SABELINA: Sorceress Spy, Part I The Birth Story of Isabela Manlavi Manuel Ortega Abis
Chapter 1: In the Town of Pantalan “Words and magic were in the beginning one and the same thing...” Sigmund Freud
This is a story about the human heart, but it is not a love story. The human heart is not solely about love. Deep within this throbbing cocoon of muscle and mass lies a secret—the darkest mystery of who we truly are and why we are who we are. If you wish to understand how this story unfolds, close your eyes and listen to your own heart.
In a time when gods were mountains and mountains were gods, there lived a young, enchanting woman—a sorceress in disguise. Her heart was darkness incarnate, a bewitching, bedeviled shadow that seemed alive. This darkness, absorbed through the mysterious circumstances of her birth, coursed through her veins as if it were her own blood. It consumed her senses and whispered truths she could barely grasp. This dark essence, channeled through the superior and inferior vena cava of her heart, flowed through her every vein. The superior vena cava governed her uncanny sense of theurgy; the inferior oversaw her mortality. In these chambers of shadow and pulse, the darkness would transform, releasing a radiant spiritus lucis—a breath of light. Was this metamorphosis proof that even one born of shadows could hold the capacity for true love? Could this woman, whose life teetered between light and shadow, transcend her nature and defy the gods themselves? The gods, led by Halmista, the lord of magic, had long controlled Palawan with their arsenal of enchantments: barang, kulam, bighani, and engkanto. Her struggle was a tempest—between her inherited mana and her mortal yearning for peace. Her journey raised a question as old as humanity: was her battle unique, or did it reflect the plight of all who carried both darkness and light within them? Who was she? Her name was Isabela "Sable" Manlavi.
The Storm in Pantalan On a December night, the monsoon tore through the town of Pantalan. The rain lashed against the limestone steps of an ancient chapel, perched on the flat valley floor overlooking a hill that kissed the Sea of Light. Amidst the storm, a feeble wail cut through the cacophony—a sound as fragile as a kitten’s mewl yet haunting enough to shatter the night’s rhythm. Father Roberto Aquino, the newly assigned parish priest, was stirred from a restless dream. His bedroom window, left ajar, rattled violently against the wind. Rising with a start, he moved to secure it, only to pause as the cry reached his ears again. He peered into the storm’s wrath and saw a sight he would recount for years to come—a fruit basket, stuffed with wool and blankets, resting on the chapel steps. Within it lay a baby. The priest hurried outside, the storm soaking him to the bone. When he lifted the infant from the basket, the world seemed to hold its breath. A strange warmth emanated from the child, and for a fleeting moment, he felt as though he had been transported back to the dream from which he’d just awoken. In that dream, he had been adrift on a raft, surrounded by an infinite, eerily calm ocean. A disembodied voice had spoken to him: “Today is a picture of tomorrow taken yesterday. Accept the darkness as the light’s own shadow. This is the truth. Accept the darkness.”
The Weight of a Name Word spread quickly. Who had abandoned the child in such a manner? And why? The townspeople whispered endlessly. Some speculated the baby was a curse; others, a blessing. Father Roberto, however, remained steadfast. He named her Isabela Manlavi, drawing on the lineage of his own ancestors, the legendary babaylans of Palawan. Yet, he concealed this truth, sharing only that the child needed a protector. He found one in Maria Leonora “Leni” Segovia, a devoted parishioner and steadfast volunteer. “Father, what will people say about us?” Nanay Leni asked, cradling the infant. “Psalm 101, verse 5: Whoever slanders his neighbor secretly, I will destroy,” the priest replied. His words were resolute, but in his heart, doubt lingered.
The Secrets of Pantalan Pantalan was a town caught between worlds. Its northern districts, San Agustin and Fisheries, flourished with government funding, while its southern seaside communities languished in poverty. Yet the heart of the town held its own secrets, deeply rooted in its history. The chapel and its adjoining cathedral stood on land sacred to the island’s indigenous Tagbanua people. The stories of the Tagbanua spoke of an ancient power buried beneath the valley, a power that predated the arrival of foreign settlers and the gods who once walked the earth. Unbeknownst to Father Roberto and Nanay Leni, the child they now cared for was a vessel for this ancient power. Her cries that stormy night had awakened something beneath Pantalan—something that had slept for centuries.
A Vision in the Night Weeks passed, and Isabela grew stronger. Yet strange occurrences began to plague the town. Crops withered in fields that had once been fertile. The sea, usually generous with its bounty, became treacherous, swallowing fishermen whole. At night, townsfolk reported hearing whispers in a language they could not understand. And always, there was the sensation of being watched. Father Roberto began to experience dreams more vivid than any he had known before. In one, he stood atop the chapel steps, clutching Isabela as the ground beneath him cracked and opened, revealing a chasm filled with writhing shadows. A figure emerged, cloaked in darkness, its eyes burning with an unholy light. It spoke a single word: “Sable.”
Afterword One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the valley in hues of blood-red and gold, Nanay Leni found herself drawn to the chapel. She carried Isabela in her arms, her steps unsteady. The child’s eyes, usually so calm, now glowed faintly in the dim light. The chapel doors creaked open as though inviting her inside. She hesitated but stepped forward. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world outside seemed to vanish, replaced by a suffocating darkness. A low hum filled the air, rising to a deafening crescendo. And then, from the shadows, a voice rang out—the same voice that had spoken to Father Roberto in his dreams: “She is ours. The darkness has come to reclaim her.” The chapel’s doors slammed shut, and the screams that followed were swallowed by the night.
Chapter 2: Beauty and the Priest “Under heaven, all can see beauty as beauty, only because there is ugliness. All can know good as good only because there is evil. Being and non-being produce each other. The difficult is born in the easy. Long is defined by short, the high by the low. Before and after go along with each other.” Lao Tzu, 2nd verse of Tao Te Ching
It was a curious paradox how Isabela—or Sable, as she was known among her childhood friends—grew up under the care of two vastly different figures in the small, enigmatic town of Pantalan. Nanay Leni, stern and pragmatic, had a no-nonsense approach to discipline, while Father Roberto, a priest with unorthodox views, infused his lessons with a peculiar blend of faith and mysticism. Theirs was an unconventional household, one that raised questions among the townsfolk but was bound by an unspoken understanding that Sable was special—in ways no one fully understood. As a child, Sable had a freedom that bordered on the extraordinary. While other children were confined by the rigid boundaries of rural life, she seemed to drift between the ordinary and the uncanny. She played street games, skipped schoolwork on rare occasions, and befriended creatures no one else dared approach. It was a life both charmed and haunted, defined by incidents that whispered of something greater at play.
One fateful afternoon, Sable and her friend Iboy, ten years old and brimming with mischief, encountered a viper on the dusty road home. The creature’s dark, coal-black scales shimmered in the sunlight, its yellow underbelly a stark warning. Iboy grabbed a bamboo stick, his instincts telling him to defend. But Sable did something inexplicable. Clutching at a hidden object beneath her dress, she stepped forward with a serene, almost hypnotic confidence. “Sable! Stay back!” Iboy’s voice was shrill with panic. He jabbed the stick toward the viper, but the creature’s gaze remained fixed on Sable. She moved her hand in slow, deliberate arcs, as if conducting an invisible symphony. The air seemed to hum, charged with an energy Iboy couldn’t place. The viper’s head swayed in rhythm with her motions, its venomous tension dissolving as it slithered away into the underbrush. Iboy stood frozen, the bamboo stick slack in his hand. “H-how did you do that? Teach me!” he stammered, his voice trembling between awe and fear. Sable turned to him with a mischievous smile and said nothing. The mystery lingered, as it always did with her, a secret she seemed content to keep.
Sable’s peculiarities did not go unnoticed. Among her peers, she was both revered and ridiculed. Nanong, the group’s bully, took special pleasure in targeting her, mocking her thrifted dresses and playing cruel pranks. But even he couldn’t deny the strange magnetism she exuded, a quiet power that unsettled those who crossed her. On the rare occasions when the teasing went too far, Sable would reach for the object hidden beneath her dress. A subtle shift would occur—an eerie stillness, as if the very air around her held its breath. And without fail, her tormentors would retreat, as though compelled by an unseen force.
That afternoon, after a spirited game of tumbang preso, Sable returned to the church where Father Roberto was preparing his sermon. She entered quietly, her presence marked by the faint jingling of her anklet. “Where have you been?” the priest asked without looking up. “The pilgrims will arrive soon, and Mama Mary’s sampaguitas haven’t been changed.” “I’ll do it right away, Papa,” Sable replied, using the affectionate term she reserved for him. But she didn’t move. Instead, she lingered near the doorway, twisting a strand of her black hair around her fingers. Father Roberto finally looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing as if he saw something beyond her physical form. For the briefest moment, a faint, luminous glow seemed to encircle her head before vanishing into nothingness. “What’s on your mind, hija? Speak.” Sable hesitated, then sighed. “Papa, please tell me the truth…” The priest leaned forward, sensing the weight of her question. “Am I ugly?” Father Roberto’s breath caught, not because of the question itself, but because of the layers of fear and yearning embedded within it. He saw in her eyes a reflection of the question’s deeper meaning, one she wasn’t ready to articulate. Before he could respond, the door creaked open behind her, and a shadow fell across the room. Nanay Leni stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “The pilgrims are here,” she said curtly. As Sable turned to leave, Father Roberto noticed something fall from beneath her dress. It glinted briefly in the fading light before she scooped it up and hurried away. The priest’s heart quickened as he recognized it—a talisman he had only seen once before, in the hands of his grandmother, the last known babaylan of their lineage.
That night, long after the pilgrims had gone and the church was silent, Father Roberto sat at his desk, the talisman’s memory burning in his mind. He reached for his journal, but before he could write, a loud crash echoed from the garden. Rushing outside, he found the altar of Mama Mary shattered, the statue missing. In its place was a trail of crimson petals leading into the darkness beyond the church grounds. Somewhere in the distance, a gecko clicked, its eerie cry reverberating through the night. And then he heard it—Sable’s laughter, distant and unearthly, carrying a note of both joy and despair.
Chapter 3: The Luminous Mysteries “As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.” – Carl Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections
The flickering candlelight in the rectory illuminated Father Roberto’s lined face, its shadows deepening the mystery that clung to him like a second skin. He’d spent over a decade in the small parish of Pantalan, yet the secrets he bore went far deeper than the shallow roots of his arrival. His foster daughter, Isabela, barely a year under his care, stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Her question still hung in the air like incense after Mass. “Papa, what does it mean?” she asked again, her voice trembling but steady enough to betray her resolve. Father Roberto regarded her for a moment, his priestly composure masking the turmoil roiling within. The girl’s question was not just a child’s innocent curiosity; it was a spark—a tiny flame that might ignite the revelations he had been dreading and preparing for all these years. The priest's gaze shifted momentarily to the calendar on the wall. Thursday. Beneath the marked date were the words, bold and glowing in his mind: The Luminous Mysteries. “Anak, why do you ask such a question?” he replied, deflecting but not dismissing. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his smartphone, typing a quick message to Nanay Leni, his trusted housekeeper, to attend to the visiting pilgrims. As his thumb hovered over the send button, he glanced at Isabela. The flickering light seemed to dance around her, accentuating the slight shimmer of the pendant she wore. That necklace… It was no ordinary gift. Isabela, sensing her foster father’s apprehension, held up her smartphone. “Papa, I remember what you said when you gave me the necklace and this phone. You wrote on the note, ‘Spiritus Lucis Deo—‘God is the Breath of Light.’” Her voice softened as she added, “And the quote from Father Guido: ‘The truth will set you free, but first, it will make you miserable.’” Father Roberto allowed himself a small smile, though his thoughts were far from light. How much had the girl already intuited? How much of the truth was she prepared to bear? The pendant around her neck—its secrets had begun to stir. He had seen it earlier when she entered the room, a faint, otherworldly glow pulsing from its center. It was no coincidence that Isabela’s question came now. “You’ve always been a bright child, Isabela. Brighter than most your age,” he began, his tone shifting to something grave yet tender. “But sometimes, brightness attracts shadows. Do you understand what I mean?” The girl shook her head but didn’t speak. Her wide eyes were locked on his. He sighed, more to himself than to her, and looked up at the ceiling as if searching for divine guidance. Closing his eyes briefly, he whispered a prayer—not to God, but to his mentor and savior in faith, Father Guido Arguelles. Father Guido, the renegade Jesuit, had been both hero and heretic in equal measure. During the 1986 EDSA Revolution, he had been a voice of resistance on Radio Veritas, defying tyranny with words that carried the weight of both scripture and rebellion. His teachings—part prophecy, part warning—had shaped Roberto’s own faith and mission. And now, they were shaping Isabela’s destiny. “Do you remember what I told you last year, anak? After your graduation?” “You said… you said my childhood was ending.” Her voice was small, uncertain. “Yes,” he nodded. “And I meant it. There are things in this world, Isabela, truths and mysteries, that will demand more of you than you can imagine. The necklace I gave you… it’s part of something larger. A secret that has been guarded for centuries. And now… it’s waking up.” Her hand went instinctively to the pendant, her fingers brushing its cool surface. Suddenly, she felt it—a faint vibration, a pulse like a heartbeat. Her breath hitched as a warmth spread from the chain to her chest. Father Roberto saw her reaction and knew it was time. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a ring of old, tarnished keys. One by one, he sifted through them until he found a small, intricate one. Without a word, he walked to the far side of the room, his steps purposeful. Isabela watched as he pressed his hand against the wall, revealing a hidden panel. Her heart pounded as he inserted the key into the lock and turned it. A low rumble echoed through the room as a trapdoor slid open in the floor. Cool air wafted up, carrying with it the scent of earth and stone. “What… what is this?” Isabela stammered. “The truth,” Father Roberto said simply. “But remember Father Guido’s words: the truth will set you free, but first, it will make you miserable.” Before she could respond, the pendant around her neck flared with light—bright, blinding, and impossible to ignore. A faint, melodic hum filled the room, growing louder with each passing second. Isabela clutched at the pendant, her mind reeling. She felt as though she were being pulled—not physically, but spiritually, into something vast and incomprehensible. “Papa, what’s happening?” she cried. Father Roberto’s face was grim but resolute. “It has begun.” And as the light intensified, casting wild shadows across the walls, a voice—soft, ancient, and otherworldly—whispered from the depths of the trapdoor: “She is the one.”
Chapter 4: The Fourth Luminous Mystery “I want to say when I was little, like Maleficent, I was told I was different. And I felt out of place and too loud, too full of fire, never good at sitting still, never good at fitting in. And then one day I realized something – something I hope you all realize. Different is good. When someone tells you that you are different, smile, and hold your head up and be proud.” — Angelina Jolie
The trapdoor creaked open, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that descended into an abyss of shadows. Isabela leaned forward, her pink rubber sandals teetering on the edge of the opening, her breath caught somewhere between curiosity and fear. Father Roberto reached under the desk, his hand fumbling for a hidden switch. A faint click echoed, and pale, flickering light spilled down the staircase, illuminating the stone steps that spiraled into the unknown. “Anak, hija,” Father Roberto said, gently pulling her back from the edge. His hands gripped her shoulders, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a gravity she couldn’t ignore. “Before we go down there, promise me one thing. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, do not touch anything. Do you understand? Nothing at all. Promise me, Isabela.” She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I... I promise, Papa.” Satisfied, the priest began his descent, his footsteps slow and deliberate on the ancient stone steps. Isabela hesitated, then tugged at his jacket. “Papa,” she asked, her voice trembling. “What’s down there?” He paused, half-turning to look at her. A flicker of something — was it regret? — crossed his face before he answered. “You probably don’t remember, hija, but this isn’t your first time in the chamber. You were very young when you last came here.” Her heart quickened. “But… what’s down there?” Father Roberto sighed, his gaze distant as if peering into a memory long buried. “It’s something that… has been waiting for you, Isabela. Something only you can understand when the time is right.” Before she could press further, he resumed his descent, his figure swallowed by the wavering light. Isabela’s pulse pounded in her ears as she reluctantly followed, her sandals slapping against the cold, damp stone.
As they descended, Father Roberto’s mind drifted to a moment from his past. He could almost hear the voice of his grandfather, Lolo Vito, speaking in that wise, measured tone he’d always used. “Darkness, Bitoy, is not the absence of light. It is its shadow. Light and darkness come from the same source. Remember this: the more you try to change the world, the more it resists. Some things are not meant to be changed but understood.” At the time, Roberto had dismissed his grandfather’s cryptic words as the ramblings of an old man. It took him decades to grasp their meaning, and even now, he wondered if he fully understood. Life was shaped by meaning and purpose, but beyond that lay an infinite unknown—a vast universe defying comprehension. He recalled Tolstoy’s reflection: “For man to live, he must either not see the infinite or find a way to connect the finite with the infinite.” And Kant’s assertion lingered in his mind: “Man’s greatest concern is to know how he shall properly fill his place in the universe.” Roberto’s quest for understanding had led him to this moment—to this secret, spiraling descent with the one person who might finally unravel the mystery: Isabela.
The staircase ended abruptly, depositing them into a cavernous chamber. The air was thick and cold, carrying a faint metallic tang. Torches affixed to the walls flared to life as if sensing their arrival, casting dancing shadows across the room. At its center stood an altar carved from black stone, its surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and writhe under the flickering light. “Papa,” Isabela whispered, her voice quivering. “What is this place?” Father Roberto didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he approached the altar, his fingers brushing over the carvings. The patterns responded, glowing faintly with a bluish hue that pulsed like a heartbeat. He turned back to her, his expression unreadable. “This,” he said, his voice low, “is our family’s legacy. And your destiny.”
A decade earlier, before his ordination, Roberto had sought out his half-brother, Fredo. He’d found him living a humble life in a government tenement, raising his children alone. Despite the years and distance, Fredo had greeted him warmly, though their conversation had soon turned serious. “From the heart and mind of every babaylan, the spirit of magic never truly fades,” Fredo had said, gesturing toward his youngest daughter, who was engrossed in a game on her smartphone. “Magic and technology, Bitoy. Two sides of the same coin. One shaped by gods, the other by man. But both are tools… instruments for something greater.” Fredo had urged Roberto to return to their ancestral home, to find their grandfather’s journal hidden in the main drawer of his desk. “Read it,” Fredo had insisted. “Follow the signs in the Masirikampu prophecies. Accept the darkness. Only then will you understand.”
Now, standing in the chamber, Roberto realized the truth of his brother’s words. His ordination, his assignment to Pantalan, all of it had been part of a grand design leading to this moment. “Papa,” Isabela said, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady, though her eyes betrayed her fear. “What do you mean, my destiny?” Before he could answer, a low hum filled the chamber, growing louder and more resonant. The carvings on the altar flared, and the room seemed to tremble. Isabela stepped back, her heart racing as a fissure opened in the altar, releasing a blinding light. From within the light, a voice—ancient and otherworldly—spoke her name. “Isabela.” The girl froze, her pulse pounding in her ears. Father Roberto reached for her, his face pale but resolute. “Remember your promise,” he said, his voice firm. “No matter what happens, do not touch it.” But the light surged, tendrils of energy reaching toward her, and Isabela felt an irresistible pull. The voice called again, louder, commanding. “Isabela, you must choose.” The chamber plunged into chaos, the ground shaking violently as shadows danced wildly on the walls. Roberto shouted something, but his words were lost in the roar. Isabela’s gaze locked on the altar, her hand trembling as it reached forward despite her promise. The light flared once more, engulfing everything.
And then, silence.
