Carina's POV
I couldn’t decide what hurt more—the heaviness in my chest or the constant tangle of thoughts in my mind. Everything felt too loud, too chaotic, even though the house was eerily quiet.
The caretaker had knocked on my door early that morning, telling me the new owner of the house wanted to meet me. He said the man was willing to sell the house back to me for a surprisingly low price but insisted on meeting at night. The reason? A rare skin condition that made sunlight unbearable for him.
The explanation sounded innocent enough, yet it filled me with unease. Still, it was a chance to reclaim what was mine—or what once was.
I needed air. The house was suffocating me, its walls heavy with memories I’d tried so hard to bury.
I decided to head to the wet market, hoping the noise and bustle would distract me.
****
The market was alive with activity—vendors calling out their prices, the sharp tang of fish and fresh produce mixing with the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground. It should have felt grounding, but the knot in my stomach tightened with every step.
I picked out a few things—fruit, some bread, more out of habit than necessity. As I handed over a few crumpled bills, a familiar word caught my attention.
“Engkanto.”
My ears pricked up, and I turned slightly, pretending to inspect a pile of mangoes while listening to the conversation.
Two women were chatting near the vegetable stand, their voices low but animated.
“You saw him too, didn’t you?” one of them said, a plump woman with a wide-brimmed hat. “That man who bought the old house? He looks... strange.”
“Strange?” the other woman echoed, a younger one with a scarf tied around her head. “He’s beautiful! Like a painting come to life. But you’re right—he’s not... ordinary.”
“Magical,” the first woman said with a conspiratorial nod. “That’s the word. Magical. Pale skin, long hair, eyes that can see right through you. You’d swear he stepped out of one of those old tales.”
They both laughed, though there was a nervous edge to it.
“You know what my husband said?” the younger one continued. “He said no one ever sees him during the day. Always at night. And he doesn’t talk much, just smiles. Like he knows something we don’t.”
“Must be an engkanto,” the older woman whispered, her voice dropping even lower. “Taking the form of a man. Luring people in with his charm. That’s what they do, you know.”
The younger woman gasped, then laughed nervously. “Stop it. You’re going to scare me.”
“Better scared than foolish,” the older one said firmly. “If you see him again, don’t look too long. Don’t talk to him too much. Engkantos don’t like being ignored, but they like it even less when you get too close. They’ll keep you if they want to.”
Their words sent a chill down my spine. I turned away, clutching the bag of fruit to my chest.
“Miss, you’re next,” a vendor called out, breaking my trance.
I handed over more money and quickly left, their voices still echoing in my mind.
The walk back to the caretaker’s house felt longer than usual, each step weighed down by the whispers from the market. My shoes squished against the wet earth, the mud clinging to me like the unease that had settled deep in my chest. Overhead, the sky churned, thick clouds hanging low, a brewing storm threatening to unleash its wrath. The air felt heavy, electric, as if it carried a warning I couldn’t quite decipher.
The fields stretched endlessly on either side, lush and green from the constant rain, but they felt different now—less alive, more watchful. I kept glancing at them, half expecting something to emerge from the tall grass, something that would confirm what I’d been dreading all along.
I tried to shake the market gossip from my mind, but it lingered like the faint scent of smoke after a fire.
Pale skin. Long hair. Eyes that see right through you.
The words repeated like a mantra, each repetition tightening the knot in my stomach.
It matched.
Of course, it matched.
I felt the ache of recognition long before I admitted it to myself.
What was I expecting? That I could come back here, to the place where everything started, and not stir something awake? That I could outrun it, or bury it under years of silence and miles of distance?
My heart thudded heavily in my chest, the sound filling my ears as I reached the caretaker’s house. It was quiet except for the gentle patter of rain against the roof. The small house felt warm and safe, a stark contrast to the storm brewing outside and the one raging within me.
I went to my room and set the bag of groceries on the small table. The caretaker had left a meal for me—rice, dried fish, and a small bowl of soup—but I barely looked at it. My appetite had vanished somewhere between the market and here, swallowed whole by the thoughts that refused to leave me.
I sat by the window, staring out at the fading light. The fields stretched out before me, the same fields I’d known since I was a child. The same fields where it had all begun.
The sun was sinking now, casting the horizon in hues of gold and crimson, but I didn’t see its beauty. My mind was too loud.
What am I doing here?
Why did I come back?
I told myself it was to heal, to find closure, but the truth was murkier. Part of me wanted answers, and another part didn’t want to face them at all. I was chasing ghosts, and one ghost in particular.
Him.
The thought alone made my breath hitch.
I hated him. I loved him. I feared him. I missed him.
Even now, my hands trembled at the memory of his touch. His cold embrace. The way he looked at me, as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered. The way he made me feel—seen, cherished, possessed.
No, I told myself firmly, shaking my head as if that would dispel the thought. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. He was a liar, a thief. He stole Ric’s life. He stole everything.
But the shadow of doubt crept in, soft and insistent.
Hadn’t he also been kind to me? Gentle? Hadn’t he always respected my boundaries, retreating when I asked him to? He had never harmed me. Not once.
My fingers traced the edge of the table, restless and searching. The caretaker had said the new owner wanted to meet me tonight, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was him.
Could it be?
The thought made my pulse quicken, a confusing mix of fear and anticipation.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. The seconds dragged by, each one louder than the last. The sun was nearly gone now, the sky a deep indigo streaked with the last traces of orange.
The house was silent except for the hum of the electric fan and the distant sound of the rain picking up again. I leaned back in my chair, pressing my palms against my face.
What am I even hoping for?
Answers? Closure? Or was it something darker?
I lowered my hands and stared out the window again, my gaze fixed on the growing darkness.
The sun was setting.
And I was waiting.
For what, I wasn’t sure anymore.
****