GRAY WAS dreaming. The air was thick and golden, like sunlight had gotten lost in the leaves and never found its way out. He walked barefoot on soil that pulsed warm beneath his steps, the way skin might if the earth were alive. Trees towered like old sentinels. Their bark was dark and cracked, limbs tangled with vines that bore tiny glowing blossoms, blue, like fireflies caught mid-breath. Some leaves shimmered with dew that didn't fall, merely hovered, trembling in place.
And beside him, her hand was in his.
She never spoke. Never turned. Just walked ahead, guiding him through the dreamscape like she had always belonged there. Her back to him, dark brown hair cascading freely down her spine, catching glints of light with every step. Her figure was slight, but certain. Barefoot like him, but this time in a simple dress that swayed with grace and power. She moved like someone who had known the forest forever, as if her heartbeat pulsed with the roots of trees and the hush of rivers. The bracelet glows like the moon in the night, guiding them to wherever the bracelet takes them.
It was her, Gray was sure of it. The same girl she saw in his nightmare days ago. Though she never faced him, he sensed warmth radiating from her, like standing close to a candle in a cold room. Her presence quieted the wild around them.
Above, the green canopy throbbed with life. A tarictic hornbill croaked somewhere beyond the branches, loud, guttural, then vanished into a flutter of wings. A rustle revealed a tuko clinging to a trunk, its call echoing: "tukó, tukó" like a ticking omen. Nearby, a musang watched from behind the roots, its eyes aglow with lazy curiosity before slinking off into the ferns. Long-tailed macaques chattered in the trees, but even their cries seemed distant, muffled by the thick air.
The air smelled of tamarind leaves, wet bark, and crushed herbs. Somewhere in the canopy, birds crooned melodies that didn't sound like any song he'd heard in the waking world. One note sharp, the next soft like a lullaby hummed by a diwata who'd forgotten how to grieve.
Whispers followed them, fluttering in the wind, voices of unseen spirits. They didn't speak Tagalog, not exactly, but something close. Older. He heard his name spoken like it was a question, or maybe a warning.
The river came next, curling like a silver vein through the underbrush. It was narrow, quiet, and so clear he could see the pebbles beneath, black and smooth like coins offered to forgotten gods. Alitaptap blinked lazily in the air, and a frog sat motionless on a mossy rock, watching him pass like a silent guardian. When he stepped into the water, it was cold, not shocking, but clean, like it wanted to carry something off of him. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.
She turned to face him then. Not fully. Just enough for a glimpse.
Her face was half-shadowed, but what little light touched her skin revealed features that seemed drawn from memory more than imagination. Cheekbones like gentle slopes, full lips that looked like they were on the verge of speaking something sacred, and eyes amber like the rays of her bracelet's glow in the woods, and deep, he felt like if he looked too long, he'd fall into them. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask who she was, but she lifted a hand. And let go.
Just like that, she was gone.
The forest didn't end, it just changed. Trees turned into stone columns. The sky blinked out. The sound of the river faded, replaced by the sharp click of wood on stone. Footsteps? He blinked, and the world shifted again. A glimpse of a burning tree. A child laughing. A bird flying backwards. Then the path returned, but it wasn't a forest anymore.
A cave stood before him. Its mouth was wide and low, a yawn carved into the mountain's belly. Baybayin symbols lined the arch above it, etched deep into the rock, worn but pulsing with a faint light. He couldn't read them. His eyes tried to make sense of the characters, but they slipped from his mind like oil. He stepped forward, but before he crossed the threshold.
Darkness. Then light again.
His Lolo. Sitting on a woven mat under a nipa roof, sharpening a bolo. "You think strength is in your fists, iho," he said, without looking up. "But fists are tools. Know what makes them deadly? Memory." His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, finally met Gray's. "The ancestors are watching. And they remember everything."
It faded.
The cave again. But not the same. Gray wasn't there now. Instead, five hooded men knelt before the mouth. They wore cloaks made of dyed abaca, adorned with bones and shells. Their faces were hidden. The way they moved, slow, deliberate, reverent, spoke of age not in years, but in epochs. One of them began to chant.
Sa liwanag ng buwan at sigaw ng kagubatan,
Ikaw na ligaw, itali sa bitag ng mga ninuno,
Huwag kang gumising, huwag kang lumaya,
Hanggang sa dumaan ang walang hanggang anino.
Over and over, their voices folding into each other like waves in an ancient sea. The Baybayin symbols began to glow, each stroke burning amber, as if some seal was being reawakened. The ground shuddered. Wind howled from inside the cave though no air moved. Then, suddenly, they all turn around to his direction.