Shafts of Light “Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.” J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion
As Father Roberto and Kuya Fredo prepared to step into the tunnel beneath the cathedral of Pantalan, their resolve was firm, but the looming darkness seemed to whisper secrets neither was ready to hear. It was in that moment, with the faint shafts of light breaking through cracks above, that the story demanded a detour—an exploration into the hidden past of the good priest, Father Roberto, and the tangled legacy that had brought him to this precipice. For within the shadows of the present lay the echoes of a history long buried, a truth that had waited patiently to be unearthed. Whatever aid Fredo had cryptically alluded to in his conversation with Roberto was not just metaphorical—it was quite literally beneath their feet. But the story of this "help" stretched far beyond Fredo’s life of hardship. His existence as an informal settler after his wife’s departure, leaving him to care for their children, was but one thread in a vast tapestry woven over centuries. The real origins of their salvation traced back to an era before colonization—an ancient, mysterious heritage documented in a journal hidden away in Father Roberto’s desk. This journal, passed down from his grandfather, Lolo Vito, held secrets that neither Roberto nor Fredo could fully comprehend.
Lolo Vito Aquino had been an extraordinary man, both for his intellect and for the paradoxical kindness he carried as a former police officer. As a rookie in Manila’s Western Police District, he had navigated the chaotic streets of the city during an era when the orphaned Alfredo Lim was still finding his footing. But Vito’s time in law enforcement was cut short by a bullet to the spine, an injury that left him partially paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. This confinement, however, proved to be an unexpected boon. Stripped of his physical mobility, Lolo Vito turned inward, becoming a voracious reader and a collector of rare and arcane books. His home in Quintos Street, Sampaloc, became a sanctuary of knowledge, its heart a custom-built cabinet housing tomes that exuded an aura of otherworldly significance. When he wasn’t teaching Criminology at the Philippine College of Criminology, Vito would lock himself in his room for hours, poring over texts and speaking in hushed, impassioned tones over the phone. To his grandchildren, these moments were both fascinating and unsettling, as the gentle, soft-spoken man they knew seemed to transform into someone entirely different. Fredo and Bitoy, as Roberto was fondly called in his youth, grew up under their grandfather’s watchful eye. Their parents, civil servants with rigid schedules, relied on Lolo Vito to impart wisdom and discipline to their sons. And Vito took this role seriously, weaving stories of their family’s roots in Pantalan, Palawan, with the precision of a master storyteller. He spoke of treks through rocky dirt roads to Cabor, the seaside district south of Pantalan, painting vivid images of a simpler yet no less mysterious time. “But Lolo, was there any signal there?” Bitoy once asked, perplexed at the notion of a world without cellphones. “Signal?” Vito’s laughter was hearty, the kind that warmed even the chilliest of mornings. “Hoy, Bitoy, there was no such thing as a cellphone back then!” “Huh? No cellphone? Lolo, that’s the saddest story I’ve heard so far from you.” Fredo, older and quicker to grasp the nuances of his grandfather’s tales, interjected with mock indignation. “Saddest? Bitoy, those were called the good old days!” His attempt to catch a dragonfly flitting among their grandmother’s orchids ended in failure as the insect escaped beyond the garden fence. “Your Kuya Fredo is right,” Vito said, pulling the boys closer to his wheelchair. “Those were the days. Now sit down, both of you. I have another story for you.” The boys needed no further prompting. Storytime with Lolo Vito was a sacred ritual, a blend of fact and fable that left them pondering long after the tales were told. “Lolo, we already know who Deltise is,” Bitoy began, eager to show off his memory. “He’s the nasty son of the god of magic, Halmista, and elder brother to Kilawnea. But what are Tastoses?” “Not Tastoses,” Vito corrected with a grin. “Tastoses. Plural. Tastos is the singular form.” “Okay po, Lolo. So, what is a Tastos?” Vito’s gaze grew distant, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “A Tastos is no mere creature. It is a guardian, both servant and sentinel, bound to the ancient bloodlines of our people. And, boys, the Tastoses—or what remains of them—may yet hold the key to saving Pantalan.” The air grew heavy with unspoken truths, and the boys hung on every word. Though they didn’t know it then, the seeds of their future had been planted in that moment, watered by their grandfather’s enigmatic tales.
Now, years later, as Roberto stood on the threshold of the tunnel with Fredo at his side, those seeds had grown into a labyrinthine web of secrets and destinies. The journal, still tucked away in the old desk, awaited its chance to shed light on the darkness ahead. But with every step they took into the unknown, it became increasingly clear that the past was not a silent observer. It was alive, pulsing through the veins of Pantalan, guiding them toward a revelation that would shake the foundations of everything they believed. In the depths of the tunnel, a faint sound echoed—a whisper, or perhaps a cry. Roberto and Fredo froze, their eyes meeting in the dim light. And then it came again, louder this time, unmistakable. “Help me,” the voice pleaded, trembling with desperation. But as they turned the corner, all they found was a single, bloodied handprint smeared on the cold stone wall.
Chapter 6 Mythos “Myths which are believed in tend to be true.” George Orwell
The Tastoses of Batigong Hill (As narrated by Lolo Vito to Fredo and Bitoy) In the stories I’ve told you before, I mentioned how your Lolo Idong—Manong Guido—and I used to venture to the small lake near the foot of Batigong Hill. We were the same age as you two then, Fredo and Bitoy. That lake, hidden behind a rocky ridge with steep slopes and thick thickets, was our little sanctuary. The water there was pristine, the air calm, and the surroundings undisturbed—a perfect escape from Pantalan. But in those tales, I never spoke of Paula. Paula. She was as dear a companion to me as your Lolo Idong. Even now, her name stirs something deep inside me, though it has been decades. Her ghost has lingered near me ever since the stormy July night we climbed Batigong Hill. Some children of the Tagbanua families who never left Batigong became our acquaintances. They became Paula’s acquaintances too. One day, while Paula, Manong Guido, and I were swimming in the lake, these children found us. They didn’t speak much of our Cuyonon or Tagalog, let alone English, except for one—Liklik. Liklik introduced himself in a mix of Tagalog, Cuyonon, and broken English. While Paula and I welcomed new friends, Manong Guido was less enthused. He whispered to me his discomfort. His father’s plans for him to join the seminary had sharpened his sense of right and wrong, and he didn’t approve of our association with the Tagbanua children, whom he called kabos-kabos. That day, he left the lake abruptly, leaving Paula and me half-submerged in the cool waters. After that, Manong Guido refused every invitation to the lake. He always had an excuse. But Paula—oh, she loved that lake too much to let it go. And I? I couldn’t refuse her. I liked her company far too much. If only I had seen the shadow lurking in Liklik’s heart. If only I had listened to Manong Guido’s warnings.
Liklik was cunning. He baited us with a story, a challenge—a twisted retelling of an old Tagbanua legend, the legend of Palaesgen. He spun his tale to trap outsiders like Paula and me. He spoke of the Tastoses, waxen guardians created by Halmista, the god of magic, to protect a secret wellspring atop Batigong Hill. He said the water of this wellspring was so potent that it could grant unimaginable power to anyone who dared to claim it. The Tastoses, Liklik said, were colossal beings, each standing twelve feet tall. Their waxen bodies, molded from church candles, were impervious to weapons. They could uproot coconut trees with ease and withstand the might of swords, slings, and even grenades. Only holy water could destroy them—a single drop would turn them to ashes. Halmista, according to Liklik, needed the help of humans to steal candles from the cathedral in Pantalan, as he himself could not enter such a sacred place. Disguised as a mortal named Arugano, he persuaded the Tagbanua chieftain, Urma, to assist him. The chieftain’s men, disguised as lowlanders, infiltrated the cathedral and stole the candles. Halmista then used these to create the Tastoses, which he stationed around the wellspring and at the hill’s base. Liklik claimed that anyone armed with holy water could defeat the Tastoses, climb to the hilltop, and transform the wellspring’s water into holy water by mixing a few drops. This enhanced water would grant the power of the gods to whoever dared to take on this quest. But there was a catch: the best time to attempt this was during a storm, when Halmista would be in a deep sleep.
Paula was enthralled by Liklik’s tale. She saw it as a calling, a purpose. Despite my reservations and Manong Guido’s warnings, I reluctantly agreed to join her—but only if she could procure holy water from the cathedral. I thought this task impossible and assumed it would deter her. I was wrong. That fateful night, as a storm brewed over the island, I prepared to go to bed when I heard hurried footsteps outside our door. When I opened it, there was Paula, drenched but determined. She was wearing a long skirt, an odd choice for an adventure. “Are we still on for tonight?” she asked, lifting her skirt to reveal a flask hidden in a pocket. “Holy water,” she said with a sly grin. “Let’s go, Vito.” I hesitated but couldn’t deny her determination. Together, we set out into the storm, the wind howling like a chorus of spirits, the rain drumming a foreboding rhythm against the earth. The path to Batigong Hill was treacherous, the mud slick beneath our feet, the darkness impenetrable save for the occasional flash of lightning. When we reached the base of the hill, an unnatural silence fell over the night. The air was heavy, charged with an unseen force. As we climbed, the storm seemed to grow angrier, the wind lashing at us, the rain stinging our faces. But Paula pressed on, and I followed. At the crest of the hill, the wellspring awaited, glistening under the sporadic light of the storm. But we were not alone. There, looming in the shadows, stood a Tastos. Its waxen form gleamed, its massive silhouette framed by the lightning. It turned its faceless head toward us, and the air grew colder. Paula gripped the flask tightly, her eyes locked on the monstrous guardian. “This is it, Vito,” she whispered. “Are you ready?” Before I could answer, the Tastos let out a low, guttural sound that reverberated through the hilltop. It began to move toward us, each step shaking the ground. And then, from the darkness behind it, more figures emerged—a dozen Tastoses, their towering forms encircling us. The storm raged on, but it was the least of our concerns. We were trapped, with no escape in sight.
Chapter 7: The Misadventurers "Because in the end, you won't remember the times you spent in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain." Jack Kerouac
Yes, Paula did it. And she did it with such care that I couldn't help but stare in disbelief as she pulled item after item from beneath her skirt. Now, don’t be fooled, boys, it wasn’t anything scandalous. Underneath her skirt, she had shorts, naturally. But hidden between her hips was a small arsenal—well, perhaps "small" isn’t the right word. She pulled out a jumper suit, a mineral water bottle brimming with what she claimed was holy water, and, for good measure, a snack stash. Two cans of Coke. A hefty bag of potato chips. Paula grinned at me as she lifted each item with mock triumph. "And here I thought you’d be the smart one, Vito. But no, you see? More to carry inside a skirt than inside a pair of pants." Her voice was full of amusement, but I was too distracted by the scene unfolding. The rain continued to pour in sheets, and the storm’s howling winds only made the moment more surreal. I wondered, not for the first time, how exactly she had managed to acquire that holy water. My imagination quickly took the wheel, but I let it go, focusing on the task ahead. "You ready, Vito?" she asked, shaking off the wet strands of hair from her face. "Born ready," I replied, though my heart was hammering with the weight of the storm and what awaited us up ahead. Tonight—this night—was our moment. Midnight, the witching hour, the time when the gods would rest, and only the Tastoses would stand guard over the secret wellspring. The one Liklik had told us about. I could almost taste its power—the sweet, magnetic nectar that would change everything. But first, we had to make it to the top. And despite everything, I still couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was wrong. The winds carried a message, though I couldn’t decipher it. It wasn’t the storm, not really—the storm was an old companion, familiar and almost comforting. No, it was the tension, the sense that fate was watching, waiting for us to make the wrong move. But Paula wasn’t having any of it. As we began to trek through the rain-soaked jungle toward Batigong Hill, she was full of jokes and laughter, her voice cutting through the howling winds like a knife. Still, I couldn't ignore the rhythm of my own pounding heartbeat. As we neared the base of the hill, I slowed, asking if we could take a break, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “Not yet. When we’re at the top, maybe I’ll reward you with a kiss,” she teased, and it was enough to get me moving again. Every step felt like a battle as we clambered up the slick, mud-covered hill. The trail Liklik had described was almost impossible to follow now, the path obscured by the storm. Every so often, I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye—shadows darting among the trees, too quick for my brain to register. And then, just as I was starting to think we might not make it, we heard the sound of something—something massive—moving behind us. I barely had time to react. The earth shook under the force of it, a deep, reverberating boom that shook me to my core. The next thing I knew, I was scrambling up the hill, my body moving on pure instinct. Paula had her arms around me, desperately trying to keep up as I surged forward, each step another gamble with gravity. I could feel my lungs burning with the effort, my mind screaming for air. When we finally reached the top, we collapsed onto the wet, sodden earth. My breath was ragged, my heart still pounding in my ears. But Paula didn’t seem tired. Not in the slightest. Then she did something I could never have anticipated. Without a word, she grabbed my hand and pulled me close. Our faces were inches apart, the rain falling like a sheet around us. And then—then—she kissed me. Now, you boys may think you know what a kiss is. But let me tell you: there’s something different about kissing someone in the middle of a storm, on a mountaintop, when the world around you feels as if it might tear itself apart. I was no longer just Vito. I was Superman, floating in the clouds. For a brief, blissful moment, it was just Paula and me, the storm, and the rain. But that moment didn’t last long. No sooner had we parted than the ground beneath us trembled once more. I looked up. And there they were. The Tastoses. At first, they seemed like nothing more than silhouettes, their forms barely visible through the sheets of rain. But as they drew closer, their towering figures became undeniable. Giants. Monsters. Their eyes glowed in the dim light, and their faces—oh, their faces—were grotesque, inhuman, the stuff of nightmares. Every step they took made the earth beneath us tremble. I thought I could hear the air itself crackling with tension, but all I could focus on were their outstretched hands—massive, gnarled fingers reaching for us. But Paula—brave, fearless Paula—was having none of it. In a swift motion, she reached into her bag and pulled out the mineral water bottle. She opened it, the unmistakable smell of something ancient and holy filling the air, and she made the sign of the cross before hurling the contents toward the advancing monsters. The holy water hit them like acid, sizzling on contact. The Tastoses recoiled, their massive forms jerking as if burned by an invisible force. One by one, the monsters dissolved into nothing but ash. I thought it was over. I thought we were safe. But then, in the midst of the chaos, I saw it—just one, the last of the Tastoses, its monstrous face staring directly at me. I felt a cold chill creep into my bones, a sensation that was both foreign and utterly terrifying. It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Paula was still shouting, flinging the holy water with all the strength she had left, but I could see it now—the storm was changing. The rain wasn’t just rain anymore. It was something else. Something darker. And in the distance, I could hear something else, too. A voice. Soft at first, but growing louder with every passing second. And that’s when I realized—we hadn’t come here just to face the Tastoses. No. There was something much worse waiting for us.
"What happened next, Lo?" Fredo asked, his voice barely a whisper. Lolo Vito smiled a dark smile, his eyes distant. "Let’s just say, boys, that some things are better left unsaid. What I could tell you might just destroy the little bit of peace you have left." He paused, letting the silence hang in the air like the calm before a storm. "As Dostoevsky once said: ‘Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.'" And with that, the story ended. But the feeling lingered. A chill in the air. A sense of foreboding that none of them could shake.
Afterword As the storm raged on, a new sound filled the night air—a low, resonant hum, as if the very earth was vibrating with an ancient, forgotten power. Something deep within the hill began to stir. The Tastoses were just the beginning.
Chapter 8: Father Guido Arguelles “Good done anywhere is good done everywhere.” — Maya Angelou
A shadow stirred over the legacy of Lolo Vito’s closest ally, Father Guido Arguelles. It was a story not only of faith and prophecy but one wrapped in dark omens and forgotten truths. Father Guido, a Jesuit priest, poet, and activist, had always believed that the greatest mysteries were born from the unseen, from the silences that called out for answers. In his life, he had merged the sacred and the profane, becoming a conduit for what others would deem impossible. Before his passing, Father Guido had published a series of reflective words, Shafts of Light, and among the most significant of these was the one phrase that would echo down the years: “The light is never truly hidden; it only waits to be found.” As a member of the Magis Deo Community, his mission was simple yet profound: to build God’s Kingdom on Earth in response to divine love, a love so deep it could transform nations, souls, and minds. But, unknown to many, it was this very pursuit of truth that led him down a path far darker than anyone could have imagined. Together with Lolo Vito, the Tagbanua babaylan whose powers reached into the ancient magics of the land, Father Guido had mentored Fredo in the way of the spiritus lucis—the elusive light of the soul. Yet Fredo’s destiny was still unclear, lost somewhere in the tension between faith and the more arcane forces of the world. The priest and the shaman, bound by their differences, had somehow agreed on a singular purpose. They would guide Fredo, yet neither he nor his closest companions—nor even the two men who had shaped him—would fulfill the ultimate role in the prophecy that was hidden in the Masirikampu scrolls. These scrolls, discovered by Father Guido and Lolo Vito buried in the walled garden of the Pantalan Church, were written in the old Spanish script, their contents encrypted with mystical knowledge that had survived centuries. Their presence had been foretold, yet their meaning was as cryptic as the gods who seemed to be hiding the answers. Father Guido, ever the scholar, believed these writings held the key to the truth. Yet the deeper they delved into their secrets, the more they sensed an ominous presence watching them from the shadows. Their search for answers had inevitably led to the dark syndicate known only as the Black Moon—a criminal network tied to apocalyptic prophecies and terrifying powers. Their rise was inevitable. It was a force that sought to bring the world to its knees, one that combined dark spiritualism, technological warfare, and forbidden magic. And it was from the heart of this darkness that their greatest adversary would emerge—the one who would fulfill the Black Moon’s ultimate goal: destruction. In the beginning, when Father Guido and Lolo Vito had tried to expose the Black Moon's apocalyptic plans, their voices were silenced by powerful figures who refused to acknowledge the threat. Friends in high places turned their backs on them, brushing aside their warnings. But they had no choice but to continue their fight alone, drawing closer to the ancient truths that might help them stand against this emerging tide. It was then that the question arose: Can magic, spirituality, and technology be united to defeat the coming darkness? The answer was an unwavering yes from both Lolo Vito and Father Guido. And so, in secret, the plan was set into motion. Their clandestine operation took shape deep within Batigong Hill, a sacred place revered by the native Tagbanuas as the realm of the gods. The island of Palawan held many secrets, but Batigong Hill—where mountains met the gods—was something far more than mere land. It was a place where the boundaries between the spiritual world and the mortal realm had been blurred for centuries. The hill was said to be cursed by the god of magic himself, Halmista, who had imprisoned his wayward child, Deltise, the god of mambabarangs (witches), within its caverns. Mortals who dared to enter would face the wrath of the gods. Yet, Father Guido and Lolo Vito, determined as they were, set aside fear and superstition and decided that this cursed ground would become the foundation for their secret operation. Fredo, an experienced mountaineer, was the first to survey the site. He had heard the whispers, the warnings of the Tagbanuas, but he had no time for superstition. His mind, focused on the task, believed that the great purpose behind their mission could not be halted by mere myth. Yet, deep within him, a feeling lingered—something was wrong. As he and the others prepared for the construction of their covert NBI facility, the eerie sense of being watched gnawed at them. The gods had not given up their claim over this land. Fredo’s growing unease was not unfounded. As the operation unfolded, whispers of an ancient prophecy began to surface, one that linked the Spiritus Lucis Deo to a chosen one—an innocent who would hold the key to unlocking the powers necessary to defeat the Black Moon. But who would this chosen one be?
