By: Rico Pagulayan
It was pitch black inside the traditional Ifugao home as the other undergrad boys and I started settling in for the night. Our first day in Batad had come to a close, and we had the amazing opportunity to sleep in one of these homes. With the soft, hushed darkness of the mountain night in full force, it seemed as if there was nothing left to do but go to bed and have some much needed rest. Yet, as we heard the distant clicks of bats, the steady chirping of crickets, and the isolated yelping of dogs, it did not take long to brood a feeling of isolation and unease – it was a perfect night for ghost stories.
I kicked off the story circle with stories of the ghouls and spirits of Filipino folklore. What better way, I thought, to scare people, than to tell them about creatures that might very well be lurking right outside our dwelling. First, came the aswang, a flesh-eating ghoul with a taste for human body parts. Second, was the manananggal, a vampire-witch who cruises the night sky using its bat-like wings, searching for sleeping victims from which it can feed. Then, I recounted tales of elementals and restless spirits who follow the unsuspecting back to their homes and reeking havoc. If I didn’t spook any of the other guys, I surely did spook myself.
The stories kept coming and coming as each one of us took turns recounting our own tales. Now and then, I’d bury myself deeper into my blanket to warm my chilled limbs, and hide my feet from whatever might wish to grab it. The night in that traditional Ifugao home was just so pristine, unaffected by the artificial glow of electricity, that each ghost story came alive in front of my eyes as if my imagination acted as a projector into the night. The velvet black darkness made me want to believe in them, awakening my inborn human curiosity for the unknown and the unseen.
With each story of ghost children, phantom hikers, and angry ancestral spirits, I couldn’t help but check the dark corners of the room now and then to see if we were no longer alone. What’s more is that the Ifugao home acted as an amplifier for sounds coming from the outdoors. The ghostly squawking of a night bird flying by with steady wing beats painted images of the vampire-witch; a small, chirping bat innocently resting on our roof transformed into the fiendish aswang, trying to break into the house to eat us. Such pristine, “natural,” night, I guess, has a way of making you pay attention to your environment.
Yet, surprisingly, that night in Batad was perfect for ghost stories not so much in that it was dark and eerie, but in that it was peaceful. Everything about that night was calm, from the air to the fluidity of the very darkness. The shadows and hushed tones of the mountain night strengthened our camaraderie as undergrad boys as we all went about telling tales, feeling chills from the same story, and enjoying the peacefulness and simplicity of a night closer to nature.
It was pitch black inside the traditional Ifugao home as the other undergrad boys and I started settling in for the night. Our first day in Batad had come to a close, and we had the amazing opportunity to sleep in one of these homes. With the soft, hushed darkness of the mountain night in full force, it seemed as if there was nothing left to do but go to bed and have some much needed rest. Yet, as we heard the distant clicks of bats, the steady chirping of crickets, and the isolated yelping of dogs, it did not take long to brood a feeling of isolation and unease – it was a perfect night for ghost stories.
I kicked off the story circle with stories of the ghouls and spirits of Filipino folklore. What better way, I thought, to scare people, than to tell them about creatures that might very well be lurking right outside our dwelling. First, came the aswang, a flesh-eating ghoul with a taste for human body parts. Second, was the manananggal, a vampire-witch who cruises the night sky using its bat-like wings, searching for sleeping victims from which it can feed. Then, I recounted tales of elementals and restless spirits who follow the unsuspecting back to their homes and reeking havoc. If I didn’t spook any of the other guys, I surely did spook myself.
The stories kept coming and coming as each one of us took turns recounting our own tales. Now and then, I’d bury myself deeper into my blanket to warm my chilled limbs, and hide my feet from whatever might wish to grab it. The night in that traditional Ifugao home was just so pristine, unaffected by the artificial glow of electricity, that each ghost story came alive in front of my eyes as if my imagination acted as a projector into the night. The velvet black darkness made me want to believe in them, awakening my inborn human curiosity for the unknown and the unseen.
With each story of ghost children, phantom hikers, and angry ancestral spirits, I couldn’t help but check the dark corners of the room now and then to see if we were no longer alone. What’s more is that the Ifugao home acted as an amplifier for sounds coming from the outdoors. The ghostly squawking of a night bird flying by with steady wing beats painted images of the vampire-witch; a small, chirping bat innocently resting on our roof transformed into the fiendish aswang, trying to break into the house to eat us. Such pristine, “natural,” night, I guess, has a way of making you pay attention to your environment.
Yet, surprisingly, that night in Batad was perfect for ghost stories not so much in that it was dark and eerie, but in that it was peaceful. Everything about that night was calm, from the air to the fluidity of the very darkness. The shadows and hushed tones of the mountain night strengthened our camaraderie as undergrad boys as we all went about telling tales, feeling chills from the same story, and enjoying the peacefulness and simplicity of a night closer to nature.
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