When I was a kid, my mother had me take a wooden mask that we owned outside to destroy it with a hatchet. She said it had haunted her dreams. It was a strange precaution to take in retrospect, but at the time, it made sense. As a child, the dark holds all sorts of ghosts and terrors, and the superstitions and beliefs passed on in family stories become fact when the sun sets.
I can tell you some of the stories I grew up with now—about a pile of cursed clothing or my curandera aunt who could reliably free a house of evil spirits—but they would lose their vigor in the telling. There is a difference between a story about folklore and a folklore story.