As Father Roberto and Isabela descended the spiral staircase into the heart of their secret NBI facility, the weight of centuries pressed on their shoulders. The walls whispered of forgotten rituals and unseen forces, and every step they took seemed to pull them deeper into the labyrinthine network beneath the church of Pantalan. Isabela, now a young girl of ten, could feel the pulse of something ancient and powerful within the walls. It was then that the voice spoke to her, soft but clear: “Accept the darkness, for only through the darkness shall you find the light.” Isabela was unsure whether the voice was real or just in her mind, but it filled her with a quiet dread and awe. She held tight to her foster father’s hand, her heart pounding in her chest. She had been here before, hadn’t she? But when? Father Roberto, ever the enigma, seemed to sense her unease but gave no sign that he was aware of the supernatural forces at play. He led her through the dimly lit tunnel, their footsteps echoing softly in the eerie silence. A sense of calm washed over Isabela, but the pendulum of fate swung with an unsettling weight. She had no choice but to follow. When they reached the end of the tunnel, a large wooden door loomed before them, ancient yet sturdy, with a high-tech optical scanner beside it. Father Roberto stepped forward, his face resolute. As he positioned himself before the scanner, Isabela saw the camera lens blink, its gaze following him with unnatural precision. With a quiet hum, the door creaked open, revealing a room beyond. It was the heart of their mission, the last sanctuary of hope. Father Roberto, without a word, gestured for Isabela to enter. But as the door swung fully open, a chill ran down her spine. Something wasn’t right. And then, she saw it—through the dark shadows of the room, a figure stood, its face obscured in the gloom. It was not supposed to be there. And the door, which had closed behind them, was now sealed shut.
Father Roberto turned to Isabela with a look that sent a cold shiver through her. “Isabela,” he whispered, “everything we’ve worked for has led us here. But what awaits us in this room... is not what we expected.” The voice came again, stronger this time: “Accept the darkness…” Isabela’s breath caught in her throat as she realized the truth. The Black Moon was already here. And they were no longer alone.
Chapter 9: Spiyamahika "Magic and espionage are kindred spirits." — John McLaughlin, former deputy CIA Director
The heavy door groaned as it swung open, revealing a dimly lit hallway. Father Roberto guided Isabela, his hand warm around her smaller one, down the narrow corridor. At first, she was struck by the sheer contrast between the old-world charm of the stairwell they'd descended and the modernity of what lay ahead. The air felt thick with secrets, like the ground they were walking on was charged with something unseen. The priest's voice broke the silence, his tone unusually soft, as though the weight of the moment had shifted onto his shoulders. "Fear is a strange companion, hija," he murmured, glancing down at Isabela. "But it's also a guide, pointing the way when we don't understand the path ahead. Just remember, even the bravest among us feel it." His fingers tightened around hers, anchoring her to him, even as the world seemed to grow more surreal by the second. As they reached a door marked with the letter "G," a soft ping resonated in the still air, and the door to the elevator slid open with a quiet whoosh. Without hesitation, Father Roberto ushered Isabela inside. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking to the strange mechanical contraption, the metallic surfaces gleaming faintly under the harsh lighting. This place, she realized, was no ordinary facility. It was something far beyond her comprehension. Father Roberto pressed a button, and the elevator hummed to life, rising with an unsettling smoothness. Isabela felt her heart skip as the numbers above the door flickered, counting up as they ascended. The walls of the cabin seemed to close in, as though the space itself was growing smaller the higher they went. The girl couldn’t shake the sensation that they were being watched, though she couldn’t say by whom—or by what. The elevator came to a slow, deliberate stop. The doors slid open to reveal a landing that felt more like a gateway to another world. "Papa..." Isabela's voice trembled, barely more than a whisper, "where are we?" Father Roberto’s smile was broad, but there was a tightness in his eyes, as though he, too, was caught between wonder and dread. “We are here, palangga,” he said, his voice thick with reverence. “We stand in the heart of Spiyamahika, the first Filipino magical espionage agency.” Isabela’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze swept across the vast underground cavern that stretched before them. The scene was both awe-inspiring and utterly unnerving. The space, carved into the depths of the earth, was not merely a room but an entire hidden world. The ceiling arched impossibly high, and vast stone pillars held it in place, their surfaces glistening with something that could only be described as ancient magic. Her eyes widened as her mind tried to process the scale of what lay before her. It was far grander than the Smart-Araneta Coliseum, the cavernous space echoing with an almost sentient energy. This was no ordinary underground facility; this was a living, breathing testament to a world she had never known existed. And yet, she could feel its pull on her, a siren call drawing her deeper into the unknown. Father Roberto gently urged her forward. “Breathe, hija. Just breathe.” Isabela’s gaze flicked upward as something caught her eye. Above them, small, spider-like drones hovered, their rotor blades whirring softly. At first, she thought they were something out of a nightmare, their mechanical limbs poised for attack. She gasped, stepping closer to Father Roberto, her heart pounding in her chest. “P-Papa,” she stammered, her voice edged with panic, “what are those? Are they... are they following us?” “They’re drones, anak,” Father Roberto reassured her, his hand resting firmly on her shoulder. “They’re here to welcome us to Spiyamahika. Nothing to be afraid of.” But even as he spoke, Isabela couldn’t shake the feeling that the drones weren’t as benign as her father suggested. Their glowing eyes seemed to track every movement, every breath. Something was watching them. Something that wasn’t quite human. One of the drones descended, its voice low and metallic. “Welcome back, Father Roberto and Isabela. Dr. Sim is expecting you. He’s waiting in the pantry.” Father Roberto nodded, as though this was a routine occurrence, and led Isabela through the vast expanse. The further they walked, the more the atmosphere seemed to change, as though the very air was thick with secrets. They passed walls lined with strange symbols and artifacts—relics of a hidden world, artifacts of power. And beneath it all, the unmistakable hum of something ancient, something powerful, thrummed beneath their feet. Finally, they reached the pantry. Seated at the farthest end of the room was a man, his broad frame hunched over a laptop, fingers tapping furiously on the keys. He didn’t look up as they entered, his gaze fixed on the screen. The man’s disheveled appearance—a white shirt, oversized walking shorts, and thick glasses—was a stark contrast to the intensity that radiated from him. Dr. Arnold Sim, Director of Spiyamahika, seemed like a man at war with time itself. He muttered under his breath, his voice laced with frustration. "Shit! Fuck you, Ramona!" The woman on the other end of his Zoom call, unaware of his fury, continued speaking in her calm, disinterested tone. "Dr. Sim, the board has decided to give you and your program 180 days before we terminate everything. I'm sorry, but—" Sim’s hand slammed onto the keyboard, muting the call. He sat back, seething, but with a practiced restraint that suggested he had learned to mask his anger long ago. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the silence to fill the space around him, and then—almost as an afterthought—he raised his middle finger toward the laptop. He stopped himself, a sigh escaping his lips. “Your heart, Arnie,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s just pasted in place by some Chinese sticky rice. Calm down.” And then, as if the universe was testing his resolve, the door to the pantry opened. Father Roberto and Isabela stepped inside, the latter’s wide eyes scanning the room as she took in the man sitting at the far table. Dr. Sim’s eyes met Father Roberto’s. Without a word, he knew exactly what the priest had brought with him. The key. The key to unraveling the cocoon of their Fourth Luminous Mystery. The Black Mirror. The Ossuarium. A strange, silent tension filled the room. Isabela felt her pulse quicken as Dr. Sim’s gaze lingered on her, calculating, measuring, assessing. And in that moment, she realized that nothing about this place—or her future—would ever be the same again. “Isabela,” Dr. Sim said, his voice low, deliberate. “You’ve just stepped into a world far darker—and far more dangerous—than you could ever imagine.” The words sent a chill racing down her spine, and for the first time, Isabela realized that there was far more at stake than she had ever known. The darkness had already begun to move.
Afterword The lights above flickered, casting the room in alternating shadows. The drones outside hummed ominously, as though they, too, were waiting for something. Isabela felt it—the danger closing in. Her heart raced as a sudden, unshakable realization settled within her: the future she had been brought here to protect might already be lost. The door slammed shut behind them. And then, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed from the shadows. Someone—or something—was coming.
Chapter 10
The Black Mirror (1)
“If art reflects life, it does so with special mirrors.” - Bertolt Brecht
*
She looked at me but did not see me, and that of all was the most painful. That I should be the lone witness to all her joys and sufferings. To all her experiences fleeting by inside this small one-bedroom apartment ever since their separation. And yet my own being remained as merely a nameless, transient reflection in her consciousness, and our relationship completely ephemeral as the mist she sometimes blew over my face and body on certain evenings after her long midnight baths under the sultry moonlight, and, afterwards, as she stared for hours on end at me, at her own face and her young, underclothed body. Her breath close to mine. Her mind thinking. Her heart reading. As if asking. As if asking me whom she looked at but did not even see.
In truth, I felt I was a mirror which had become a mask.
Those certain evenings after her long midnight baths from the nearby. And when she would return to her room, to our room, with the mist of her warmth all over the canvas of my own being. Those were her times alone when, at moments of sheer inspiration, she would lift the tip of one of her finger over to the cold, misty canvas of my body and draw. She would just draw. Just etch whatever was inside of her at those exact moments. A heart shape with a quiver of arrow. A smiley. And words. So many words. Words of longing. Of deep, deep sadness.
World, let me find my true love!
Today, I met my soulmate!
Crush ko siya!
Is there forever?
World, is there anyone out there who will find a little time to love me?
Secret words left on the canvas of my body. Left to die naturally. Unheard, it seemed. Unread. Questions unanswered.
But no. Those were the exact same words which gave birth to my own thinking. To my own reflections. To my own desires. Those were her words of despair which courageously pushed me to find a way to finally show myself to her. To tell her who I am. And how I feel about her.
But how?
As the days passed, my own frustration to talk to her grew, and I felt more and more sure that I would never get the chance to ever explain myself to her. And then it hit me.
Am I not a glass mirror?
Am I not a glass mirror capable of my own tricks and illusions?
Am I not a mirror capable of shedding my own masked layers? Or of being more than a curious mix of tin and mercury that, before the 17th century, was the most guarded secret of the world-famous Venetian glassmakers? That beautifully adorned the Hall at Versailles? Am I not Narcisso, a child of the legendary Greek lineage? O! Woe to all the Medusas who had underestimated my power and my magic!
I am, indeed! And so, on that same month when she accepted an invitation to spend her week-long vacation with some of her friends from the highlands outside of Pantalan, I embarked on my own voyage to sheer mirror madness.
That same month, I took advantage of the daytime in her bedroom and the few shafts of light which ventilated my being through the large overhanging nipa aperture above her native dwelling. I focused on my main task at-hand. How? How could a full-bodied glass mirror communicate with a human being? Instinctively, I played with the shafts of light reflecting on my hands as if they were of my ancestor Narcissus falling in love with his own reflection over the water. I was restless. Seconds turned into minutes into hours into days, but I was still nowhere near my own selfish ambition. Then, on the seventh day, I finally found the answer.
As I was playfully twirling a shaft of light with the fingers of my right hand and my mind was busy imagining all the things I would tell her if ever I would get such an opportunity, the shaft of light began to spin by itself out of control and started to spew out blinding flashes of luminance all over the bedroom. I instantly threw away the shaft, but, lo and behold, it somehow attached itself on my glassy chest. Not only that, the shaft was beginning to bore on my sand-blasted chest, as if it wanted to drill into my very heart. I had no choice but to pull it out of me with such force. And so I pulled and pulled and pulled. Seconds turned into minutes, then finally, with one last gasp of energy I strained and coiled and at last succeeded to pull out the sharp luminous instrument out of my endangered heart. And as I struggled to catch my breath again, I looked over the strange implement which, just moments before, could have killed me without any hesitation. With Archimedean wonder, the shaft had transformed its shape to look more like a pencil. A pencil of light! And with the open wound on my chest still seething with my own silvery blood, that was when the answer to all my frustrations was revealed to me finally. I could use the light as my pencil, my silvery blood as my ink, and my chest as my virtual sheet of paper. I felt like a mirror about to shed its own mask of deception.
I spent the remaining hours of daytime that day to train myself with the available writing implements. Writing, erasing, then writing some more. Wounding myself, healing myself, then wounding myself some more. I learned to control my wounds (and also pain, perhaps) by writing. Not only that, I also had to learn inverted writing. Yes, inverted writing. For I would not be writing to myself. But to her. She was and would be the only reader important to me. And, naturally, the first word I perfected in etching on my chest was her name.
Chapter 11
The Black Mirror (2)
“But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself.” - Albert Camus
*
That night, I patiently waited for her. My decision was final. I would be revealing myself to her that night. While it was true that the danger of what I was about to do then would have been greater, if not equal, to the fulfillment I do so devotedly desired in my effort, I – in such a long and deep self-reflection – prepared myself to this pursuit completely, without any more regard to or reservation for my own life whatsoever. I contemplated, however, that the real danger was that by exposing myself to her, she would explode herself in an uncontrollable burst of self-gratification; while, at the same time, by exposing herself to me, I would implode into a numberless set of fragments of my own former self.
The real danger was falling in love with the reflection over the water of one’s own phantasy. As much as I am a mirror who would become a mask, my desire for a relationship with a human being would be deemed as volatile as it would be as ephemeral.
But, that night, there was only one image that had indelibly impressed itself on my entire being. There was only one way I knew then to get myself out of my own mystery.
That fateful night, I prepared for her return from her week-long vacation from the highlands outside of the village of Pantalan. In the darkness of her bedroom, I was just about as helpless as the other material objects and simple furnishings of the place. But then I contemplated, later that night, once she entered the room and switched on the lamp light, I shall be different from all these other material objects and furnishings. I shall able to make my move. Am I not a glass mirror capable of reflecting light and real images of life? Yes, real images. O, if she only knew how truly alive I could be as she was! I could be more alive than the framed pictures on the sawali wall, the bookshelf full of books, her comb, her towel and even her gadgets such as her portable TV, laptop and cellphone put together! Why, I would tell her the entire history of my kind, and how, in the days before television and cellphones and computers, all of humanity was spending their leisure time staring at me and at their own reflections. And all these trifle things (mere objects, furnishings!) I just mentioned were mere extensions of her. But me. I was her bedroom mirror. There was never a day that passed then that she did not occupy me as I occupied her. That she did not touch me as I touched her. I was her bedroom mirror. I was – and I still am – her secret lover.
A mirror that would finally be unmasked.
Before she arrived that night, however, I practiced again. What I was about to do needed complete and unwavering focus. Full concentration. And self-control. Yes, self-control. I tried self-control once before. Yes, I remembered that day. That was a terrible, terrible day for her. I, too, was aching to scream out at her abuser then. I could have smashed myself on the face of that brutal husband of hers for all I care. The way that beast lied to her. But no! Fortunately, I stopped myself from prematurely revealing myself to her. I thought then that I did not want to scare her, although I wanted very much to scare her husband off. I was afraid of what she might think. That she was going crazy or something. Focus and self-control. To invert the words as I etch them on my chest with a pencil of light. Then I should be able to write for her my being. To write for her my very reason for existence. My love. Then we should be able to open up and talk to each other. I would be able to show myself to her. My heart. To tell her how I truly feel about her. That she was not just an image occupying me. But more. So much more. She touched me. Yes, I just had to focus, focus, focus:
Helen, I love you.
These first words were just for practice. How I was so excited. Soon I would be encoding more than just basic scripts for you, Helen. Soon I would be writing more complex emotions – poetry, fiction, essays, novels, preparing them to be read by my secret lover. I was so excited on the idea of being able to recreate my intense feelings for her on my own body. More beautiful than her own pink butterfly tailbone tattoo. Soon I would be able to tattoo her with my own affection. I would be free from the artificially embellished manacles of my restrictive aluminum frame which bound me ever since they forged me for service and shipped me out of the Factory. Free, my heart; free, at last.
That night, I prepared for her. How I imagined to hear her kubo-kubo’s main bamboo door swinging open, then quickly kicked closed by the back of her left heel again. The lamp light would be switched on. And I would just watch and listen as she cast her backpack down to the floor made of thick bamboo slits, then pick up the remote from a bedside table and turn on the portable TV. Meanwhile, I myself would already be turned on by her mere presence. Above the chatter of the six o’clock evening news, I would hear her faint footfalls on the creaky bamboo floor. I would watch her walk over to the small personal fridge – opening then closing it, then to her microwave – opening then closing it, then finally throw herself in the arms of a sofa, remove her rubber shoes, and unbutton her polo shirt. Opening and opening it.
But before she completely surrendered her tired and work-tortured body to the mercy of her bed – our bed, I will hear her begin to hum her favorite love song – our favorite love song.
You’re so vain… I’d bet you’d think this song is about you…
Then I would close my eyes as I hear her footfalls coming closer and closer to me. Helen. Without her shoes. Her polo shirt substantially unbuttoned. There she would stand in front of me with the most effortless sexiest of pose. My beautiful and tired human love. Her body tortured by work, her face desiring more than mere attention. As she switched on another lamp light beside me, this one smaller, she would continue to hum as she teased me with that stripping sort of look. I would feel no more a voyeur to her than she would no more feel willing to be voyeured. She would immediately throw her polo shirt on the laundry basket and then she would look at me again. Gaze at me, and, this time, longer, and more – meaningful. She would turn on the old overhead electric fan and then she would walk back to me again and, for the third time, she would look and playfully wink at me. All this time, she thought she was just staring at herself. Her face. Her body. But no. she was also admiring me. My face. My body. Our body. Desiring ourselves. Or, perhaps, the union of ourselves before its utter consummation. With some folded tissue she always carried along, she would wipe something red and sticky off her lips. And then, before I could even blurt out my first words to her, she would dash to the shower to take a nice, cold, and long bath.
But that night, I had prepared for her. Patiently. Carefully. Lovingly.
I would make sure she would see the words as soon as she walked out of the bathroom. The words I would invent and invert only for her. Only for her eyes. This was the only way I knew to get myself out of my mystery. How I imagined how I would hear her turn off the shower and come out of the bathroom. How I would wait for her to walk out of the bathroom and then see what I have written on my full glassy chest. How I would wait to see her own first impression of me. Of me as myself. Me, me, me. Her bedroom mirror. Her secret lover.
Helen, I love you.
*
Helen’s first scream was as loud as it was unintelligible. It was not what I had expected from her. So much then for her first impression of me.
She was clearly terrified. From the corner of her glassy eyes she saw how the words were slowly being written by my force which was entirely invisible to her. I was not quite sure whether she had not read my words and chose to throw her still wet self on the bed out of sheer fear, or whether she had quickly scanned my words and understood them and still chose to throw herself in bed out of the same sheer reason. But, all the same, Helen desperately covered herself with the blanket and started to mumble. I, in turn, desperately tried to comfort her tired and ever-tortured soul.
But the words I etched on my heaving chest were useless. Helen was never coming out of her blanket anytime soon. Somehow, I could hear her mumbling.
Mirrors and masks, mirrors and masks. Dra. Gomez told me my problem was only inside my head. My mind is only playing tricks on me. Illusions. Mirrors and masks! Mirrors and masks! I am not a panromantic demisexual! I am not a panromantic demisexual!
I could not completely understand what she meant when she mumbled mirrors and masks. But, somehow, I felt that I have just committed the most dastardly act of blunder of my entire life: I revealed myself to a human being truly as I was. A glass mirror capable of my own tricks and illusions.
That night, I felt the real danger of completely ruining whatever it was which was keeping me and Helen together inside her one-bedroom kubo-kubo.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt the back part of her fists fall on my chest and on my face in full force. I was smashed by Helen’s fatal act of desperation. In the interrogated scandal of light, the broken fragments of Helen’s cry began to shatter the deafening silence of the moment. That was the exact moment when I saw her pick up my pencil of light, cut her wrist to dip the sharp, silvery plume on the red ink of her open wound, and wrote on the part of my chest still bound by the restrictive aluminum frame.
That dark and haunted night, under the glaring light of her bedroom, I could not bear to read anymore whatever Helen had written with her own blood on my smashed up and love-tortured chest. Her own dying words.
Goodbye, world!
