The streets near Bantayan town plaza were unnervingly quiet, the usual chatter of late night vendors and tricycle drivers eerily absent. The dim glow of flickering streetlights cast long, restless shadows against the pavement, their light struggling against the thick darkness creeping in from the alleyways.
Across from the centuries old Catholic Church, where the weathered plaza had borne silent witness to both whispered prayers and unconfessed sins, a man lingered beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient tree. Shadows cloaked him, a veil of darkness that rendered him almost unseen. His posture was deceptively at ease sitting casually, but his eyes told another story. Keen, calculating, predatory. He was not merely loitering. He was watching. Waiting. Hunting.
And tonight, he had found his prey.
Laura Sanjorjo, a seventeen year old high school student, stood at the church door, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her uniform, wrinkled and slightly dirt stained from a long day, hung loosely over her slender frame. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she wiped at the silent tears streaking down her cheeks.
Her boyfriend had just stormed off after a heated argument, leaving her alone, humiliated, and heartbroken. The last words he spat at her still echoed in her mind, twisting inside her like a knife.
The plaza was nearly empty. The street vendors had long since packed up, and the few remaining tricycle drivers were already ferrying their last passengers of the night. The occasional rustle of the wind through the old acacia trees was the only sign of movement.
She was alone.
And he knew it.
The man tilted his head slightly, observing her with an unsettling patience. Days of preparation had led to this moment. He had studied the pattern of the town's nightfall, memorized the routes tricycle drivers took, learned which areas had the weakest streetlight coverage. He knew which girls walked home alone.
And most importantly, he knew how to make himself look harmless.
Parked just a few feet away, his tricycle looked like any other an aging, rust spotted vehicle with peeling stickers and a canopy patched together with duct tape. But inside, beneath the worn out seat, lay the tools of his trade: a coil of nylon rope, a roll of industrial-strength duct tape, and a serrated knife wrapped in cloth,
He flexed his fingers, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.
The wait was over.
Laura sighed in frustration, tapping at her phone. No battery.
She glanced down the empty road, hoping for a passing tricycle, but there was nothing.
Just silence.
The man climbed into his tricycle and revved the engine, the sound loud enough to make her turn. His face was calm, friendly, practiced.
"Miss," he called out, his voice carrying just the right amount of warmth and concern. "You need a ride?"
Laura hesitated. The warning bells in her mind were faint, drowned out by exhaustion and heartache.
"How much to Atop-Atop?" she asked cautiously.
"Same as always," he replied smoothly. "Come on. It's late. You don't want to wait out here alone."
He was right about that. The thought of standing in the dark, alone, was unsettling. Against her better judgment, she nodded and stepped into the passenger seat, clutching her bag tightly against her chest.
The moment the tricycle roared forward, a cold wave of regret washed over her.
The familiar streets of Bantayan blurred past in the dim light, but something felt… off. Laura's unease grew with every turn. The houses became sparser, the streetlights more distant. She didn't recognize this route.
Her grip tightened on her bag.
"Sir, this isn't the way to Atop-Atop."
The man didn't answer at first.
When he finally spoke, his voice was different colder, devoid of the false warmth he had used before.
"You're not going to Atop-Atop."
A shiver crawled up her spine.
Laura's pulse spiked, her breath hitching in her throat. She reached for the door but before she could react, the man swerved sharply. The tricycle jolted violently, slamming her against the side.
She screamed.
Panic surged through her veins as she pounded on the metal frame, her voice hoarse with terror.
The tricycle didn't slow.
No one could hear her.
They were leaving the main road, veering onto a dirt path that led behind the old cockpit arena. Laura knew this place a desolate stretch of land bordered by thick cornfields, isolated from the rest of town.
Her blood ran cold.
The tricycle skidded to a sudden stop, dust rising in the moonlit air. Before she could stand herself, the man driving his fist into her stomach with brutal precision.
A sharp, crushing pain erupted in her solar plexus. The air was forced from her lungs in a silent gasp, her vision darkening at the edges. Her hands trembled as she clawed at the door, but her strength was fading, her limbs uncooperative.
The last thing she saw was the man's expression no longer a mask of politeness, but one of cold, unfeeling control.
And then, darkness swallowed her whole.
Her body crumpled, unconscious, onto the seat. The man wasted no time. He lifted her limp form over his shoulder, moving swiftly through the dark path behind the arena. The cornfields swayed in the night breeze, concealing the abandoned house that stood at their center, a decaying structure he had prepared for moments like this.
Inside the house, the air was thick with dust and the scent of mildew. The man laid Laura on an old, stained mattress in the corner, his movements precise and deliberate. He secured her hands and feet with nylon rope and covered her mouth with duct tape, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction.
As he prepared his tools, the faint sound of Laura's breathing filled the room. She stirred slightly, her body instinctively fighting to regain consciousness.
The man leaned closer, his voice a chilling whisper.
"Don't worry, this will be enjoyable."
Outside, the cornfields rustled, the only witness to the horrors unfolding within. The peaceful streets of the town of Bantayan had no idea of the darkness lurking just beyond their borders, and for Laura, the night was only beginning...