about LA LLORONA ! Sweet dreams, cabrones .” And they wondered why we peed the bed.

It is said that if you go to a certain river in Mexico at night, on a full moon, of course, that you can hear La Llorona crying out for her children. (Johnnie Cochran couldn’t get her off this one!) There are many theories as to why La Llorona drowned--or drownded , as my aunt would say--her offspring. One version is that she did it to avoid having them baptized in the Catholic church. Another is that the Indian mother simply lost her marbles, then tried to blame the whole affair on an African American carjacker.

I believe that La Llorona was a victim of domestic violence by her abusive husband-- EL CUCUI (koo- koo -ee). He’s that boogeyman who lurks underneath every kid’s bed. A mean sucker. Every culture has its very own Cucui. The one under my bed looked like Bob Dole, I swear to God.

Theirs was a stormy marriage--La Llorona and El Cucui. There is documentation that the two sought out a marriage counselor to help them get in touch with their complex feelings for each other. La Llorona complained bitterly that her husband did not spend quality time with her, opting instead to spend most of his time underneath the beds of children. El Cucui would scoff, noting that since they had no children of their own to scare--thanks to a certain someone--that he had to spend all his waking moments under the beds of strange children.

El Cucui was expanding his operation and could no longer be held down by the constantly crying La Llorona. And another thing, he was going international, just like Santa Claus. La Llorona was wanted by Mexican officials as well. This was all too much for El Cucui. He wanted out. The counselor suggested that they read “Love Letters” to each other at the Canon Theatre in Beverly Hills for a two-week run.

But, after two performances, the would-be actors dropped out of the hit show. They were replaced by understudies Gloria Molina and Richard Alatorre.

La Llorona and El Cucui--the perfect Chicano Couple--are still trying to work things out.