I immediately realized that, from that moment on, I would never ever have the strength and will to look at myself again without seeing her – gender-neutral – in my unmasked mirror.
Chapter 12 The Ossuarium "If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself." —George Orwell, 1984
“Welcome back, o heir of Masirikampu!” Dr. Sim’s voice boomed, filled with a forced cheer that barely masked the tension crawling beneath. His hands, brimming with the usual frenzy of movement, nearly sent the pile of papers on his desk toppling to the floor. His belly gave a sudden thud as it slammed against the side of the desk, but he moved with surprising grace, managing to steady everything before it fell. He quickly stood, forcing a smile as he turned to face the newcomers. Father Roberto’s eyes narrowed as he entered, his pace deliberate and sure. Beside him, Isabela, her eyes wide with cautious curiosity, took hesitant steps forward. "Isabela," Father Roberto answered the doctor’s unspoken question, his tone colder than expected. Dr. Sim’s gaze shifted to Isabela, his eyes gleaming with something darker than admiration. "Ah, Isabela! What a splendid name for such a lovely young lady!" He reached out, a hand moving toward her cheek. Isabela flinched back, her instincts screaming to stay away. The doctor's hand stopped in midair, but the smile on his face didn’t falter. “People are assets," Dr. Sim muttered under his breath, a sentiment so chilling it might have frozen the air around them. "Let’s not waste time." Father Roberto’s voice turned sharp as an edge of steel. "We didn’t come here for pleasantries, Sim. We came because it’s time." Dr. Sim’s grin faltered, the seriousness of Father Roberto’s words hitting home. The doctor’s fingers tightened around his phone, his expression shifting momentarily before he turned away and dialed a number. “Yes, yes. This is Dr. Sim,” he barked into the receiver, his voice suddenly tight with urgency. “Code: 3-5-6-x-h-p-r. Two entities will be going down. I repeat: a man and a girl. Grant them full access to the—uh—bones.” Isabela, heart hammering, caught the word “bones” as it echoed in her mind. Her breath quickened. The thought of walking among bones—dead men’s bones—made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. A strange pang of unease twisted in her gut. Who is the heir of Masirikampu? She could almost feel the doctor’s gaze crawl over her skin, a scrutiny that made her feel like an object, a specimen to be examined. Dr. Sim’s voice became sharp, a tinge of irritation in it. "Yes, yes! It’s the heir of Masirikampu himself, and the child of Manlavi!" The words hit Isabela like a slap, their meaning as cryptic and unsettling as the shadows clinging to the walls. Who in the hell was she in all of this? Why was he referring to her as the child of Manlavi? “Fucking crazies!” Dr. Sim muttered under his breath as he slammed the phone down. His gaze flickered back toward Father Roberto, but it was quickly replaced with a smirk. "Well, good luck down there in the Ossuarium!" Father Roberto ignored him, turning sharply and heading for the elevator with Isabela in tow. But Dr. Sim’s words echoed in Isabela’s ears, twisting and coiling like a sickening laugh.
The elevator doors closed behind them, and Isabela could feel the air grow thick with tension. She reached up to tug on Father Roberto’s sleeve, her voice a whisper of concern. “Papa, what exactly is the Ossuarium?” Father Roberto’s gaze softened, but his answer was sharp. “It’s a place of secrecy, a place where things are kept hidden. A place where the past sleeps.”
The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped into the narrow, dimly lit tunnel that led to the spiral staircase. Father Roberto’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered, his voice low, but his words grew softer as he spoke to Nanay Leni, one of the most trusted figures in their lives. “Yes, yes! Isabela and I are out for a little while longer, but we’ll be back before dinner,” he assured the woman on the other end. “Don’t worry, Nanay Leni. Yes, before 6. Thank you for everything.” Isabela, her gaze fixed on the floor, muttered under her breath, “Does Nanay Leni know about… the Ossuarium?” Father Roberto’s expression darkened. He crouched to meet her eyes, his hands resting gently on her shoulders. “No, Isabela. This is our secret. The two of us. We can’t let anyone else know. It would be far too dangerous.” Isabela swallowed hard, her nerves beginning to edge into fear. "I understand." Her voice trembled but firm. "You’re doing your best, I know." Father Roberto smiled softly, though his mind was elsewhere. It wasn’t just about Isabela’s safety. There was more at stake.
As they reached the tunnel’s end, Father Roberto turned to one of the lamps and rotated it slightly. A hidden mechanism clicked, and the wall beside them shifted open to reveal a dark passageway leading deeper into the bowels of the cathedral. Two guards, their faces expressionless, stood like statues. “Don’t be afraid, Isabela,” Father Roberto murmured, his hand gently gripping hers. “They’re here to protect what’s inside.” But the oppressive darkness of the tunnel, the smell of age and decay, sent a shiver up her spine. The scent, thick and damp, made her stomach turn. As they walked deeper into the Ossuarium, Isabela’s pulse quickened. The air grew colder with each step. And when Father Roberto led her to the far side of the room, she froze. “Here,” he whispered, pointing to a marble tombstone embedded in the wall. The name on it struck her with a chilling recognition: Manlavi—her last name, the name she had adopted. Father Roberto’s hands moved over the stone, tracing the lines as if deciphering an ancient language. Isabela’s heart pounded in her chest. This was not the tomb of a stranger. This was something far deeper. The priest pressed a hidden mechanism, and the stone shifted backward with an eerie grinding sound, revealing a hidden space beyond the tomb. The walls parted, the air thick with the stench of something other. The lights flickered, casting twisted shadows on the stone walls. And then, without warning, Father Roberto turned to Isabela. “Now, it’s time.” He pushed her forward, his grip firm on her back. “Papa! No!” Her scream was swallowed by the darkness as she stumbled, falling into the unknown. The void swallowed her whole.
Chapter 13 Moment of Truth “There are only two things. Truth and lies. Truth is indivisible, hence it cannot recognize itself; anyone who recognizes it has to be a lie.” – Franz Kafka “Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.” – Buddha
Isabela and Father Roberto moved through the suffocating darkness with an air of foreboding. A cold breeze swept over her legs, a chilling reminder that they were no longer in the world she knew. The ground underfoot felt cold, damp, almost alive. The underground crypt, the Ossuarium, stretched endlessly beneath the cathedral, an ancient tomb veiled in mystery. Though Father Roberto had spent years in these crypts, his movements were swift and sure, as though the darkness had long surrendered to his presence. He stopped in front of a stone switch, his fingers tracing its edges with a familiarity that unnerved Isabela. “Stay here,” he said softly, but there was a tension in his voice. “Don’t move until I return.” She nodded, her heart thundering in her chest. The air seemed to thicken as the shadows deepened. Even though she had been in the Ossuarium before, it had never felt this oppressive. It wasn’t just the absence of light—it was the sheer emptiness of the place. As if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something unseen to happen. A noise echoed in the distance, faint footsteps, then the snap of a switch. Isabela's pulse quickened, her senses alive to every scrape of stone, every creak of the darkened cavern. Father Roberto’s figure reappeared from the gloom, and the flicker of harsh fluorescent lights broke through the void. The sudden brightness made her eyes water. “This way,” the priest said, his voice calm, but Isabela sensed a layer of unease beneath his usual serenity. He led her further into the crypt, his hand warm and firm around hers. She couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting to the walls, where faded, ancient inscriptions were carved into the stone. The Ostian texts—remnants of the island’s forgotten past—were hard to read, their meanings shifting with every glance. Father Roberto stopped before a large marble tombstone. He ran his hand over its surface, his fingers stopping at a series of cryptic symbols. “Do you recognize this?” he asked quietly. Isabela’s breath caught in her throat. The name etched into the stone was a chilling echo of her own: Remedios Manlavi Aquino. The blood that ran through her veins felt colder, as if the stone itself had reached into her very soul. “This,” Father Roberto murmured, “is my grandmother’s tomb. But it’s not just a tomb.” He glanced at Isabela, eyes flickering with an unreadable intensity. “This is the key. The key to what we’ve been searching for.” Her heart pounded. Her thoughts spun, unable to grasp the magnitude of what he was suggesting. “What key? To what?” Before she could protest further, he was already moving, gently pushing her aside to press his palm against the cold stone. The tombstone shifted with a quiet groan, revealing a hidden passageway—an abyss that stretched far deeper than the cathedral itself. The air around them seemed to warp, thickening into a palpable force. “This,” he said, his voice low, “is where the answers lie.” Isabela felt her stomach lurch as the stone wall behind them seemed to dissolve into darkness. The lights above flickered as though afraid to illuminate what lay ahead. For a brief moment, the chamber around them seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something unseen to happen. Father Roberto’s hand closed around her wrist. “Come,” he whispered. “The truth awaits.” Despite her fear, Isabela took a step forward, feeling the cold metal of the hidden door shift beneath her fingers. As they crossed the threshold, she felt something strange. The air felt alive, as if the very space was observing them, breathing with them. She shuddered, fighting the impulse to turn and flee. But there was no turning back now. “Father, where are we going?” Isabela’s voice cracked, barely a whisper against the overwhelming silence. “Into the heart of the darkness,” he replied cryptically, his eyes narrowed. “Where all lies begin.” A sudden, fierce gust of wind howled through the opening, and before Isabela could react, Father Roberto pushed her. She tumbled forward, the ground giving way beneath her feet. A scream tore from her lips as the darkness swallowed her whole. “Paaapaaaaa!” she cried, but her voice was lost to the vast, unfeeling void.
Back in the nave of Pantalan Church, Nanay Leni paced nervously at the altar. It was nearly 5:30 in the evening. Father Roberto and Isabela had not yet returned for their meal, and though she tried to remain calm, something gnawed at her. The silence felt wrong. She paused mid-step, glancing towards the iron grill gate at the side door. The cathedral was locked tight, except for that one exit. A strange unease gnawed at her stomach as she heard a rustling sound from the side of the garden, the part where the grotto of the Blessed Virgin stood. A shadow moved behind the high mound, a silhouette in the fading light. Nanay Leni's eyes narrowed. “Who’s there?” she called, but the figure disappeared behind the wall. Startled, she made her way towards the garden, each step echoing in the eerie stillness. As she rounded the corner of the grotto, she spotted two figures huddled near the stone bench, whispering softly—suspiciously. Before she could call out, the pair looked up, startled, before quickly scampering off through the side door. “Ay, rascals!” she muttered, shaking her head, but her mind was elsewhere. Where were Father Roberto and Isabela?
Back inside the Ossuarium, Isabela fell through the void, plummeting into nothingness. The world around her spun, a vortex of shadows and silence. She felt the coldness of it wrap around her like a suffocating cloak. And then, there was a sudden pull—sharp, relentless—dragging her down, deeper than anything she had ever known. Was this the end? Or was this just the beginning of the truth? Her thoughts were a blur as the darkness closed in on her, an endless, consuming force.
Chapter 14: Helen “That darkness be thy mirror, and thy whole remembrance.” – Dionysius of Halicarnassus
Father Roberto’s glare bore into the man panting before him, his usual humility replaced by a rare and disconcerting arrogance. The air between them crackled with unspoken animosity. “I don’t care anymore about Spiyamahika or your cursed devices, Sim,” the priest snapped. “All I care about now is—” “All you care about is your self-righteous mission with those damned Shafts of Light crusaders!” Dr. Sim interjected, his voice raw with frustration. The burly scientist’s face glistened with sweat, evidence of both exertion and desperation. “Pardon my words, Father, but don’t you see? You’re the selfish one this time.” The two stood mere feet from the pulsating void that had opened within the Ossuarium chamber. Half an hour had passed since Isabela entered the abyss, and the enigmatic portal loomed like a wound in the fabric of reality. Its silent allure was both terrifying and mesmerizing, yet neither man seemed fazed by its presence—except for one unsettling detail. Dr. Sim held up a crumpled report, the paper trembling in his hand. “A neutrino burst! A massive spike in blue-light activity the moment your ‘new subject’ entered the Black Mirror. Don’t you get it, Father? She triggered the event! The Fourth Luminous Mystery is within reach! She’s—” “She’s my daughter!” Father Roberto roared. His voice reverberated through the cavern, silencing Sim. “She won’t be a pawn in your experiments. I brought her here because of the signs—signs the Shafts of Light have awaited for centuries!” Sim’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Your ‘signs’ are nothing more than superstition! Be honest with yourself, Father. Six years ago, we found that shard of the Black Mirror in the coffin of a girl who allegedly committed suicide. Do you remember? We saved you from certain death! Without us, the Black Moon would have destroyed everything!” Father Roberto grabbed Sim by the collar. His voice dropped, low and menacing. “That girl did not commit suicide, Sim. She had a name. Helen. And if you must know, I would have gladly perished with that shard rather than see the horrors it’s unleashed.” “Oh, really?” Sim retorted, his tone mocking. “And leave the world to the Black Moon? That’s rich coming from a man of faith! You’re supposed to give hope, not surrender it. Face it, Roberto—Spiyamahika exists because of the Black Mirror and the Black Moon. They’re unstoppable. Your blood—the blood of a Tag—” Father Roberto shoved Sim away and turned toward the void. The darkness seemed alive, pulsating with an energy that beckoned him. Almost involuntarily, his fingers reached out to touch its surface. A chill shot through him as he whispered, “Isabela…” Sim’s voice droned on behind him, but it was a distant murmur now, drowned out by the priest’s racing thoughts. The loss of his daughter loomed over him like the abyss itself. “So,” Sim’s voice echoed, “as we’ve seen with previous subjects, when—not if—she emerges from the Black Mirror, she’ll remember nothing of her time inside.”
Isabela’s consciousness stirred, pulled from the depths of an icy void. A groan escaped her lips as her fingers twitched, brushing against the frigid ground. The air was bitterly cold, each breath a sharp reminder of her vulnerability. And then she heard it—a voice, slithering through the silence like a serpent. “Wake up, Isabela. It’s time to play tumbang preso.” Her eyes fluttered open, and she gasped. “I-Iboy? Is that you? Where… where are we?” The boy stood before her, his outline barely discernible in the darkness. He held a bamboo stick, which he used to poke playfully at the hem of her skirt. His laughter was unsettling, hollow. Isabela tried to stand, but her limbs felt like lead. Panic surged as something cold pressed against her chest. She writhed, desperate to dislodge it. “Iboy! Help! There’s something on my chest! I can’t move!” The laughter grew louder, more derisive. “What are you so worried about? Why don’t you use it?” “Use what?” she stammered. “Your papa’s graduation gift.” Her heart froze. How could he know about the necklace? It was supposed to be their secret—hers and Papa’s. “I know everything,” the voice taunted, its tone shifting, becoming less like Iboy and more like… something else. “You’ll help me escape the Ossuarium.” The word sent a shiver down her spine. Ossuarium. The memories flooded back. She had slipped… fallen into the void. The object on her chest began to glow, a faint ember that grew brighter with each passing second. Energy radiated from it, pulsing in rhythm with her racing heart. The light illuminated the face of the boy—or what she had thought was a boy. Isabela’s breath hitched. “You!” The creature’s grin widened, revealing jagged teeth that gleamed in the eerie light. Its eyes burned with a malevolent intensity. The glow from her necklace flared, and the cavern filled with a deafening hum. Shadows twisted and writhed around them as the air itself seemed to vibrate. “You are the key,” the creature hissed. “And the lock.” Before Isabela could scream, the light from the necklace erupted in a blinding flash, swallowing everything.
In the chamber above, Father Roberto staggered backward as the abyss began to churn violently. Dr. Sim shouted something, but his words were lost in the cacophony of the void. Then, a voice—Isabela’s voice—echoed from the darkness. “Papa… help me…” And then—silence.
Chapter 15 I Am a Body of Glass “As a mirror, I am a perfect body of glass. I will let you in without ever letting you through.” — Abismo
The air inside the small chapel was thick with the scent of melted candles and faintly lingering incense. Isabela’s voice, sharp and trembling, echoed against the worn stone walls. “You! You’re the one! You’re the one in the portrait displayed at the feet of Mama Mary in her grotto! You!” She was pointing at Helen Gaspar. Not the Helen who had died six years ago, but a ghostly resemblance that stood before her now. Helen, the girl whose story had been buried beneath whispers and forgotten files, was suddenly and inexplicably alive in the dim, flickering light.
Six years ago, Helen Gaspar had been discovered lifeless in her rented room in the burgeoning tech district of Pantalan. At the time, her death was ruled a suicide. Local tabloids devoured the scandalous details: a call center agent heartbroken over her boyfriend’s infidelity. Deep cuts on her wrists, a savage wound across her throat. Alone in her room, she had screamed of mirrors and masks before succumbing to the blood-stained floor. But there were layers to the story that had never been revealed—layers that reeked of decay and secrecy. Dr. Arnold Sim, the municipal doctor, had signed off on the official report before promptly leaving for a prestigious post in Manila. The truth, however, never left him. The autopsy had shown no trace of medication, no signs of substance-induced despair. Instead, there was something else: Helen had been pregnant, but the fetus—a malformed, monstrous thing—had inexplicably vanished from her womb. Rumors spread like wildfire, painting Helen as the victim of some dark, ancestral curse.
Father Roberto had been the last person to hear Helen’s confession. That very afternoon, she’d entered the confessional booth trembling, her voice heavy with desperation. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began, before launching into an unsettling tale. She spoke of making love to herself, but her words carried a strange, otherworldly weight. She described her obsession with the full-bodied mirror in her room, how she felt alive when she performed these acts in front of it. She even left behind a USB drive containing videos of her intimate rituals. Her final words to Father Roberto were chilling: “There’s something in the mirror, Father. I think it’s watching me.”
That night, after Helen’s confession, Father Roberto watched the videos. They began innocently enough: Helen in bed, the soft glow of her laptop illuminating her room. But then, the mirror moved. Slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, its surface rippled like water. And then it changed—a shape emerged, a figure dark and gleaming, its body like black glass. Father Roberto knew then that Helen’s plight went far beyond human understanding. The stories of his ancestors flooded his mind: the tale of the Black Mirror, a vessel for Deltise, the vengeful outcast son of the god of magic. According to legend, Deltise had sought to overthrow his father by corrupting the Tastoses, divine creatures created to serve their master. Banished to Batigong Hill, Deltise’s essence was said to have been trapped in an object that could manipulate light and reflection. The Black Mirror.
By the time Father Roberto and Dr. Sim reached Helen’s room, the door was ajar. Blood soaked the floor, and Helen’s lifeless body lay sprawled before them. As Dr. Sim checked for any signs of life, Father Roberto prepared to administer last rites. But then it happened: Helen’s body convulsed violently, and before their horrified eyes, it began to transform. Flesh gave way to a gleaming, reflective surface, her entire being twisting and reshaping until she became a perfect, obsidian mirror. The Black Mirror.
Helen’s laptop was missing. So was the mirror. Over the next several days, Father Roberto and Dr. Sim worked to cover up the truth. They fabricated reports and buried evidence. But the town of Pantalan, steeped in its own brand of superstitions, began to whisper of Helen’s cursed bloodline and the supernatural events that had unfolded.
Now, six years later, Isabela stood face-to-face with a woman who shouldn’t exist. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the crucifix around her neck. Helen’s lips curved into a haunting smile, her eyes gleaming with an unnatural light. “You saw me,” Helen whispered, her voice like the shatter of broken glass. “You’ve always seen me.” Behind her, the air shimmered. A figure emerged, tall and shadowed, its body a swirling mass of obsidian and fractured light. It reached for Helen, who stepped back into its embrace. The figure’s voice rumbled low and deep, shaking the very foundations of the chapel. “The Black Mirror has returned,” it said. “And with it, the end of all light.”
Isabela stumbled backward, clutching the crucifix as the candles extinguished one by one. The chapel descended into total darkness. And then, just as she turned to run, a hand—cold, hard, and unyielding—gripped her shoulder. She screamed.
