Several days had passed, each one thick with dread and mounting tension. The village was on the edge of collapse, its people trapped in a cycle of fear and desperation. Those who had gone missing were found eventually, but they were hardly the same as before. Their bodies were battered, bruised, and caked in mud as if the earth itself had tried to swallow them whole. The fear in their eyes was primal, their voices trembling as they spoke of creatures chasing them in the dark.
“They… they were tikbalangs,” one whispered, eyes wide, voice shaking uncontrollably.
Their hands still trembled as if they hadn’t escaped at all, but were still running, still being hunted. It was as if the shadows clung to them, refusing to let go.
The following night, the wind picked up, howling with an unnatural force, carrying with it a scent of decay and something darker. The village fell into a deadly hush when the Aswang arrived. The thudding of its wings filled the air, sending strong gusts that shook the houses, rattling windows and doors. But it was the breathing—deep, labored, and filled with hunger—that truly chilled the villagers to the bone. It could be heard everywhere, as though the creature was circling them all, hunting.
People huddled inside their homes, clutching bolos, knives—anything that might fend off the horror. A few men, desperate and terrified, ventured out, blades gripped so tightly that their knuckles turned white. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and fear, but when they confronted the Aswang, it vanished into the night, leaving nothing but a deafening silence.
Morning brought no peace. Dead animals lay scattered around the village, their bodies drained of blood, their eyes wide and lifeless. The sense of dread hung like a fog over the streets, made worse by the way shadows seemed to linger, too thick, too solid, at the edges of the village. People whispered of the unnatural, of something waiting just beyond the light.
By sundown, the village turned into a ghost town. Doors slammed shut, windows barred, and the streets emptied, save for the occasional gust of wind. No one dared to step outside once the night fell.
Fear escalated into panic, and panic into chaos. The village chief tried, and failed, to maintain order as unrest spread like wildfire. Every night, the attacks came. Every morning, more signs of the Aswang’s presence were found, each one more terrifying than the last. Yet, no one could stop it. The kapre, who had once been a dark protector of the land, had vanished. In its absence, chaos reigned.
And amid the turmoil, the villagers' anger and frustration turned to Alysa and her friends. Whispers grew louder, accusations sharper. They were blamed for the misfortunes, for the terror that now gripped the village.
Meanwhile, at the villa, everything remained eerily calm. Manang Anita’s words had been true—the house was protected. No harm came to them, no shadow lingered too long in the corners of the rooms. But Lyka’s frail, weakening condition was the one reminder that they weren’t entirely separate from the horror outside.
Inside the dimly lit kitchen of the villa, Manang Anita paced nervously, her hands wringing the edge of her apron. “What are we going to do?” Her voice trembled, a crack in her usual strength as she looked to her husband, Manong Berto. “The village blames us for all of this.”
Manong Berto leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His brows furrowed, and frustration darkened his features. “They can blame us all they want, but we have no control over this,” he growled, his voice rising slightly in agitation. “They cannot blame us when we’re also victims. Just look at Lyka.” His words were strong, but there was a helplessness in his tone that betrayed his anger.
Manang Anita shook her head, biting her lip, her eyes filled with protective fire. “But the villagers think it’s their fault,” she said, her voice hushed but fierce, as if the walls themselves might overhear the village’s growing resentment. “They say Alysa and her friends brought this on us, that they started it.”
Joko, standing near the window, his silhouette half-hidden by the flickering candlelight, turned toward them. His face was lined with worry, his usually confident demeanor dimmed by the weight of the situation. “How can they blame her?” he asked, disbelief lacing his voice. “She was the first victim!” His words were quiet, but the frustration was evident in the sharpness of his tone. “If anything, she’s been suffering more than any of us.”
Manang Anita’s face softened for a moment as she thought of Lyka, her heart aching. “She was,” she agreed, her voice thick with emotion. “And yet, they still blame her.” There was a fire in her voice now, a defiance that simmered beneath her grief. “I won’t let them. I won’t let them blame us for something that isn’t our fault.”
Manong Berto slammed his hand on the table. “I will not let anything happen to us,” he said, his voice low and determined. The air around them seemed to thicken with the weight of his words, a promise wrapped in desperation. His eyes were hard, filled with the weight of responsibility and a fierce protectiveness that was almost palpable.
