All the hidden Mexican folklore monsters everyone missed in Netflix's I Am Frankelda

In the summer of 2026, Netflix quietly delivered one of the year’s most distinctive animated offerings with I Am Frankelda. Directed and written by brothers Arturo and Roy Ambriz through their studio Cinema Fantasma, the film premiered on the platform on June 12, 2026. Mexico’s first feature-length stop-motion production, it serves as a prequel to the creators’ earlier series Frankelda’s Book of Spooks (Los Sustos Ocultos de Frankelda).


The story follows Francisca Imelda, a gifted but suppressed 19th-century Mexican writer, who is drawn into the decaying parallel kingdom of Topus Terrentus. This release taps into a growing appetite for culturally rooted fantasy. It embeds Mexican folklore into a high-concept narrative about creativity, identity, and the fragile bond between storytellers and their tales. The Ambriz brothers, mentored by Guillermo del Toro, spent years self-financing the project, resulting in over 200 handmade puppets and a richly textured world.

The film’s arrival feels timely. In an era when streaming platforms seek authentic voices beyond Hollywood formulas, I Am Frankelda stands out for its tactile craftsmanship and thoughtful integration of heritage.

At its core, I Am Frankelda explores the origin of the mysterious ghostwriter from the series. In 19th-century Mexico, young Francisca Imelda struggles against a society that dismisses her dark fiction, particularly as a woman. Her imaginative horrors gain literal life when she enters Topus Terrentus, a realm inhabited by “spooks” - supernatural entities sustained by human fear.


Prince Herneval, an owl-like tormented royal, pulls her in to help restore balance. The kingdom’s storyteller, Procustes- a grotesque spider-like figure, schemes to plagiarise her work for power. As Francisca embraces her voice as Frankelda, she confronts not only external threats but the personal cost of creation. The narrative weaves personal agency with broader themes of cultural memory and the power of stories to sustain or endanger worlds.

The Ambriz brothers crafted a musical dark fantasy that blends Renaissance-inspired aesthetics with gothic horror. Over 100 minutes, it shifts between the historical human world and the vibrant, decaying nightmare realm, using stop-motion’s physicality to make every puppet and set feel alive. This prequel deepens the lore of the series, where Frankelda and her enchanted book Herneval narrate tales of children facing spooks.

The result is a story about reclamation. Suppressed creativity finds its fullest expression in a place built from fears. For viewers familiar with the series, it provides satisfying context; for newcomers, it stands alone as a visually stunning entry into Mexican animation.


The Ambriz brothers have not transplanted folklore creatures wholesale but woven their essence into Topus Terrentus’s society. This subtle approach rewards attentive viewing and reflects a sophisticated understanding of how myths evolve.

1. Don Coco (El Coco / El Cucuy): The classic Hispanic bogeyman, known for stealing or punishing children, appears as a monstrous figure echoing the historical dictator Porfirio Díaz. This design ties personal childhood fears to political authority, grounding the fantasy in Mexico’s 19th-century context. In the broader Frankelda universe, variants like Coco Jr. appear in the series.

2. Chupasagre: Drawing from bloodsucking entities in Mexican and Latin American lore, this figure adds to the ecosystem of spooks that feed on human dread. It enriches the predatory undercurrents of the nightmare realm without dominating the narrative.

3. Aluxes: Tiny guardian sprites from Mayan mythology find echoes in the cosmology of Topus Terrentus. Their presence connects the story to pre-Columbian traditions, blending with the ceiba tree’s mystique, a sacred element in Mesoamerican cultures symbolising life and the underworld.

4. Xochimilco Axolotl Mermaid: This creature incorporates Mexico City’s iconic amphibian, endemic to the region’s ancient lake system. Transforming the regenerative axolotl into an aquatic horror element highlights local biodiversity within the fantasy.


5. Chamán Coyote: Viewers have noted this striking, eerie design among the menagerie. Coyote figures carry shamanic and trickster connotations in various indigenous traditions, adding layers of cunning and spiritual guidance to the spooks’ clans.

Beyond these, the film populates Topus Terrentus with bird-like and arachnid clans, seven feuding clan leaders, and a host of Renaissance-inspired beasts. Procustes himself, with multiple mouths, limbs, and a commanding presence, embodies authoritarian storytelling gone awry. The realm’s architecture and society complete with cuisine, fragrances, and politics, create a “high culture” of monsters that feels lived-in rather than monstrous for shock value.

These elements are not Easter eggs for their own sake. They illustrate how folklore monsters process societal anxieties from authority (El Coco) to the unknown (aluxes and ceiba). In Topus Terrentus, as belief fades, so does the spooks’ vitality, mirroring real-world concerns about cultural preservation.


The craftsmanship amplifies their impact. Handmade puppets and intricate sets make each encounter tactile and memorable. Sequences overflowing with the menagerie underscore the kingdom’s vibrancy and fragility, inviting rewatches to spot additional details.

The Ambriz brothers’ decade-long effort, including mortgaging family homes, shines through in every frame. Mentorship from Guillermo del Toro provided guidance, yet the vision remains distinctly Mexican. Influences range from Gustave Doré’s engravings to surrealists and local surroundings, creating a baroque yet refined nightmare world.

This approach matters because it expands representation in animation. Stop-motion, labour-intensive and often dominated by Western studios, gains a vital new voice. Audiences respond to the authenticity and not just in folklore but in the portrayal of a female creator claiming space.

For fans of dark fantasy or anthology horror, the film connects to broader traditions while carving its niche. Its musical elements and emotional core elevate it beyond visual novelty.

In the end, I Am Frankelda succeeds by treating its monsters as more than scares. They embody cultural memory, creative struggle and the enduring power of stories.


I Am Frankelda streams worldwide on Netflix (availability may vary by region; check your local library). Explore the original series Frankelda’s Book of Spooks on Max.