Chapter 16: Rite of Passage “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eyes.” — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
The cube floated free of Isabela’s chest, its ember-like glow pulsating as if alive, casting flickering shadows across the glowering blue walls of the globular chamber. Her breath came in shallow gasps, but as the oppressive weight lifted, her senses sharpened. She became keenly aware of her surroundings. The ground beneath her, strewn with fractured skulls and the brittle remains of skeletons, exuded the faint, acrid scent of decay—a grim reminder of mortality stripped bare. Hovering just below the chamber’s ceiling, the cube rotated languidly, its angles catching the dim light in fleeting, mesmerizing patterns. Isabela’s body responded in kind. Slowly, energy coursed through her limbs. Her toes curled, then stretched. Her fingers twitched. Bit by bit, she sat up amidst the macabre remains, her heart pounding as she took in the morbid tableau. That’s when she saw it—her. Emerging from the shadows was Helen. Helen, whose face haunted the faded portrait left at Mama Mary’s feet, a reminder of despair’s final act. Helen, who had nearly ensnared her foster father years ago. Helen, now standing before her, more sinister than memory could convey. This wasn’t the same Helen who had walked the earth—this was something else wearing her face, her voice, her form. And it wanted something from her. “What do you want?” Isabela whispered, her voice barely audible in the oppressive silence. Helen’s lips curled into a grotesque semblance of a smile. “Give it to me, child,” the creature’s voice rasped, resonating with a hollow, inhuman echo that seemed to seep into the very walls of the chamber. Isabela’s mind raced. Her father’s words rang clear in her memory: “Today, my child, I have a secret to reveal to you. I have seen the signs. It is time. I have heard, and I must heed, the call of truth itself.” Truth. What truth? And why now? He had also warned her, gravely: “Whatever happens down there, whatever you see, whatever you hear, do not touch it. Do not engage with it. Do not give it what it wants.” But Helen was closing in. Isabela’s instincts screamed at her to run, but there was no visible exit. Her eyes darted around the chamber, seeking any escape, any weakness in the walls of her prison. None revealed itself. The only way out, it seemed, was through. Her fingers brushed the pendant hanging from her neck. The small, unassuming trinket given to her by Father Roberto as a graduation gift last year had begun to warm against her skin. The familiar Latin inscription etched on its back—Spiritus Lucis Deo—came to her mind: God is the Breath of Light. A faint vibration emanated from the pendant, growing stronger as Helen advanced. It wasn’t just warming; it was glowing. As Helen’s shadow fell over her, Isabela instinctively clutched the pendant and began to rub its inscription, her thumb tracing the delicate etching with frantic determination. “Stop!” Helen shrieked, her voice fracturing into a cacophony of inhuman growls and screeches. “You don’t understand what you’re doing!” But it was too late. The pendant’s glow intensified, rivaling the cube above. Helen’s form wavered and distorted, her face dissolving into something grotesque. Her limbs elongated unnaturally, her skin darkening into a leathery texture that pulsated with veins of shadowy ichor. The creature lunged. Isabela didn’t flinch. She closed her eyes, heeding the breath of light that seemed to surge from within her. A calm she couldn’t explain enveloped her, anchoring her to the ground even as the chamber quaked violently around her. “Accept the darkness, Isabela!” the creature bellowed, its voice no longer Helen’s but a chorus of discordant tones. “You are—and will always be—one of us!” Isabela’s eyes flew open. The ground beneath her buckled, sending her stumbling backward. The cube above flared brilliantly, its light cutting through the chamber like a blade. Helen’s monstrous form shrieked and writhed, retreating into the shadows as the pendant in Isabela’s hand burned with a fierce intensity. Then, silence. The cube dimmed, its light fading until it was no more than a faint ember suspended in the void. The walls of the chamber shuddered, cracking as the oppressive blue light ebbed into darkness. The ground beneath her steadied, but the silence was unnerving. And then— A low rumble. The chamber began to collapse in on itself, the walls crumbling as unseen forces pulled at the fabric of reality itself. A vortex of shadow and light erupted from the cube, consuming the chamber’s remnants. Isabela clung to the pendant, its light the only anchor she had. She screamed as the vortex expanded, pulling her toward its yawning maw. Helen’s voice echoed once more, faint and mocking: “You cannot escape what you are, child. The darkness is in you. It always has been.” And as the chamber dissolved into chaos, Isabela’s final thought was not of fear, but of a chilling certainty: This was only the beginning.
Chapter 17 Her Royal Sorceress “The Red Queen shook her head. “You may call it ‘nonsense’ if you like,” she said, “but I’ve heard nonsense, compared with which that would be as sensible as a dictionary!” Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland - Through the Looking Glass
Iboy was just seven when he last saw his Uncle Ephraim. Ephraim was the older brother of Iboy’s mother, and after her passing two and a half years ago, the responsibility of looking after Iboy fell squarely on Ephraim’s shoulders. With Iboy’s father away in the National Capital Region, lost in the labyrinth of bureaucracy to secure documents for overseas work, Ephraim had become the boy’s anchor. “Please tell him I love him, Ephraim,” were the last words Iboy’s father uttered before Ephraim departed on another of his long journeys. The trip—a grueling odyssey involving ships, buses, and motor-driven bancas—would eventually lead him back to their hometown of Pantalan. But Ephraim’s mission extended far beyond family: he was a merchant, a storyteller, and—to many—a hero. Ephraim’s broad shoulders and hearty laugh belied the depth of his character. As a young man, he had dreamed of joining the military, but a partial blindness in one eye dashed those aspirations. “A sniper only needs one eye, doesn’t he?” he would joke, masking his disappointment with humor. His determination to make a difference, however, was unyielding. Ephraim built a reputation as a defender of justice and equality, his quixotic ideals earning him admiration far and wide. Instead of lamenting his thwarted dreams, Ephraim turned his energies to commerce and philanthropy. He scoured Divisoria for children’s clothes, Raon for electronic tools, and Recto for second-hand textbooks, which he sold or donated to poorly funded schools. He dreamed of building a special school for children needing extra care and for the diminishing Tagbanua tribes eager to learn. His vision was as vast as the seas he traversed. Despite his larger-than-life persona, Ephraim’s personal life was a tale of missed connections. There was Imbalaji, a woman of Tagbanua descent and rumored mystic powers, whom Ephraim nearly married. Their union, however, was thwarted by his devout Catholic parents. Whispers of a child born of their love lingered, but no proof ever surfaced. Ephraim’s relationship with Iboy was one of deep affection. He showered the boy with gifts, chocolates, and stories—tales so vivid that Iboy memorized them, learning to appreciate the art of storytelling. Among these tales, one stood out above all: the story of the red-haired woman.
“Tell the story again, Uncle!” Iboy’s eyes sparkled as he bit into a chocolate bar. With a grin, Ephraim asked, “Which one?” “The story of the red-haired woman!” Ephraim’s expression darkened briefly before he laughed and began the tale once more. The air seemed to thicken as his voice wove the narrative, pulling Iboy deeper into the mystery.
Meanwhile, Isabela’s world had shifted in ways she could scarcely comprehend. One moment she was clutching the pendant of her necklace; the next, she stood in a garden of breathtaking beauty. Blossoms of every hue stretched as far as the eye could see, their fragrance intoxicating. “Her Royal Sorceress!” The voice was angelic, male, and full of reverence. Isabela turned to see a group of boys and girls in white robes, holding bouquets of flowers. “Good day, Your Royal Sorceress!” they chanted in unison, their voices harmonizing like a choir. A shiver ran down her spine. “Uh, I’m sorry, but were you referring to…?” Isabela’s voice faltered as a golden whisper interrupted her. “Please,” the angelic voice murmured, “don’t say anything more. Just bow your head and gesture like this.” Turning, she saw a striking young man in a white robe adorned with a red stripe. His movements were graceful as he placed his right hand over his heart. Mesmerized, Isabela mimicked him. The children dispersed, distributing their bouquets among the garden’s unseen inhabitants. “Sefiro,” the young man said, breaking the silence. “What?” Isabela asked, bewildered. “My name is Sefiro, Your Royal Sorceress. I am to be your guide and trainer.” “Trainer? Trainer for what?” “To become our Sorceress Queen.” Isabela’s heart pounded. The garden seemed to close in around her, its beauty now tinged with menace. Before she could respond, a low, guttural roar echoed through the air, freezing her in place. Sefiro’s expression turned grim. “It begins,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the growing sound. “What begins?” Isabela’s voice trembled. Sefiro’s eyes locked onto hers, their intensity piercing. “Your first trial. Prepare yourself, Sorceress. Everything depends on what you do next.” As the roar grew deafening, shadows began to stir among the flowers. Something was coming, and it was coming for her.
Chapter 18: The Story of the Red-Haired Woman “Every substance is as a world apart, independent of everything else except God.” Gottfried Leibniz
Niño leaned back in his chair, swirling the last remnants of his bulalo soup lazily. “It does have a certain ring to it, bro! At-tor-ney Sebastian Gomez! Or do you really prefer this one? Special NBI Agent Sebastian Gomez!” Basti nearly choked on his soup, glaring at his friend. The bar exams loomed a mere week away, and every moment of distraction felt like a risk he couldn’t afford. Yet here he was, letting Niño’s infectious energy coax him away from his grueling study schedule. “Hey, did you hear what Sir Rodolfo announced during their weekly staff meeting last Monday?” Niño pressed, leaning closer as though sharing a great secret. Basti’s face remained impassive. “Yeah, I heard. I’m studying to be an NBI investigator, aren’t I?” “Hahaha! I know, bro, I know! So…?” “So what?” “Are congratulations in order?” Niño’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Basti snorted, pushing his empty bowl away. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Onyx. That was just an offhand comment. Besides, I checked with HR. All five vacant positions for Investigation Agent I are already reserved for Atty. Lagarto’s people. It’s a long shot at best.” “Fuck Lagarto!” Niño spat. “What matters is what Ricablanca wants! And I heard he’s ready to sign your appointment papers. Co-terminus capacity, man!” Basti shook his head. “Onyx, use your head. Co-terminus appointments are career suicide. I’d rather pass the bar and secure a permanent position. That’s why I’ve been burning my eyebrows these past months. Stability matters.” Niño sighed in defeat, knowing further arguments were pointless. Basti’s relentless drive and focus were unmatched, traits that often set him apart even among the brightest recruits at the NBI’s Cybercrime Division. Still, Niño couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease as he watched his friend’s stoic demeanor mask the undercurrents of tension beneath.
Basti had come a long way since his first days at the NBI. Living alone near Padre Faura headquarters, he had embraced the solitude, letting it fuel his focus. Yet, every step he took in his career wasn’t just for himself. His father Fredo, his half-uncle Father Roberto, and their secret guild—the Shafts of Light—had groomed him for a mission far greater than he could fully comprehend. The Shafts of Light’s latest gambit was Spiyamahika, an experimental counter-intelligence program centered around a state-of-the-art machine called KHULAM (Kinetic Heavy-Neutrino Underground Laser Machine). Hidden on a remote island in northern Palawan, KHULAM was both a marvel of cutting-edge science and an enigma tied to the Masirikampu prophecies—cryptic scrolls unearthed by the Shafts of Light that blended technology, spirituality, and the arcane. Despite its official purpose as a counter-intelligence tool, Basti knew KHULAM had untapped potential far beyond conventional espionage. But that potential remained shackled under the control of Dr. Arnold Sim, the ambitious Chief of Forensics. Sim had twisted the project’s purpose, using it as a tool for political disinformation. His actions frustrated Basti, who vowed to one day wrest control of KHULAM and steer it back toward its true purpose.
The Story of the Red-Haired Woman (as retold by Ninong Uncle Ephraim to his godson nephew Iboy) “Wearing only a lavish lei of fresh leaves and grass, the red-haired woman stepped into the cave. The ritual bed, woven from bamboo and stuffed with soft cotton, awaited her in the cold, damp darkness. Outside, a campfire flickered, choosing her mate for the night. Once the flames died, the man closest to the fire would become the sacrifice.” Ephraim’s voice lowered, drawing Iboy deeper into the tale. “The woman’s body burned with desire, kindled by a centuries-old love potion. Her trembling hands explored her flesh, her moans mingling with the cave’s eerie silence. But her pleasure wasn’t for mortal men. She was a babaylan, a vessel for the gods themselves.” “Halmista, the god of magic, lusted after her. His affection sparked jealousy in his son, Deltise, the god of mambabarangs. Disguising himself as a mortal, Deltise infiltrated the ritual. His towering form radiated raw power—a deceptive beauty masking his deadly intent.” Iboy’s eyes widened as Ephraim continued. “As the woman succumbed to the false sacrifice’s allure, Deltise revealed his true form, his hands tightening around her throat. But Halmista had foreseen his son’s treachery. Guardians known as Tastoses intervened, turning Deltise into a crow.” “And what happened to the red-haired woman?” Iboy whispered. “Halmista forgave her. He stripped Deltise of his powers and bestowed them upon the woman—but only temporarily. His daughter, Kilawnea, argued that the gift should pass to the woman’s descendants. And so, the Klaraw prophecy was born, foretelling a curse that would ripple through generations.”
Later that night, Basti lay awake in his cramped apartment, Ephraim’s tale echoing in his mind. The red-haired woman’s story felt eerily familiar, as though her fate intertwined with his own. His phone buzzed, breaking the spell of his thoughts. A single text from an unknown number: “KHULAM activated. Coordinates: Batigong Hill. Come alone.” Basti’s heart raced as he stared at the screen. The Masirikampu prophecies spoke of Batigong as a nexus of power—and danger. Could this be the next step in the Shafts of Light’s mission? Or a trap laid by those who sought to control him? He grabbed his jacket, a sense of foreboding settling over him. As he stepped into the night, one thought consumed him: What awaited him on Batigong Hill?
Chapter 19 A Disjunct on Time: The Neutrino Anomaly “It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.” – Wallace Stevens
What felt like hours in the stifling abyss were, in reality, fleeting minutes within the Ossuarium’s echoing chamber. Father Roberto, stoic yet restless, waited patiently for his daughter, Isabela, to return. The silence pressed upon him like a leaden cloak, each second dripping with unseen tension. Time check: 5:38 PM. Enough time, he thought, to honor their dinner appointment with Nanay Leni. But as the good priest glanced toward the hidden trapdoor that led to his study room, a dark realization surfaced. He could not use it. Too risky. There were three other secret portals to Spiyamahika, each a testament to ingenuity and subterfuge. The first was concealed behind the reliquary of Saint Christopher, which stood solemnly in the far corner of the chapel. Above it was Father Roberto’s bedroom, lending an air of normalcy to what was anything but. When the chapel had been constructed six years earlier, the townsfolk believed the materials being ferried to the island were for the sacred edifice alone. Yet, beneath their noses, Spiyamahika was being born—an underground labyrinth of cutting-edge espionage and mysticism. The chapel had been a perfect cover for the flurry of construction and the influx of operatives, often disguised as pilgrims or curious tourists. The second portal, a trapdoor in the priest’s study, had been added for Roberto’s convenience. But it had proven vulnerable. Dr. Sim had insisted on a backup for every contingency, his paranoia manifesting in labyrinthine precision. The third entrance was the most ingenious: hidden behind the grotto of Mama Mary in the church’s walled inner garden. Accessible 24/7, it was the perfect emergency exit. A palm-sized biometric scanner was hidden in the hand of the Blessed Virgin’s statue, her arm doubling as a lever. A dynamic CCTV camera concealed in the statue’s eyes ensured discretion. To mitigate risk, officials were advised to travel in pairs, posing as lovers to deflect suspicion. The irony of using the guise of love to shield secrets from the world was not lost on Roberto. The final entrance, a helipad atop the kegelkarst, was reserved for Spiyamahika’s high-ranking officials. Six years of meticulous secrecy had kept these portals hidden from prying eyes—for now.
A Fateful Encounter Nanay Leni had once come dangerously close to uncovering the trapdoor in Roberto’s study. While cleaning, her curiosity had nearly led her to it, but a black cat’s sudden appearance disrupted her focus. The feline’s mischief sent her chasing it through the aisles of the church, a fortuitous distraction that preserved Spiyamahika’s secrecy.
The Neutrino Machine’s Shadows In the Ossuarium, Father Roberto’s thoughts wandered. Dr. Sim had left moments earlier, returning to his office with an air of urgency. Yet, his presence lingered through the spidery drones now patrolling the chamber. One hovered above Roberto, its quiet hum a mechanical specter. Roberto’s anger simmered. The knowledge shared by Dr. Sim about the neutrino experiments weighed on him. Spiyamahika’s resources—the technology, the intelligence network, the lives entwined in secrecy—were being misused. Instead of advancing humanity, they had become tools for red-tagging government critics, suppressing voices of dissent. His thoughts turned inward. Would it be so difficult for me to reveal my truth? The blood of the Tagbanua babaylan coursed through him, an ancestral legacy he had hidden for too long. “But all will soon be revealed,” he muttered to himself. “In God’s perfect time.” The Bible verse from 2 Peter 3:8 echoed in his mind: “With the Lord, a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.” The paradox of time resonated deeply with the KHULAM machine—Spiyamahika’s greatest creation, a device harnessing neutrinos to manipulate the very fabric of existence.
The Black Moon Rises KHULAM had been designed to counter the Black Moon syndicate, a criminal organization cloaked in terror and the occult. Their influence had seeped into every corner of the underworld, their name whispered only in fear. The Black Moon’s ultimate goal—to plunge the Philippines into darkness using a machine fueled by neutrinos—was no idle threat. Rumors abounded that their device, a rival to KHULAM, had been crafted using stolen, classified UN blueprints. The government’s faith in Spiyamahika had been bolstered by the Shafts of Light, an elite faction advocating the union of espionage and sorcery. Yet, even with the government’s support, doubts lingered about whether Spiyamahika could truly stop the Black Moon’s apocalyptic ambitions.
A Turning Point As Father Roberto wrestled with his conscience, a faint vibration beneath his feet snapped him back to the present. The Ossuarium’s walls began to tremble, dust cascading from the ancient stonework. The hovering drone emitted a series of sharp beeps before darting away toward the chamber’s exit. In the dim light, Roberto saw it: a faint, pulsating glow emanating from a crack in the chamber floor. The air grew heavy, charged with an otherworldly energy. His heart pounded as the glow intensified, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Then, a voice—low, guttural, and impossibly distant—echoed through the chamber. “The Fourth Luminous Mystery approaches.” Roberto’s breath caught. The prophecy. The machine. The Black Moon. All threads converging. Yet, as he reached for his rosary, the light erupted, consuming everything in blinding brilliance.
Afterword When the light faded, Roberto found himself standing not in the Ossuarium, but in a desolate, ash-filled landscape. The sky was an unnatural shade of crimson, and in the distance, a massive structure loomed, pulsating with an ominous energy. A single figure approached, cloaked and unrecognizable, but their voice sent chills down his spine. “You’re too late, Father.”
Chapter 20: The Ambush “The difference between treason and patriotism is only a matter of dates.” — Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the empty parking structure, casting eerie shadows that danced on the cold concrete. National Bureau of Investigation Director Rodolfo Ricablanca’s chuckle echoed softly as he glanced at Nina. “One hell of a first date to remember, huh?” Nina, however, didn’t smile. She clenched her jaw, her eyes scanning the shadows. To her and the Shafts of Light—an elite unit within the NBI—this ambush six years ago wasn’t just a memory. It was unfinished business.