Outside, the wind howled again, as if mocking them.
Suddenly, a commotion stirred the air outside the villa. The murmur of angry voices rose in the distance, carried by the wind that seemed to grow colder by the minute. Manong Berto, Manang Anita, and Joko rushed outside, their hearts pounding as they stepped into the fading light. The sight that greeted them was ominous—a crowd of villagers marching toward the villa, their faces hardened by fear and anger.
Manong Berto stood his ground, his voice booming as he addressed the crowd. “What are you all doing here?” His tone carried both authority and disbelief as the villagers drew closer, stopping near the entrance when they saw him.
“Bring them out!” a voice shouted from the throng, the demand sharp and cutting through the tense air. “They should be sacrificed to stop all of this!”
A ripple of agreement coursed through the crowd, growing louder as more villagers murmured in support. Their eyes glinted with desperation, their fear twisted into something dangerous.
Manong Berto's jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists. “What makes you think they are the cause of this?” he asked, his voice a steady challenge to their wild accusations.
“They’re not from here!” a woman’s voice rang out, sharp with resentment. “We’ve all lived peacefully until they came!”
The crowd hummed in agreement once more, their collective fear morphing into a shared suspicion. The tension hung thick in the air, the last rays of sunlight casting long, eerie shadows over the scene.
“They are victims, just like the rest of us!” Manong Berto shot back, his voice rising with frustration. “Are you forgetting that Alysa is Manong Tony’s granddaughter?”
“Then she should resolve this!” another villager shouted, stepping forward. “You all hide in the sanctuary of the villa while we are being attacked by the engkantos!” The crowd surged forward with renewed anger, their shouts growing louder, their faces contorted with fear and frustration.
At that moment, Alysa came rushing toward them, her breath ragged as she ran to Manong Berto’s side. Bev was close behind her, eyes wide with confusion and fear.
“What’s going on?” Alysa asked, her voice trembling as she tried to catch her breath. The sight of the angry mob made her heart race, a chill running down her spine.
“There she is! Capture her!” The crowd surged forward with a feral intensity, their desperation spilling over.
But Manong Berto was quick, stepping in front of Alysa, his broad shoulders shielding her from the mob. “Stop, all of you!” he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. “It’s getting dark! You should all go home before it’s too late!”
Manang Anita and Bev flanked Alysa, their protective stances mirroring Manong Berto’s, their faces set with determination. The growing darkness seemed to deepen the fear and anger in the crowd, and Alysa’s heart pounded louder, her breath shallow as she took in the hostility before her.
“We’re not leaving without her!” a man in the crowd shouted, his voice filled with panic. “Give her to us so we can present her to the engkantos!”
Manong Berto’s eyes blazed with fury. His hand shot to his side, gripping his bolo tightly. He raised it in a flash, the blade gleaming in the dying light. “If you insist on taking her,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “I won’t hesitate to kill anyone who tries.”
A hushed gasp rippled through the crowd, the aggression in Manong Berto’s voice cutting through their fevered state. Some of them took an involuntary step back, fear flickering in their eyes, but others weren’t so easily swayed.
One man, braver or more foolish than the rest, stepped forward. “Do you think you can stop all of us?” he said, his voice filled with reckless courage.
“Yeah! You can’t stop all of us!” another voice chimed in.
“Step aside, Berto!”
“Give them to us!” The crowd surged again, edging closer.
Just as the tension reached its breaking point, a sudden, blood-curdling shriek echoed from the fields. The sound was inhuman, sending a wave of terror rippling through the villagers. The ground seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as thunderous footsteps followed, growing louder with each passing second.
They froze, fear gripping their hearts as they looked around in confusion and horror. Eyes wide with panic, they turned to one another, searching for answers in the darkness.
The last slivers of sunlight disappeared over the horizon, plunging the land into an ominous twilight. Shadows slithered from the forest, dark and unnatural, as if the night itself was alive. The air grew thick and suffocating, heavy with the presence of something sinister. A palpable dread settled over the crowd, pressing down on them like a weight they couldn’t shake.
The sounds of supernatural beings—low growls, rustling leaves, and the distant, echoing thud of footsteps—grew closer, sending a shiver down every spine.
The crowd, once so determined, faltered, fear gripping their hearts once more as they realized they might have awakened something far worse than they had ever imagined.