First Cultivator of the Philippines

The gymnasium buzzed with energy despite the early hour. At 6 a.m., students were still trickling in, some looking half-awake while others were already chatting excitedly. Teachers moved around with clipboards, checking attendance and occasionally shouting over the chatter to remind everyone to gather in their respective groups.

I stumbled into the gymnasium, barely awake. My hair was a mess, and my bag felt heavier than usual. Jose was already waiting for me, looking annoyingly chipper. He waved me over, a big grin plastered on his face.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said, slapping me on the back. "Excited for the trip?"

I yawned loudly. "Ask me again after I've had some coffee."

Jose laughed, completely ignoring my state of misery. "You're hopeless. You do know this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip, right? We're going to Bicol! Think of the food, the sights, the Mayon Volcano!"

I gave him a side glance, still half-asleep. "Yeah, yeah. I'm more worried about the six-hour bus ride."

Jose started rambling about all the snacks he'd packed, and I just nodded absentmindedly. My mind drifted back to the scroll hidden in my bag. There was so much going on recently that it was hard to relax, even on a school trip.

~~~~~

Back at home, my grandfather stood by the window, looking out at the rising sun. His usually calm demeanor was replaced with a sense of urgency. He whispered to the air, his voice firm yet gentle.

"The tikbalang is not enough," he said. "Go there and keep watching them. Keep my grandson safe."

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the room, rustling the curtains and papers on the table. It felt almost alive, like it had understood his words. Grandpa closed his eyes and nodded solemnly, as if in silent agreement with an unseen force.

~~~~~

The buses lined up outside the school, ready to take us on the long journey to Bicol. Each student boarded with a mix of excitement and exhaustion. Inside, the seats were already a chaotic mix of saved spots, spilled snacks, and loud conversations.

I found my assigned seat next to Jose, who had already set up his portable speaker and was blasting music. I sighed, throwing my bag into the overhead compartment before collapsing into my seat.

"Relax, Jiro," Jose said, nudging me with his elbow. "This is going to be fun. Trust me."

The bus started rolling, and as the city gave way to highways and open fields, the class began to settle into the trip. It didn't take long for someone to suggest telling horror stories, which immediately caught everyone's attention.

"Have you heard about the White Lady of Balete Drive?" one student started. "They say she haunts cars that pass by at midnight."

"Not that story again," another groaned. "That's so overused."

"But what about the White Lady on this road?" a girl interjected, her eyes wide with mock fear. "It's true! My cousin swears he saw her. She was crying on the side of the road, asking for a ride."

The class leaned in, intrigued.

"And?" someone prompted.

"She'll tell you to take her to a certain place," the girl continued, lowering her voice for dramatic effect. "But if you go there, you'll never come back."

There was a pause, and then someone tried to laugh it off. "Oh, come on. That's just an urban legend."

"Tell that to the people who disappeared!" the girl shot back.

Jose leaned toward me, smirking. "What do you think, Jiro? Scared yet?"

I rolled my eyes. "Please. A crying woman in white? Sounds more like a soap opera than a ghost story."

The bus erupted in laughter, but there was still an underlying tension. Outside, the sun was starting to set, casting long shadows over the road. I couldn't help but glance out the window, wondering if there was some truth to the story.

The horror storytelling continued as the bus rumbled down the highway, the fading sunlight casting an eerie glow over the passing trees. A boy from the back of the bus stood up, clearing his throat dramatically to grab everyone's attention.

"Alright, listen up!" he said. "You've all heard about the kapre, right? Big guy, smokes cigars, loves hanging out in trees."

Some students chuckled, but he held up a finger. "This isn't just any kapre story. My uncle told me this one happened to him, and he's not the type to make stuff up."

The bus quieted, everyone leaning in to hear.

"So," the boy began, "my uncle was walking home late one night after drinking with his friends. He had to pass this big old tree, and as he got closer, he started hearing this deep, raspy breathing. He looked up, and there, sitting on a branch, was a massive kapre he is like, as tall as a house, with glowing red eyes and a cigar as big as my arm."

"Did he run?" someone asked, eyes wide.

"No! He was too drunk to be scared, so he just stared at it. The kapre stared back, and then, without warning, it threw the cigar down at him. My uncle picked it up, thinking it was a joke, but when he touched it, it burned his hand like fire! He ran home after that, and when he woke up the next day, his hand had a blackened mark shaped like the cigar. He still has the scar."

The bus erupted in nervous laughter and murmurs. Some dismissed it as nonsense, while others exchanged uneasy glances.

A girl near the front raised her hand, eager to share. "Okay, that's creepy, but have you heard about the aswang?"

Groans echoed from the crowd. "Another aswang story? Come on, we've heard those a million times."

"This one's different!" she insisted. "It happened in my hometown. There was this pregnant woman who kept hearing scratching on her roof at night. She thought it was just a cat, but one night, her husband went up to check and saw… something. It had glowing eyes, long claws, and wings like a bat. The creature tried to attack him, but he had a bolo knife and managed to scare it off."