The Night of the Ambush That December night, the air in the parking lot had carried an unnatural stillness. Nina, fresh from completing her rigorous NBI training, had insisted on accompanying Director Ricablanca. But what was meant to be a celebratory dinner turned into a calculated attempt on their lives. The first sign of danger was the metallic clink of a grenade rolling toward their sedan. Nina’s instincts kicked in. Without hesitation, she shoved Rodolfo to the ground, shielding him with her body as they hit the concrete. Her voice was low but urgent. “Stay down. They’re here for you.” The grenade didn’t explode. A miscalculation or deliberate hesitation? It didn’t matter. The assailants emerged from the shadows, moving with military precision. Rodolfo’s voice broke the tension. “You’re heavier than you look, Nina. Been skipping workouts?” She silenced him with a glare, her lips brushing dangerously close to his. The proximity sent a fleeting blush across her face, but survival took precedence. “No time for jokes,” she whispered. “Get to the driver’s seat. Open the trunk. Now.” Rodolfo hesitated, but Nina’s commanding tone snapped him into action. Crawling on all fours, he reached the sedan’s door and popped the trunk. Meanwhile, Nina drew her firearm, her movements deliberate and steady despite the adrenaline flooding her veins. Her sharp aim took out the two lamp posts illuminating their position, plunging the area into darkness. “Start the car,” she ordered. The sedan roared to life just as a hail of bullets ricocheted off its armored exterior. The attackers had come prepared, equipped with night vision goggles that pierced the dark.
A Daring Escape Nina’s fingers closed around a cold, metallic object in the trunk—an F-series military assault rifle. Without hesitation, she positioned herself on one knee, her breath steady as she formulated a plan. Retrieving her phone, she selected a song from her playlist. As A-ha’s Take On Me filled the air, she hurled the device several meters away. The music became a beacon, drawing the attackers’ fire. Bullets tore through the space, making the phone dance on the concrete. Nina used the chaos to her advantage, locating their positions through the muzzle flashes. “Move!” she shouted at Rodolfo, vaulting into the driver’s seat. “I’ll drive.” Rodolfo didn’t argue. He barely had time to settle into the passenger seat before Nina hit the gas, the sedan lurching forward. Her hand tightened on the wheel while her other hand clutched the rifle. As they sped toward the exit, she spotted the grenade on the ground and reached for it. Lowering the window, she flung it back toward the shadows. “So long, suckers!” she yelled, a triumphant gleam in her eye. The attackers paused, their masks and goggles removed to inspect the object. Laughter erupted among them when they realized the grenade hadn’t detonated. Their mirth was short-lived. The delayed explosion sent a fiery shockwave through the structure, and Nina grinned as the rearview mirror lit up with orange and red flames.
The Black Moon’s Shadow The ambush was just one of many attempts orchestrated by the enigmatic Black Moon—a criminal syndicate cloaked in myth and terror. For Rodolfo and Nina, it was personal. The Black Moon didn’t just threaten their lives; it signaled a much larger, more insidious plot. Decades earlier, the Black Moon had been a minor blip on the NBI’s radar. At its helm was Antegena, a diminutive shaman with an iron grip on her followers. Despite her frail appearance, she wielded dark powers inherited from Deltise, the god of mambabarangs. The group’s methods were as archaic as they were brutal—human sacrifices, occult rituals, and the weaponization of ancient curses.
A Meeting of Shadows In a dimly lit room, Antegena sat across from two of the Philippines’ most feared criminal leaders: Lei Versoza, the sultry head of the White Ant Queen, and King Carlos of Exilium Rex Corporation. Tension crackled in the air. “The plan was perfect,” King Carlos said, pacing the room. “Perfect?” Antegena hissed, her voice gravelly. “Fools! The Black Moon’s prophecy is unfolding. This is only the beginning.” Lei smirked, her cocktail glass catching the dim light. “Prophecies? Spare us your theatrics, Antegena. We’re here for results.” Antegena’s eyes burned with fury. “The youngest child of our enemy bears the curse. When the Black Moon rises, they will suffer. Mark my words.”
Afterword As Nina and Rodolfo drove into the night, a chilling realization washed over them. The ambush wasn’t a random attack—it was a message. Back at the NBI headquarters, a package awaited them. Inside was a waxen effigy, eerily lifelike, its features unmistakably Rodolfo’s. Embedded in its chest was a black, crescent-shaped sigil. Nina’s hand trembled as she held it up to the light. From the shadows of the room, a faint whisper echoed: “The Black Moon rises. Prepare for reckoning.”
Chapter 21: The Goddess of Darkness “For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.” — Vladimir Nabokov
The pendant swung gently in Isabela’s grasp, the chain glinting in the curious light of the garden. She scarcely noticed it, her attention drawn entirely to Sefiro as he beckoned her toward an unknown destination. The flowers in the garden were vivid, their colors unnaturally sharp, as though painted with hues stolen from dreams. A corner of her mind marveled at their beauty, but something else unsettled her. The sunlight pouring over the scene was dazzling, yet it was bereft of warmth. Isabela shivered despite its brilliance. “How strange,” she murmured to herself. “This afternoon, the sun in the plaza made me sweat just standing there. But here… it’s blazing, and I feel so cold.” Ahead, Sefiro stopped and gestured to a gazebo nestled among the strange flora. “There,” he said, his voice calm yet brimming with meaning. “You will find the answers you seek.” In the gazebo stood the silhouette of a woman, her fiery red hair glowing as if it were aflame. She rose from her chair with a graceful motion, as though she had been expecting Isabela. Her hand lifted, beckoning. Isabela hesitated, the pendant’s chain twisting tighter around her fingers. “Wait,” she turned to Sefiro, her voice a trembling whisper. “Aren’t you coming with me?” Sefiro shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Each of us has a place here. Mine is not at the gazebo. I am your guide, but your path beyond this point is yours alone. When you’re done, I’ll be waiting.” “Promise?” A faint smile curved his lips. “I promise.” Reluctantly, Isabela stepped toward the gazebo. The woman watched her approach, her smile radiant and unsettling. As Isabela drew closer, the woman’s features sharpened: her porcelain skin was flawless, her eyes a deep and knowing green, her red hair cascading over her shoulders like molten lava. Her crimson skirt billowed slightly, though there was no breeze. “Welcome, Isabela,” the woman said, her voice melodious yet shadowed with an undercurrent Isabela couldn’t place. “I see you’ve met Sefiro. Sit with me.” Isabela obeyed, sinking into the chair across from the enigmatic figure. “My name is Paula,” the woman continued. “I am the Goddess of Darkness. You may call me Tita Paula.” Isabela blinked. “Goddess of Darkness?” Paula laughed, a sound both warm and chilling. “Not what you expected, dear? Oh, Isabela, your world has painted us as monsters and witches without understanding the truth of what we are. Darkness is not a place or a curse. It is a presence, as real as the chair you sit upon.” The girl’s brow furrowed. “But where is… here?” Paula’s smile deepened. “The Black Mirror.” “The Black Mirror?” Paula nodded, allowing the weight of her words to settle. “This is a reflection, Isabela. A realm where truths are unveiled, if one dares to see them. And you, my dear, must learn to see.” Isabela clutched the pendant tighter. “I don’t understand.” “Understanding will come,” Paula said softly. “For now, there is but one thing you must do. Be true to yourself, Isabela. Whatever happens here or in the world beyond, let truth be your anchor.” The girl’s voice trembled. “How do I do that?” Paula’s emerald eyes bore into her. “Do you accept me, Isabela?” Isabela recoiled slightly. “Accept you?” “Do you accept the darkness?” Paula leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you accept me as your friend?” Isabela hesitated. The question felt like a trap, but she couldn’t discern its nature. Her silence seemed to shift the air. Paula’s smile vanished, replaced by a fierce intensity. Suddenly, Paula stood, her arms rising as her voice became a resonant chant. “Accept the darkness, Isabela! Accept it now, or be lost forever in the abyss of the Ossuarium!” Her eyes burned crimson, the light from them searing through the gazebo. “Say it! Say that you accept the darkness! Accept me!” The sound was overwhelming, and Isabela clapped her hands over her ears. The pendant slipped from her grasp, its chain unraveling as it fell to the floor. In desperation, she cried out, “Okay, okay! I accept the darkness! I accept you!” The moment the words left her lips, silence fell—a silence so profound it felt like the world had stopped breathing. The pendant lay gleaming on the floor, a faint shadow curling around it.
Far away, in the cathedral of Pantalan, Dr. Sim paced furiously, his cell phone pressed to his ear. “No, no, no! Of course, I don’t believe that priest’s bullshit!” His voice was venomous. “Mark my words: before this day ends, he’ll crawl back to me. I’ve prepared something… special for him.” He smirked, a predator savoring its kill. “Keep your eyes open, boss. That damned priest is going down today.”
6:45 PM. Father Roberto knelt beside Isabela’s unconscious form, his hands trembling as he stroked her hair. Tears streamed down his face. “Anak, please. Wake up. I’m sorry, hija. I’m so sorry.” Her breath was shallow, her heartbeat faint but steady. The priest rose, his resolve hardening. He couldn’t take the risk of returning to his study through the secret passage; the trapdoor could expose too much. Instead, he turned toward the grotto. The portal there would take him outside, to the world above, where he could find help. He did not know that something waited for him in the cathedral—something that would change everything.
Above the Ossuarium, a faint glow seeped through the cracks in the cathedral floor. It pulsed like a heartbeat, growing stronger with every passing second. And in the shadows, someone watched. Waiting.
Chapter 22: Escape is Freedom "Every man builds his world in his own image. He has the power to choose, but no power to escape the necessity of choice." – Ayn Rand
With Isabela lying motionless on the cold, stone floor of the Ossuarium chamber, Father Roberto's breath hitched as he bolted toward the wall where the mysterious abyss had once appeared. In the dim, flickering light, it was gone—vanished, as if it had never existed. A bitter chill washed over him. But what truly chilled him was the sight of Isabela, unconscious, vulnerable. Her fate hung by a thread, and he knew that whatever choices he made now, there would be no turning back. No more mistakes. He gripped the stone tombstone near the wall, eyes scanning the cryptic symbols etched into its surface. Each mark, each word, was a key—a path toward salvation or doom. As his trembling fingers brushed over the hidden codes, the weight of his responsibility bore down on him. "How could I live with myself?" Father Roberto thought, panic clawing at his insides. "I know both the worlds of science and magic, yet neither can save her. What good is knowledge when it fails you? Which god do I call upon now: the silent, distant one in the heavens, or the ancient deities of the mountains who demand sacrifice?" The secret panel door creaked open, revealing a narrow tunnel, its passageway long and labyrinthine. A maze of uncertainty awaited him. As he scooped Isabela into his arms, determination surged through him. This time, he would not fail. Not again. He took one last look at the chamber—the place that had tested him, had tortured him with its questions—and stepped into the tunnel. The air was thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were alive, closing in on him. The maze was a cruel trick, its paths shifting, twisting. Every step felt like a gamble, every turn a test. Father Roberto forced his mind to focus. He knew the tunnel’s layout—it was no stranger to him. But the path was treacherous, and time was running out. Each step, each choice, weighed heavily on him. Every second spent here was a second Isabela’s life slipped further from his grasp. He cursed himself for ever being entangled in this maddening duality—science and magic. Was he foolish to think he could navigate both realms? Could he ever reconcile the two? Or was it their very opposition that had cursed him from the start?
Science and Magic: An Uneasy Alliance Father Roberto’s thoughts drifted, as they often did, back to the roots of this conflict—his father, Levi, and his grandfather, Lolo Vito. The seeds of this dichotomy had been planted long ago. As a child, Roberto had been too young to understand the depths of their debates—the passionate arguments over which force was the true ruler of the world: science, with its cold, calculating logic, or magic, with its mysterious, intangible power. The rift between Levi and Remedios, his mother, had never been about love, but about belief—belief in what was real, what could be trusted. And to Roberto, the strangest thing about it all was how it all seemed to stem from something bigger—something unspeakable. He recalled the day his father had returned after years of absence. It had been an unsettling moment, not filled with joy, but with the tense anticipation of something unknown. He could remember it vividly—dinner time. His father, Levi, had returned with a look of desperation in his eyes. Bitoy (as Roberto had been called by his family) sat quietly, watching his father devour the food his mother had prepared. The meal had been served with warmth, but the silence between them felt like a cold abyss. Levi had looked up, realizing the tension in the room, and awkwardly apologized. “Remedios, I didn’t mean to make things so uncomfortable… Sit beside me.” The years apart hadn’t erased the tension between them. Yet, as his father’s eyes met his own, Bitoy saw something he hadn’t expected: a haunting resemblance, a reflection of the same torment that plagued Levi's soul. “I need to tell you something,” Levi said, his voice trembling. “I'm still on the run. And I’m afraid, Remedios, your lives—our lives—are in grave danger.” That night had changed everything. It was the beginning of a much darker path for them, and for Bitoy, it marked the moment when the lines between science and magic would blur forever.
Back in the tunnel, Father Roberto’s heart pounded as he pressed on, clutching Isabela tightly against him. He had been here before—he knew the walls, the shifting paths, the deceptive turns. Each step took him further into the unknown, and yet, deeper into the realm of his own fears. But now, something had changed. He had always believed that the two worlds—science and magic—were incompatible. But the truth was more complex. Together, they had birthed the most unlikely of creations: espionage. It was a secret marriage of precision and illusion, of logic and mystery. In a way, it was like his current predicament—a deadly game of wits and survival. He had become a player in a much larger, more dangerous game. And as he walked through the darkness, he realized the stakes were higher than he ever imagined.
The Final Steps After what seemed like an eternity, Father Roberto reached the foot of the secret exit. He could feel the tension in his chest, the weight of his choices pressing against him. The monitor on the wall blinked to life, showing the outside world in real time. The church was eerily quiet. There was no one in sight. No guards. No enemies lurking in the shadows. It felt... wrong. Father Roberto quickly input his code into the keypad beside the monitor. A soft click echoed as the secret portal behind the grotto slid open, revealing the outside world—the world he and Isabela had left behind. He lifted her into his arms again, his heart racing. He could almost taste freedom—the world that awaited them, where they could be safe, where Isabela could heal. But as he stepped toward the exit, the air grew colder. A shadow crossed the doorway, moving swiftly, deliberately, as though the tunnel itself were holding its breath. Father Roberto froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Was it possible? Had they been followed? Was the escape he so desperately sought a trap in itself? The last thing he saw before the world around him went black was a single, familiar symbol glowing faintly on the wall—the same symbol that had haunted him since the beginning. The labyrinth had never truly ended.
Chapter 23 Freedom is Never Free “Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.” — Voltaire
Ephraim stood still for a moment, staring out at the flickering shadows cast by the fading light outside. His nephew Iboy, wide-eyed and breathless, had leaned out the window, his face etched with a mixture of confusion and urgency. “Uncle Ephraim,” the boy whispered, eyes darting down the street. “Military trucks! Lots of them. Soldiers are everywhere!” Ephraim’s pulse quickened, though he fought to maintain composure. He let his gaze slide toward the open window, his thoughts already racing. The familiar hum of the small fishing town was slowly giving way to something darker. Ephraim’s heart pounded in his chest, but he did his best to suppress it, placing the heavy apron on the back of the couch with deliberate slowness. “Army trucks?” Ephraim mused, his voice barely above a murmur. “Hmm…” His fingers tightened briefly around the edges of his worn apron as his mind turned. His gaze lingered on the small, intimate kitchen, the sizzling sounds of seafood kare-kare filling the space between them. For a moment, the world outside seemed distant, out of focus. He had no time to linger on the mundane. Not now. Not with the unknown stirring outside their door. He leaned closer to Iboy, his voice a low command. “Which way did they go?” Iboy’s voice was soft, but tinged with an undeniable excitement. “They were heading to the plaza, Uncle.” Ephraim’s fingers twitched as he stood. He gave Iboy a long look, the unspoken understanding between them sharp as a blade. “I’ll race you to the plaza,” Iboy suddenly declared, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint. Before Ephraim could even think of a reply, the boy was already gone, darting out the door with the same reckless speed that defined his youth. Ephraim shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though his thoughts remained clouded with tension. Not yet, Iboy. Not yet.
By the time Ephraim reached the plaza, the streets were thick with people, all whispering in hushed tones as they gathered along the edges of the old balete tree. From its gnarled branches, the townsfolk watched the unfolding scene below with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Ephraim had always known the pulse of Pantalan, but this—this was different. Soldiers stood in rigid formations, their green uniforms stark against the backdrop of the cathedral’s looming silhouette. Ephraim squinted, trying to make sense of the chaos. Military trucks lined the square like a silent blockade, their engines rumbling like distant thunder. “Why are they here?” Ephraim muttered, his hand instinctively reaching for his phone. His heart skipped when he saw the screen flash with a number he knew all too well. Without thinking, he dialed, his mind clouded with urgency. But the voice that answered wasn’t one he had expected. “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please try again later.” “Ay, depungal!” Ephraim muttered, cursing under his breath. He had been trying to reach Nanay Leni, but the line had failed. A gnawing unease curled at the edges of his thoughts. The same unease that kept pushing him to act—to move faster, to do more. But all he could do was watch as the soldiers moved with precision, surrounding the church. A hushed murmur ran through the crowd, and Ephraim’s stomach dropped. “There must be someone inside the church,” he thought. “A fugitive. A rebel. Or worse.” The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Someone was in there. But who? As the crowd’s whispers escalated into anxious murmurs, Ephraim felt a sense of foreboding sink deeper into his bones.
Inside the cathedral, Father Roberto stood motionless, staring at the unconscious form of Isabela in his arms. His heart raced, yet his demeanor remained unsettlingly calm, as if he knew what would come next. The sounds of distant footsteps echoed through the footpath, but it was the sound of the main church door creaking open that made his blood run cold. The secret portal. He had to act fast. He laid Isabela down gently and rushed back to the monitor, his fingers dancing across the keypad, entering the familiar code that would lock the hidden passage behind the grotto. The screens flickered as the door sealed shut. He exhaled slowly, but the relief was short-lived. Outside, soldiers poured into the cathedral grounds, their eyes scanning every corner. The search had begun. They were closer now, dangerously close.
Meanwhile, at the back of the church, Nanay Leni stood beside Colonel Segundo Miraflores, the man whose presence seemed to cast an even darker shadow over the place. His piercing eyes never left her, even as he took a slow seat on the pew. “Did you miss me?” he asked, his voice soft but laden with an unspoken challenge. Leni’s lips curled into a smile, a thin veil of civility hiding the tension simmering beneath. “There you go again,” she replied, her tone steady but distant. But Miraflores wouldn’t let go, not so easily. “You’re devoted to the Blessed Virgin, I know,” he said, leaning in closer. “But you’re also devoted to something else. To me. Aren’t you, Leni?” Her eyes narrowed just slightly. The tension in her shoulders tightened, but only for a moment. “Of course I am,” she answered softly, though her mind was far from the present conversation. Her thoughts swirled, memories of a life once shared, of promises broken. Of dangers lurking beneath the surface. “But, Segundo… there’s something you need to understand. My first and only priority is my faith. My devotion.” His face tightened at her words, but he quickly recovered, adopting a tone of mock sincerity. “Of course. I respect that.” He hesitated, then leaned closer. “But your priest here, Leni—Father Roberto? He’s not who you think he is. He’s involved with the rebels… and worse.” Leni’s gaze sharpened. She was used to hearing whispers, but this… This was different. “Father Roberto,” Miraflores continued, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper, “is not just a priest. He’s a Tagbanua… and he’s involved in the occult.” Leni’s heart skipped a beat. The air grew thick, heavy with the weight of his words. “Impossible,” she whispered, though doubt gnawed at her thoughts. Miraflores’s smile was cold, calculating. “I’ll be watching him. You’ll want to be careful, Leni. There’s more happening here than you realize.” And then, the silence that followed was deafening.
As Ephraim stood in the distance, watching the soldiers close in on the church, a feeling like ice crawled up his spine. The world seemed to hold its breath. Something was about to break—something dangerous, something irreversible. But what? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t be. And as he turned to look for his nephew, he realized with sudden terror: Iboy was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 24 Deal or No Deal "One’s life is all over when another person is all over that one person’s life." – Abismo
Dr. Sim’s hands trembled as he reread the cryptic lines of the Pantalanon poet’s translation, illuminated in the dim light of his office. The words felt more like a riddle than a revelation. The Fourth Luminous Mystery, as recited by the enigmatic Father Roberto, held a strange allure, and yet, an ominous undertone that was hard to ignore. "A hundred moons, then another hundred, and then sixteen more Until the child finally finds her path to womanhood: Oh, how luminous the mystery of life, what it is and what was once before! Be born of earth from the womb of mountains, the chosen would. Understand, however, that the darkest days may also be the most stirring days. Especially when one is still living a life inside a chrysalis." The words echoed in his mind, each verse dancing with layers of meaning he couldn’t quite grasp. What did it mean to be "born of earth from the womb of mountains"? And what was the child—or rather, the chosen—he spoke of? His fingers hovered over the laptop keys, but the deeper he dug into the translation, the more the cryptic verses seemed to blur into something far darker than anything he'd anticipated. This was no ordinary religious text; it was a coded map, a series of keys leading to something unknown—and perilous. Closing the laptop with a soft thud, Dr. Sim leaned back in his chair, the faint whirring of the air conditioning filling the silence of his office. He had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts, to see beyond the obvious, especially when it came to matters of espionage. His work for the NBI had shown him the murky waters where power, secrecy, and manipulation crossed paths. And yet, this? This was something different. Something unsettling. The blending of espionage and sorcery was the kind of thing that could drive a man mad. But it was exactly what the Spiyamahika chief wanted—an effective counter-intelligence tool, a weapon born of ancient knowledge, concealed in the shadows of a church that had long turned its back on the true power it held. The Vatican, Sim thought, recalling the deep-seated belief he shared with Father Roberto: the Roman Catholic Church wasn’t just a religion—it was an empire of information. It had played its hand in global espionage for centuries, hiding behind the veil of sanctity and goodwill. That much was certain. The question, however, was not whether or not the Vatican had ever dabbled in secrets; it was what secrets they were hiding now. What had Father Roberto uncovered? And, perhaps most importantly, why had he chosen Sim to be the one to bring this ancient knowledge to life? The thought sent a chill down his spine, and he pushed it away. No. The time for hesitation was over. He had seen the signs—both in the translation and in the priest’s cryptic messages. There were others who were watching, others who had their own agendas. Perhaps even enemies within the very ranks of those he trusted. A loud, sudden ringing broke his thoughts, and Sim jerked upright in his chair. The phone. His heart skipped a beat. He grabbed it quickly, his voice steely as he answered. “What’s up?” A long silence stretched on the other end of the line before the voice came through—urgent, barely contained. “It’s happening. They’ve found it. The key. You need to get to the Ossuarium… now. Father Roberto is—they’ve—” The voice cut off abruptly. Sim’s pulse quickened as he sat frozen for a moment. A cold sweat dripped down his temple. What did this mean? The key? And Father Roberto? "Yes, yes! Of course, I’ll help!" Sim shouted into the phone, his hands clenching the receiver until his knuckles turned white. He slammed it down and stood from his desk, his mind racing. It’s all happening. Now. He paced toward the door, muttering to himself, the words slipping past his lips like an incantation: "Either you take the deal, or you go down to hell, Father Roberto Aquino." The office door clicked open with a soft sigh, and Sim strode into the dim hallway, the walls closing in around him. But his mind was fixed only on one thing—Father Roberto. The priest had always been the keeper of secrets, but now, something far more sinister was unfolding. Sim’s steps quickened as he headed toward the stairs, a storm brewing in the air around him. He didn’t know what he would find when he reached the Ossuarium. But one thing was certain: the game had changed. The stakes were higher than ever, and there was no going back. As he turned the corner, the faint glow of the building’s exit sign caught his eye. His fingers instinctively reached for his phone to check the time—but before he could make sense of it, the screen went black. A chill rippled down his spine, but he brushed it off. The night was dark. The silence was deafening. And he had no idea who he could trust anymore.
In the shadowed depths of the Ossuarium, a figure stood waiting. As Dr. Sim’s footsteps echoed closer, the man’s lips curled into a sinister smile. "It’s time," the figure whispered into the darkness. And as Sim neared the entrance, the last thing he saw was the faint glint of steel.
Chapter 25: Plan A, Plan B, or No Plan at All? “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.” —J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
Iboy’s eyes narrowed as the whispers from below the balete tree reached him. From his perch, hidden high among the thick branches, he could barely make out the figures of the mariteses clustered in the shadows. He strained his ears to catch their words, heart racing as he wondered if they had uncovered more than they should. Marites 1: “Well, if Father Roberto and Isabela are missing right now, and no one can find them anywhere, then they must be inside the church, hiding! And you say they’re going to arrest him? For what? Oh, I always knew there was something dark about that monster.” Marites 2: “Oh, now you call him a monster, ever since you made a move on him?” Marites 1: “Pray, God, what move, kumare?” Marites 2: “That move when you practically threw yourself at him, flaunting those gargantuan breasts of yours! You even brushed up against his arm!” Iboy could feel his face flush in anger, his hands gripping the branch tighter. The mariteses had no idea what they were talking about—no understanding of the danger they were in. He was about to jump down and confront them when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Yo, my man! You were not easy to find at all!” Iboy spun around, startled, only to see his Uncle Ephraim’s grinning face. “Uncle Ephraim!” Iboy gasped, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “Yes, inaanak? Why the hurry? Hungry already? Come on, let’s head back to the house. We can’t do anything here but wait and watch. My neck’s already cramping from all the straining!” Ephraim added with a chuckle, glancing up at the towering cathedral. “Besides, my phone’s practically dead.” “I—I can’t just leave, Uncle,” Iboy said, his voice low but urgent. “I have to find Sable. I think she’s in there. I think she and Father Roberto are hiding inside.” His uncle paused, the humor draining from his face as he processed the words. Ephraim glanced over his shoulder at the soldiers patrolling the perimeter, his expression darkening. “But what can we do, Iboy?” Ephraim asked softly. “Those soldiers aren't playing around. Whatever happens, they won’t hesitate to act. I don’t know what’s going on with Father Roberto, but I’m just as worried about what’s happening to your friend…” Iboy leaned in close, whispering into his uncle’s ear. His breath was shaky but determined as he shared his plan, and Ephraim’s eyes widened with realization.
“She’s still unconscious, Father. The team is monitoring her vitals. They’re stable for now, thank God.” Dr. Sim spoke in hushed tones as he leaned against the sterile hospital wall, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. He looked at Father Roberto, whose tired face betrayed deep worry. “I have to ask, Father. What were you thinking? Why didn’t you call me the moment she came out of the abyss?” Dr. Sim continued, trying to keep his frustration in check. Father Roberto’s eyes flickered with pain. “I didn’t trust you anymore,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. Dr. Sim nodded, accepting the weight of the priest’s words. “I understand. But right now, trust me, Father—whether you like it or not, I’m your best option. You need to make some decisions—decisions that could save your life, and Isabela’s.” Father Roberto closed his eyes, the weight of responsibility pressing on his shoulders like a stone. The words echoed in his mind—decisions that could save your life. How had everything become so complicated, so dangerous, in such a short time? “I—I can’t even see her,” Father Roberto muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not yet,” Dr. Sim said, his voice firm. “But we have other things to take care of. If the soldiers are on their way here, we have to move fast.” Father Roberto nodded, a sense of finality settling over him. He glanced at the doctor, feeling a strange sense of trust despite everything that had passed between them. “Just promise me, Doctor… promise me that you’ll protect Isabela, no matter what happens,” Father Roberto said, his voice shaking slightly. “I swear, Father. I’ll protect her with my life,” Dr. Sim vowed, meeting the priest’s gaze. “Now, let’s go figure out how to get you out of this mess.”
Iboy and Uncle Ephraim crouched low behind the balete tree, watching the soldiers on patrol. Ephraim kept his head down, casually chatting with one of the guards, while Iboy’s heart pounded in his chest. Uncle Ephraim was good at making small talk. Too good, actually—he managed to get the soldier to relax, even laugh at a joke. Iboy, meanwhile, used the distraction to slip into the shadows, moving swiftly toward the wall of the church garden. His eyes scanned for the small hole he and Sable had discovered during their games of taguan—the place where they could hide when no one else could find them. He reached the hole, barely able to breathe as he peered inside. The darkness was thick, but he could make out a small space—big enough for two people to hide. There was no sign of Sable or Father Roberto. His heart dropped. Had they already been found? Were they… gone? But just as panic began to claw at his chest, a soft rustle behind him made him freeze. He turned, a voice barely above a whisper reaching his ears. “Isabela’s here, Iboy.” It was Dr. Sim, and he was standing at the entrance to the garden, a dark look in his eyes. “She's here,” he repeated, stepping forward. “But so are the soldiers. And the clock is ticking.” Iboy’s heart raced. The moment had arrived—the moment that would determine everything. But what was the right choice?
“Have you checked the garden?” “Yes, Colonel.” “What about the chapel?” “Yes, Sir.” Col. Miraflores’ face hardened as he turned towards Nanay Leni, his eyes steely with determination. “I guess there’s nowhere else to look but up in the belfry… and at the altar.” Nanay Leni’s voice trembled. “Oh, Segundo… you can’t be serious. You’re not thinking of poking around the altar, are you?” The Colonel’s lips tightened, his gaze fierce. “My dear Leni, I’m not leaving here until I have what I came for. If I have to tear this cathedral apart piece by piece to find him, I will.” The hunt was closing in. And the walls of the cathedral—both literal and metaphorical—were about to come crashing down.
Afterword Iboy turned, his pulse racing, as a distant sound echoed through the darkened streets—a gunshot. Then another. "Uncle Ephraim!" he shouted, but the words caught in his throat. Something wasn’t right. The soldiers were moving in faster now, their steps heavier, more urgent. And just then, from deep within the cathedral, a door creaked open. A shadow moved in the doorway—one that Iboy knew all too well. His blood ran cold as he whispered under his breath, "Sable...?" A new danger had arrived. One that would change everything.
Chapter 26 Carpe Diem: Seize the Day "The future depends on what you do today." — Mahatma Gandhi
Nanay Leni stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the soldiers as they combed through the church, ransacking the altar with cold efficiency. Colonel Miraflores watched from the shadows, giving orders with a chilling calm. But it was the study room that intrigued her most—Father Roberto’s sanctuary, where he had always appeared untouchable, untarnished by the world’s corruption. Now, it was under siege. The revelation had hit like a thunderclap: Father Roberto was not who he seemed. The man she had worshiped from afar, the man who had taught her the value of faith, was part of a world she despised—he was a Tagbanua, a relic of the past she could never reconcile with her vision of progress. But the rage that boiled inside her wasn’t just betrayal; it was the deeper, more insidious understanding that Father Roberto had kept this secret from her for years. How could he? she thought, fists clenched as she watched the soldiers poke around the study room, searching for something—anything—that could bring him down. Nanay Leni’s heart ached as she remembered their first meeting, the first time she had seen Father Roberto, and how she had secretly fantasized about him. There had been nights when she could not quell the forbidden desires that twisted within her. How often had she imagined his hands on her, his breath in her ear, the warmth of his skin against hers... Her thoughts turned dark. How foolish she had been to think of him as a saint when he was, like her, only human. But those desires, once buried deep, had resurfaced now, the anger mixing with her lust. The paradox of it all was maddening. How will I face him when he returns? Would she confront him with scorn, with disgust for his past? Or would she finally surrender to the emotions she had kept hidden all these years? She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, her emotions a tempest that had no outlet—yet. The soldiers’ movements grew more frantic as they rummaged through the priest’s belongings. Nanay Leni’s grip on her rosary tightened. She could hear their footsteps echoing through the hollow church, each step reminding her of the growing chasm between her and the man she had once adored.
"I thought you were going to take me to the command center, Doc," Father Roberto’s voice broke the silence, a note of confusion lacing his words as he stood in Dr. Sim’s office, waiting for answers. Dr. Sim didn’t waste time. "Change of plans, Father. Close the door behind you and lock it. We need to talk." Father Roberto hesitated, then did as instructed, his mind still reeling from the urgency in the doctor’s voice. As he sat across from Dr. Sim, the tension in the room seemed to thicken with each passing second. "Let’s cut to the chase, Father," Dr. Sim began, leaning forward. "I have good news and bad news." Father Roberto’s heart raced. "What’s the good news?" "The good news," Dr. Sim said with a tight smile, "is that Isabela is awake. Physically, she’s fine. She remembers the Ossuarium, but nothing of the abyss." He paused, watching Roberto’s face for a reaction. "Our team came up with a story about her slipping and you bringing her here for treatment. She believes it." Father Roberto breathed a sigh of relief. Isabela... She’s safe. She’s alive. He didn’t realize how tightly he had been holding onto his breath until it was gone. But Dr. Sim wasn’t finished. "The bad news, Father..." He let the words hang in the air, the weight of them suffocating the room. "The military is inside your church. They’re looking for you." Father Roberto’s heart skipped a beat. "What? What have I done?" "Murder," Dr. Sim said flatly. "Helen Gaspar."
Outside, the air was thick with the tension of impending disaster. Iboy stood beside his Uncle Ephraim, his nerves fraying with each second. The soldiers were close, their chatter rising in volume, their presence like a suffocating fog. Ephraim, as always, was the picture of calm. His grizzled face cracked into a grin as he offered cigarettes and menthol candies to the troops, effortlessly winning their attention with jokes that seemed to ease the soldiers’ grimness. "Iboy," Ephraim said softly, leaning down to the boy’s ear. "Seize the day. Carpe diem." Iboy nodded, his stomach churning with the weight of his uncle’s words. It’s now or never. With a deep breath, Iboy slipped away, moving swiftly toward the balete tree that concealed the hidden hole. His hands trembled as he cleared the twigs and leaves. There was no time to waste. Inside the hole, he knew, lay the entrance to something far more dangerous than the soldiers could ever imagine. He had to know if Sable was in there. "Carpe diem," he whispered to himself, stepping into the darkness. The hole closed behind him with an eerie silence, and all that remained was the echo of his heartbeat in the void.
Inside the church, Nanay Leni stood frozen, her gaze locked on the entrance to the study. Her heart pounded, and the anger that had been simmering within her finally reached its boiling point. The men outside, the soldiers, were looking for Father Roberto—her Father Roberto. But then, something caught her eye. A movement, subtle but unmistakable, near the altar. It was him. She could see the dark outline of his figure through the flickering candlelight, standing alone as the soldiers continued their search. A surge of confusion and rage flooded her chest. He had returned. And he hadn’t come to her. He hadn’t come to answer for his secrets. Before she could react, the ground beneath her feet trembled. A deep, low rumble echoed through the church as though the earth itself was responding to the storm inside her. Something was coming. And it was going to change everything.
Afterword The air around Nanay Leni seemed to warp, and the walls of the church shook violently. The sound of distant screams, muffled by the chaos, filled the air. She turned just in time to see the door to the study swing open, and Father Roberto stepped into the room, his face pale, his eyes wild. But it wasn’t the priest she recognized anymore. There was something else in him now. A dark presence, an unnatural force, clung to his every movement. "Nanay Leni," his voice was hoarse, distorted. "They’re coming for us. You... You have to make a choice. Now." The ground beneath them cracked open, and the church seemed to implode as shadows filled the space, closing in from all directions. And then, just as quickly as it had started, everything went silent.
Chapter 27: Plan B: Compromise "When something is important enough, you do it even if the odds are not in your favor." Elon Musk
The cold glow of the fluorescent lights above Dr. Sim’s office seemed to hum in sync with Father Roberto’s mounting anxiety. The doctor’s words, while meant to reassure, barely pierced the fog of worry clouding the priest's thoughts. "Don't worry, Father. I’ll handle everything. I’ve got some of our men ready to go up there and check things out. Discretion will be key, of course. They’ll be using the portal behind the grotto, so no one will suspect a thing." Father Roberto nodded, his hands trembling ever so slightly, and muttered his thanks. The doctor’s calm voice offered little comfort against the torrent of thoughts racing through his mind. There was no room for doubt now. He had to move quickly. "Thank you, Doctor. I will trust in your judgment. But right now, I must see my daughter." As Dr. Sim dialed a number into his cellphone, Father Roberto turned and exited the office with a renewed sense of urgency. Every step toward his daughter’s room felt like an eternity. The priest’s breath became shallow as he moved quickly through the sterile, white corridors. He ignored the elevator and chose the service stairs, moving with a sense of reckless determination. On the floor where Isabela's room was located, he slowed his pace, trying to regain his composure. But the sweat was already beading on his forehead, and his mind raced. The noise of his footsteps seemed louder with every step, echoing off the sterile walls. Just as he was nearing her room, two soldiers rounded the corner at the far end of the hallway. His heart skipped a beat. They weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to see him. Please, God, let this be the moment of mercy, he thought, steeling himself for what could be the most dangerous encounter yet. As the soldiers approached, one of them held up a walkie-talkie to his ear. Static crackled from the device. “Your order is to monitor only. Use the portal behind the grotto. Over and out.” Father Roberto’s pulse quickened. These were the soldiers heading up to the portal. His chance had arrived. Without hesitation, he spoke with the authority of a man who had spent decades in the pulpit. “My sons, bless you!” he boomed, causing the soldiers to freeze. “Are you the ones entrusted to escort me and my daughter to the portal behind the grotto?” The two soldiers exchanged confused glances, but Father Roberto was relentless. His voice thundered through the hall, “This is a high-priority mission. We cannot waste time! One of you—get me a uniform. The other—accompany me to my daughter’s room. Move quickly, my sons! And may the angels of the Lord guide you!” The soldiers hesitated, caught in the whirlwind of his authority. One of them, still unsure, muttered, “Uh, sure, Father. But…” Before he could protest further, Father Roberto pressed on. “No time for delays! We act swiftly, or we risk everything!”
In Dr. Sim’s office, the doctor had just ended his call with a key military contact. He smiled to himself, humming a few bars of his favorite song, My Way. The pieces were falling into place—his plan to pull Father Roberto back into the Spiyamahika project was working perfectly. But just as the doctor allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, the door to his office opened with a sharp knock. “Yes?” he asked, his tone still buoyant. One of the security staff entered, holding a walkie-talkie. “Sir, everything’s in motion. The soldiers are escorting Father Roberto and the girl to the portal behind the grotto.” Dr. Sim’s heart sank. "What do you mean 'escorting'?" he asked, a sudden unease creeping into his voice. The guard stared at him, confused. “Just like you said, sir. They’re bringing them out now, as per your instructions.” "No—" Dr. Sim snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of sudden panic. "Stop them, now!"