"What happened next?" someone asked.

"The next day, they found claw marks all over the roof and strange footprints leading into the woods. My lola said it was definitely an aswang, trying to eat the baby in her stomach."

The bus fell silent, the weight of the story sinking in. Outside, the trees seemed to close in, their gnarled branches casting shadows that looked almost alive.

Jose, ever the joker, decided to break the tension. "Alright, alright! Enough of these weak stories. Let me tell you about the manananggal in my dad's barangay."

The students groaned, but Jose waved them off. "Trust me, this one's good. My dad swears it happened to him. He was out drinking with his buddies when they saw this beautiful woman walking down the road. She was so pretty they couldn't believe their eyes. But when they called out to her, she ignored them."

Jose leaned forward, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. "So, they followed her. Bad move. She walked into a dark alley, and when they peeked around the corner, they saw her transform and her body split in half, and wings sprouted out of her back! She flew off into the night, leaving her legs behind."

The class burst into laughter, though some looked visibly uneasy.

"What did your dad do?" someone asked.

"He ran, of course! You think he's brave? He left his sandals behind and never looked back!"

As the laughter died down, the mood turned somber again. A quiet voice from the corner piped up. "Do you guys know about the balete tree spirits?"

The bus went silent, and all eyes turned to the speaker, a girl with a serious expression.

"They say that if you pass by a balete tree at night and don't ask permission, you might not make it out. The spirits there can confuse you, make you lose your way. My cousin once rode his bike past a balete tree on his way home. He said he kept pedaling, but no matter how far he went, he ended up back at the same tree. It wasn't until he apologized out loud that he was able to leave."

A chill ran through the group. Even Jose stopped grinning.

The storytelling continued, each tale weaving together an atmosphere of dread and curiosity. Outside, the last rays of sunlight faded, leaving the bus surrounded by the deep, inky black of the countryside. Every creak of the wheels and rustle of the wind seemed louder, and for a moment, the students wondered if their horror stories had invited something to join their journey.

The bus filled with hushed whispers as someone pointed towards the blonde transfer student sitting near the window. "Hey, maybe the new girl has a story," one of the students suggested, their curiosity piqued.

Jiro looked over, intrigued but trying not to make it obvious. The blonde girl, who introduced herself earlier as Emilia, raised an eyebrow as the attention shifted to her.

"Do you know any scary stories?" someone asked in Tagalog, half expecting her not to understand.

To everyone's surprise, Emilia nodded. "Yes, I do," she replied in perfect, albeit slightly accented, Tagalog. The students gasped and laughed nervously, impressed by her fluency.

Emilia smiled faintly. "You want to hear a story from my home? Very well, but don't blame me if it makes you regret asking."

The bus grew quiet, the class leaning in closer to hear her speak.

"In my hometown, there is a legend about a place called Blackwood Manor. It's an old, crumbling mansion on the edge of the forest, surrounded by fog almost year-round. The story goes that centuries ago, the lord of the manor, a man named Edmund Blackwood, was obsessed with alchemy. He wanted to create an elixir for immortality.

"Edmund used his own family as experiments he uses his wife, his children. They were never seen again. The villagers grew suspicious and stormed the manor, demanding to know the truth. Edmund denied everything, but when they searched the house, they found secret rooms filled with vials, strange machines, and… well, body parts preserved in jars.

"The villagers set the manor on fire, but before it burned completely, Edmund appeared at the highest window. He shouted something that no one could understand, then disappeared into the flames. Some say he cursed the land before he died."

Emilia paused, her blue eyes scanning the now silent crowd. "After that, strange things began happening. Travelers who passed through the area would hear whispers in the woods or see shadows in the windows of the burned manor. People who dared to go inside never came out, except for one man, a grave robber. He claimed to have seen Edmund Blackwood, his body charred and his eyes glowing like embers. The man died a week later, his body burned from the inside out."

The students exchanged uneasy glances, some clutching their seatmates' arms. Even Jose, always the joker, seemed unusually quiet.

One of the braver students spoke up. "What about you, Emilia? Have you seen it?"

Emilia's smile turned wry. "No, I haven't, but…" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "My grandmother told me she did when she was young. She and her friends dared each other to visit the ruins at night. She said she saw a figure standing in the doorway, watching them. They ran, of course, but when she looked back, it was following them its footsteps didn't touch the ground. My grandmother said it stopped at the edge of the forest, but even now, she refuses to speak more about it."

The bus erupted into nervous chatter, some students dismissing the story as just another creepy tale, while others whispered about how different it felt coming from Emilia. Jiro stayed quiet, glancing at Emilia out of the corner of his eye.

She leaned back in her seat, her expression unreadable, but Jiro couldn't shake the feeling that her story wasn't just for entertainment. It had weight, like it was more than just a legend.1