Outside, in the dimming light of the evening, Iboy had been poised to leave when he heard the faint crunch of boots on gravel. Hiding behind the bushes near the grotto, he watched, heart pounding, as the figures emerged into the garden. The first soldier, scanning the area for threats, looked around before motioning for the others to follow. Father Roberto appeared, clad in military fatigues that hung loosely around his frame, his face a mask of determination. He walked side by side with Sable, their hands clasped tightly together, and they were followed by another soldier. The garden remained quiet, as though holding its breath. Iboy had to act fast. “Sable! Sable! Over here!” he hissed, barely able to keep his voice steady. Sable’s eyes widened as she spotted her friend. She tugged Father Roberto’s sleeve, and he turned, surprised. But his instincts kicked in. A rescue mission. Of course. Without hesitation, Father Roberto scrambled toward the hole in the wall, Sable close behind. Iboy made sure there was enough room for them to get through quickly. He gestured urgently for Father Roberto to go first. Just as the priest’s torso was halfway through, they heard a voice—sharp and commanding. “Halt! Or I’ll shoot!” Iboy’s breath caught in his throat. Colonel Miraflores, flanked by his soldiers and Nanay Leni, had appeared at the far end of the garden. The colonel’s glare was ice-cold. The soldiers raised their rifles, ready to aim. Father Roberto froze. Time seemed to slow, the world around him spinning with the weight of their discovery. We’ve been caught. But just before any further movement could be made, a sharp, piercing sound split the air. Static crackled from the walkie-talkie held by one of the soldiers—an ominous interruption. “Cor—zzz—puz,---------co-------me in---, Corpuz.-----------Do-----, over?” The soldier holding the walkie-talkie glanced up, his eyes widening as the message became unintelligible. "Base, base! Choppy-choppy! I’ll go outside the church to get better signal!" In that crucial moment of confusion, Iboy’s heart pounded in his chest. Father Roberto, sensing the hesitation, quickly motioned for Sable and Iboy to move. They scrambled through the hole just as Colonel Miraflores barked another order. But the soldiers’ uncertainty left an opening. The three of them slipped into the shadows, unseen by the military figures.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the town of Pantalan seemed to exhale in relief, unaware of the storm that had just passed through its heart. Col. Miraflores and his men dispersed, and the plaza settled into a quiet that belied the tension that had been just moments away from erupting. Inside Dr. Sim’s office, a far more significant discussion was taking place. Father Roberto, Isabela, and Dr. Sim sat across from one another, a tense air filling the room. They exchanged glances, the weight of the decision hanging heavy. Finally, Dr. Sim spoke, his voice low and careful. “It’s time,” he said. “We’ve made our choice. The deal is struck. We will proceed with the plan. But remember—everything changes the moment Isabela turns 18.” A cold shiver ran down Father Roberto’s spine. He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or terrified. And somewhere, just outside the doctor’s office, hidden from view, a single figure lingered in the shadows. A silent witness to the pact that would shape their futures. The clock was ticking. And soon, it would be too late to back out.
Chapter 28: Nine Years Later One Week Before Isabela Manlavi’s 18th Birthday "Common sense is the collection of prejudices acquired by age eighteen."
The secrets of the island seemed to be buried deeper as time passed. Nestled atop the remote kegelgarst, its location secret to all but a select few, the NBI facility Spiyamahika had been the agency’s deadliest weapon—its counter-intelligence division’s lifeblood. Hidden from the world for almost two decades, it was a fortress of intrigue and covert operations, dedicated to quelling terrorism and espionage both foreign and domestic. The weight of its purpose hung heavily in the air as the officials inside the facility waited in tense silence, eyes darting to the massive window as the sky darkened. A soft hum vibrated through the air. Then, moments later, the shadows above shifted as the holocopter descended silently, a sleek, high-tech marvel donated by the CIA five years ago, its engines emitting no more than a whisper. The craft landed on the helipad with a practiced ease, kicking up a faint mist around it. The door slid open. A figure emerged from the shadows: Atty. Felix Magalona, the newly appointed NBI Internal Division Chief. Despite his polished suit and formal demeanor, the sense of unease was palpable. He glanced around, absorbing the isolated grandeur of Spiyamahika, his thoughts only half his own. "Welcome, Atty. Magalona!" A voice broke through his thoughts. Dr. Sim, a man whose face had become synonymous with shadowy dealings and secrets, extended a hand. "Just call me Felix," Magalona said with a half-smile, but his words seemed to ring hollow in the air. He eyed the valley below, the stark contrast of the modern NBI facility atop the craggy terrain against the dark expanse of the island. "I have a sinking feeling I’ll be here for a very, very long time."
Pantalan: The Quiet Town With Hidden Depths Below, nestled in the valley, Pantalan appeared unchanged. Nine years had passed since the fateful incident at the cathedral, and on the surface, life had continued as it always had. The same fishermen plied their trade in the south, the same tricycles hummed along the streets, and the same whispering rumors floated among the locals. Yet beneath the surface, a darker current flowed. The expansion of the main highway had made Pantalan’s isolation less absolute, and with that came the slow, silent encroachment of outsiders. Fishermen from distant villages had migrated northward, constructing temporary homes along the newly expanded roads. It was a quiet invasion, unnoticed by most, but those who lived on the fringes of the town could feel the shift. The market area had changed, and with it, the flow of life. Isabela Manlavi, the young woman at the heart of it all, stood on the cusp of her eighteenth birthday. But like the town itself, she was not what she seemed. To the casual observer, she was nothing more than a striking young woman, beautiful in a way that made her impossible to ignore. Her pearl-beaded eyes sparkled with an otherworldly radiance, and her skin gleamed with an ethereal, unearthly glow. But there was something more to her—a hidden depth, a darkness simmering beneath her flawless exterior. It was as if the sea itself held secrets, and she was its silent keeper. The villagers gossiped, as they always did, about her weekly strolls down the market. But there was more to Isabela than they could ever fathom. The sorceress-in-disguise knew that she was a mystery, and she had mastered the art of revealing only what others were determined to see. She had long since learned that her beauty and her otherworldly grace could deceive even the sharpest eyes. Father Roberto, the priest who had adopted her, had grown weary of his isolation in Pantalan. His once-pristine reputation had been shattered by the "incident" all those years ago, and though his presence in the town had been a silent yet powerful one, the truth about his past could no longer be hidden. Even so, he had become more than just a spiritual guide for Isabela; he was her tether to a world that seemed increasingly distant and dangerous.
The Feast of Secrets The night was heavy with the scent of fresh-cooked food, but there was an air of unease in the bungalow at 21 Calle Baragatan. Father Roberto sat at the table, waiting eagerly for his favorite dish, kinunot na pagi—fresh stingray cooked in coconut cream—delivered by Claire Montalban, a figure whose relationship with the priest was just as complicated as the town itself. "Father Roberto! Thank God you haven’t finished your dinner yet!" Claire's voice cut through the tension as she entered, the sound of the brown paper bag crinkling in her hands. The priest’s eyes twinkled with delight, though there was a weariness behind them. He reached eagerly for the food, but as always, his hunger for something more than sustenance gnawed at him. The dark secret between him and Isabela could not remain buried forever. Yet, when Claire spoke of Isabela’s upcoming journey to the aplaya—an ominous place of ancient ritual—the priest’s face hardened. "I told her I won’t allow her to go—unless you accompany her," Father Roberto said, his tone heavy with meaning. The words hung in the air like a curse. Claire, stunned by his statement, could feel the weight of something dark, something looming over them all. But it was clear that Isabela’s journey was no longer a matter of choice. It was a path she had to follow—one that would lead her to the heart of the island’s darkest secrets.
The Waiting Shed: A Fateful Encounter Outside, the night had fallen heavy. Isabela sat at the waiting shed, her books spread out beside her, but her mind was elsewhere. The streetlight nearest the shed flickered, its dim light casting long, ghostly shadows. The persistent darkness seemed more alive than ever, as though something was waiting just beyond the edge of vision. Her suitor, Tom, leaned against the shed, cigarette dangling from his lips. "Please, Bel, just one more kiss. This time, on the lips," he coaxed, but his voice seemed to fade against the oppressive silence of the night. "No more," Isabela replied sharply, her voice carrying an edge of finality. She could feel the weight of the darkness pressing in on her. Suddenly, a tricycle screeched to a halt in front of them, its blinding headlights cutting through the dark. The moment felt like an eternity—before the driver shouted something at Tom, and with a final glance, the tricycle sped away into the night, leaving nothing but the suffocating silence behind. But it was in that silence that something stirred—something ancient, something that had been waiting, biding its time, hidden in the shadows of Pantalan.
As Isabela stood, her heart began to race. She knew the night was far from over. Something was coming, something that would change everything. The town, the people she thought she knew, were all part of a much larger and far more sinister game. And as the darkness closed in around her, she realized the truth: The game was about to begin.
Afterword A distant, hollow sound echoed through the night. The ground trembled beneath her feet, a faint rumble that quickly grew into a roar. Something had awakened. Isabela’s eyes widened, the cold chill of dread crawling up her spine. In the distance, the glow of the NBI facility atop the kegelgarst flickered—something was happening there. Something that could not be ignored. But she couldn’t leave yet. The shadows were closing in. And in the deepest part of her soul, she knew: the time had come. The question was, who would survive?
Chapter 29 Reflex “God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.”
"Just so you know, Tom, I’m still going to the baylian in the aplaya. But definitely not with you," Isabela snapped, shoving her books into her shoulder bag with a force that made them clang against one another. Tom, persistent as ever, reached for her wrist, his touch lingering too long, too insistent. But Isabela wasn’t one for hesitation. With a swift motion, she twisted his hand away, her reflexes honed like a predator in the dark. Without missing a step, she spun, leveraging her own body weight, sending Tom crashing to the pavement as if he weighed nothing. A soft gasp escaped his lips as he sprawled across the sidewalk, but Isabela didn’t spare him another glance. She was already moving, crossing Pantalan’s main street with the quick, deliberate strides of someone who knew exactly where they were headed. Her mind wasn’t on Tom. It was already consumed with the baylian—a strange ritual that called to her like a whisper in the night. She reached the curb, stepping up onto the cracked sidewalk, and her eyes darted toward the bungalow that had been her home ever since Father Roberto had taken her in. Inside, she could hear the familiar hum of voices—her BFF chatting animatedly with the priest, probably about the same baylian she was so intent on attending. As she passed the terrace, her gaze drifted upwards to the night sky, her thoughts a tangled mess. The sky above was clear, the stars sharp against the velvet black. It should have been a perfect night for some dancing, she thought, the tension of the evening pulling at her. But what she couldn’t know was that tonight, on this very eve, the Black Moon was rising, bringing with it an ancient curse, a prophecy waiting to unfold.
A Verse from a Masirikampu prophecy, from the secret archives of the Shafts of Light: “As the moon turns black, The mangbubuhok Turns priestess into a witch, Princess into a sorceress, Clown into counsel, The town crier into a bearer of falsehoods; But the red-haired woman returns Clothed only in ashen blood To turn vengeance into justice.”
Inside the bungalow, Father Roberto sat by his favorite rattan chair, his hands resting on a weathered Bible he barely glanced at, the words on the pages now a blur of meaning. Across the room, Nanay Leni was finishing her chores with the rhythmic motions of someone who had done them a thousand times before. The house was quiet except for the occasional sound of clinking dishes, the hum of the old transistor radio, and the faint rustle of fabric as Leni adjusted her apron. “I told them to be home by 10,” Nanay Leni murmured, turning toward the priest, her face etched with a familiar worry. “What time did they leave, Father?” “Around 8,” he replied, his voice distant. “A little earlier than usual.” “I miss the old days,” she sighed, her eyes drifting back to the small window that looked out over the moonlit courtyard. “Everyone in bed by 6, just the radio keeping us company. Remember when we used to listen to Mga Mata ni Anghelita? It feels like a lifetime ago.” Father Roberto smiled softly at the memory. His mind, however, was elsewhere—on Isabela. How could he not be? She was like a force of nature, a tempest wrapped in human form. Her beauty was the kind that commanded attention and respect, but there was more to her than that. She was destined for something far greater, or perhaps far darker, than anyone around her could comprehend. “The baylian in the aplaya,” Nanay Leni continued, wiping her hands on the apron. “With the power outage tonight, it’s not a good idea. Not a good idea at all.” Father Roberto nodded absently, though his mind was not on the practicalities of the evening but on the strange turn of events that had been unfolding over the past few days. The tension in the air felt too thick, too electric. Something was coming. He could feel it in his bones. The Black Moon, the prophecy—it was all coming together. But how could he stop Isabela? How could he hold her back from her fate when even he, a man of the cloth, was caught in its web? He looked up at Nanay Leni, her face etched with concern. She would never understand. She saw only what was in front of her—the predictable, the safe. But there was no safe path for Isabela. Not anymore. “She will go,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She has to. She is the key.” Nanay Leni paused, her brow furrowing as she looked at him. "What did you say, Father?" The priest smiled but it was thin and tight, like someone who had seen too much and understood too little. "Nothing," he said, closing the Bible. "Just thinking aloud."
Upstairs, in her room, Isabela changed quickly, her movements swift and practiced. Her reflection in the mirror caught her attention for a brief moment—her fiery red hair cascading down her back, her eyes a deep, unreadable shade. She knew what she had to do. There were no more excuses, no more delaying the inevitable. But even as she adjusted the straps of her sandals, she couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong. The night was too still. Too quiet. The air had a charge to it, like the calm before a storm. And that’s when she heard it—distant but unmistakable. A low hum that seemed to vibrate through the walls, growing louder by the second. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she turned toward the window, where the moon hung low in the sky, its light casting eerie shadows across the ground. It was happening.
Father Roberto stepped into the hallway just as Nanay Leni began to make her way upstairs. He could feel the hairs on his own neck rise, a strange sensation pooling in his gut. He wasn’t sure what to do anymore, wasn’t sure if it was even his place to intervene. And then, from downstairs, a voice cracked through the air. Not a voice he recognized—but one that sounded… familiar. It was followed by a sudden, thunderous crash, the sound of glass shattering. Isabela froze, her heart racing as a flood of dread swept through her. She didn’t move. She didn’t even breathe. The voice from below—the one that shouldn’t be there—whispered her name. “Isabela…” Her blood ran cold.
Chapter 30: Rendezvous with Darkness “Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.” — Carl Jung
The moonlight was a faint silver sliver above the jagged horizon, and the woods around them were filled with a silence that hummed with tension. Claire's footsteps were steady, though the weight of the dark pressed in from all sides. The air was thick with an unease that both women had felt since setting foot on the dirt road. Something was wrong — a coldness had seeped into the night, creeping around the edges of their senses. Claire slowed her pace, giving Isabela a brief nod to take the lead. With a quiet flick of her wrist, she motioned for her best friend to continue down the winding path. Isabela’s steps faltered for a moment as she noticed an eerie glow coming from the direction of a nearby field. She turned her head sharply to the left, trying to make sense of the faint light that shimmered unnaturally. Her footing faltered as the path beneath her became more uneven, but with a quick adjustment, she regained her balance. Yet, in that fleeting moment, something felt off. As Isabela steeled herself and refocused on the path ahead, the moonlight guiding her way, a low, guttural sound broke the silence. She turned, her flashlight illuminating Claire — but not as she remembered her. The woman she had called a friend stood before her, eyes wide with an unnatural hunger, her lips curled into a frothing snarl. In a flash, Claire raised her hand — a jagged, gleaming dagger held tightly in her grip. The blade’s tip aimed directly for Isabela’s neck, the vulnerable nape just below the skull. Her heartbeat quickened as fear seized her limbs. But just as the blade descended, the air seemed to crack with a chilling force. From above, a shadow swooped down in a rush of wind — a bird, but not quite like any bird Isabela had ever seen. It was enormous, its wings beating with the power of a storm, and before Isabela could even process what was happening, the creature had gripped Claire’s wrist in a powerful talon and wrenched the knife away. Isabela gasped, her heart in her throat, watching as the creature dragged Claire into the night sky, her shrill screams lost to the winds. Up and up they soared, higher than Isabela could fathom, beyond the reach of the moonlight, beyond the fields, and over the dark ridges of the mountains. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the sky fell silent. Claire was gone. All that remained was her flashlight, blinking weakly on the ground. Its light flickered one last time before dying, leaving Isabela in near-complete darkness. She stood frozen for a moment, her body trembling with shock. Then, as though a switch had been flipped, she exhaled, a deep, almost primal breath of relief. She was alive. And Claire—whatever had happened to Claire—wasn’t her problem anymore. But as she turned to take a step, something sharp cracked against her skull. Her world spiraled into blackness. Darkness crept into her mind like a venomous fog, filling every crevice of her thoughts as she collapsed, unaware.
“So you’re telling me you've discovered a portal to another dimension? What do you call it?” Atty. Felix Magalona's tone was laced with thinly veiled sarcasm, the kind that dripped from his lips like oil. His finger danced over the keyboard of Dr. Sim’s laptop, his expression unreadable. “The Fourth Luminous Mystery,” Dr. Sim responded, his voice measured but taut with urgency. Magalona snorted, leaning back in his chair. The soft creak of the office chair was the only sound breaking the tension between the two men, both working late into the night. They were surrounded by half-finished papers, coffee cups long gone cold, and the faint buzz of a fluorescent light overhead. “The Fourth Luminous Mystery?” Magalona repeated, dragging out each word. “And Father Roberto—what’s this? Shaft of Light nonsense you’ve been talking about?” Dr. Sim winced but corrected him with an almost automatic precision. “Shafts of Light. It’s not nonsense, Attorney. It’s real.” Magalona’s gaze flicked over the screen, pausing on an image of Isabela Manlavi, her striking eyes frozen in a stare that seemed to pierce right through him. He smirked, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. “Ah, yes. This one,” he muttered, studying the photo intently. “Isabela Manlavi. Quite the beauty, isn’t she?” Dr. Sim ignored the comment, his mind elsewhere. His focus remained on the intricate mess of theories he had been piecing together for years now. The government had spent far too much money, and now they were depending on him to explain what he had uncovered. “You’ve been training her... for what, exactly?” Magalona pressed, his voice lowering with a dangerous edge. “A sorceress spy?” The words hung in the air like a foul smell, clinging to the space between them. “Yes,” Dr. Sim replied, his voice steadier than he felt. “A sorceress spy. That’s exactly what she is.” Magalona’s face contorted with disbelief. “Sorcery? Magic? Doctor, are you seriously telling me that all of this”—he waved his hand, gesturing to the files, the project, everything—“is based on... magic?” Dr. Sim met his gaze, his lips pursed. “Yes, Attorney. Magic. But it’s not just magic. It’s a power tied to something far darker. And this—” He gestured at the screen, at Isabela’s picture. “—this is what we’ve been preparing for.” Magalona leaned in, his eyes narrowing. “You’re telling me that this ‘Black Moon’ cult, these terrorists you’ve been tracking, they’re trying to bring about a nationwide blackout to cover something far worse?” Dr. Sim's voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Worse than a blackout. The darkness isn’t just a lack of light. It’s a force. A presence.” Magalona sat back in his chair, silent for a long moment, processing the gravity of what Dr. Sim had just said. Then, his voice broke the silence, a low growl of contempt. “Do you know what I see, Doctor? I see a man who’s been chasing shadows... shadows that are now hunting him back.” Before Dr. Sim could respond, the door to the office burst open with a violent slam.
In the dark, high above the mountains, a lone figure stood. His cigarette flickered out as he dropped it onto the dry earth, the embers fading into the night. “You said fifty-fifty, right?” the young man asked, his voice low but clear, full of quiet menace. The old man, his face hidden beneath a woven hat, didn’t flinch. “Yes, lad. Here in the mountains, we share everything.” The young man grunted, his gaze distant, lost in thought. “Here in the mountains, we’ve become something else, haven’t we? Monsters. We’re the nightmare of those who fear what they don’t understand.” The old man said nothing, his eyes remaining fixed on the fire now consuming the barn, the flames licking the dark sky. Then, from within the inferno, the silhouette of a figure emerged, someone familiar yet out of place. The young man’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, a hint of recognition crept across his face. It was him. The one they feared. Ka Iboy. And just as the firelight flickered one last time, a new presence moved in the shadows—closer than any of them could have anticipated.
The screen flickered, and the room grew colder. Then, a voice spoke from the darkness. “Isabela...” But it wasn’t Claire’s voice. It was something else. Something far darker. The darkness had arrived. And it was only the beginning.