Gray jolted awake. But this time, it wasn't a nightmare. He blinked. Ceiling fan. Posters. A cracked mirror with a faded sticker that said "Stay Weird." It took him a second, but the smell of fabric softener and the faint buzz of a nearby tricycle confirmed it. He was home. In his own room.
It wasn't much. Just a second-floor box of mismatched furniture and teenage entropy. A single bed with a pillow that had definitely seen better days, a desk cluttered with notebooks, fast food receipts, and a single sock (whose partner had long vanished into a laundry abyss). His small shelf sagged under the weight of comics, some old schoolbooks, and a half-empty cologne bottle. A hoodie hung from the back of his door, swaying gently from the fan's breeze. The light coming through the slats of his jalousie window was soft, warm. The kind of late-morning glow that suggested maybe, just maybe, life was starting to get normal again.
Except it wasn't.
He'd been discharged just yesterday. After almost a week in the hospital, wired up and poked like a science project. No major injuries, they said. Just dehydration, bruises, and... stress. Classic. Still, something about those dreams clung to him like smoke. The black-eyed patients. The mirror. His lolo's voice. That cave. The girl with the forest in her eyes.
"Cool. Totally fine. I'm definitely not losing my mind." Gray sighed, rubbing his face.
Then he heard it. A noise downstairs. Muffled voices. The sound of something heavy shifting, then a chair scraping violently against tile. Gray sat up straighter.
The sound filtered through the bamboo slats of the floorboards. It wasn't loud, but there was tension in it. Raised voices. One of them—sharp, unfamiliar. The other—
"Lola?"
Gray sat up.
He pulled a shirt over his head and padded barefoot toward the door, careful not to step on the old floorboard near the dresser that creaked like a dying bird. Their house wasn't big. A simple two-story, built long before he was born and stubborn enough to survive three typhoons and one earthquake. The second floor was mostly wooden: squeaky floors, aging panel walls, and a long hallway that connected the bedrooms to the staircase. Below was the sala and the small dining area, the kitchen tucked into the back, and beyond that, the backyard where Lola Basyang grew kamias and occasionally cursed the neighborhood cats.
He crept to the door, swung it open as quietly as he could, and padded down the hall barefoot. As he neared the staircase, the voices grew clearer.
"Please..." his lola said, her voice trembling in a way Gray had never heard. "He's just a boy."
Gray froze. He crouched near the final step, heart suddenly hammering. Then another voice answered. Low. Gravel-thick. Wrong. Like someone was talking with two mouths at once. The bottom floor opened into a dim sala where morning light should've been streaming through the capiz windows, but the curtains were drawn. Everything felt... wrong. The air was thick, heavy like wet wool.
Then he saw it.
At the center of the room stood something that should not have existed. Its limbs were long and wrong. Too jointed, too thin. Skin stretched tight over bones, almost gray-green in the shadows. Its head tilted unnaturally sideways, mouth wide, teeth too many. The eyes were sunken pits, glinting with yellow, but something ancient and hungry. One clawed hand was raised, all five fingers, curved and dagger-sharp, aimed directly at Lola Basyang, who stood frozen near the Bathala sculpture, clutching her anting-anting like a shield.
"Lola—?" Gray said before he could stop himself.
The creature's head snapped toward him. Slowly, its mouth curled into a grin. "Ah. There you are."
Gray's brain screamed run, but his body stood its ground. "Cool. Great. Awesome," he muttered. "Love waking up to uninvited salad-skinned gremlins in my living room. Really completes the morning."
The thing lunged.
Gray ducked just in time, grabbed a pillow from the sofa, and hurled it straight into the creature's face. Not because it'd hurt it, just to stall. It hissed, swatted the pillow aside, and swung a claw. Gray backed into the wooden coffee table, flipped it up between them like a shield. The creature cracked through it with a snarl.
"Okay, no chill today," Gray said, rolling over the couch and kicking it toward the monster. "Fine."
The couch slammed into the creature's legs. Not enough to bring it down, but it stumbled. Gray lunged, grabbed a floor mop from beside the TV stand, spun it like a staff, and cracked the handle against the creature's side. It shrieked, swiped, ripping part of the mop clean off, and swung at his head. Gray ducked, slid under the dining table, and kicked a dining chair backward into its knees.
"Still not dead? What are you, vegan Slenderman?"
He darted to the kitchen, straight to the sink. He saw a kitchen knife, a frying pan, and a spoon. He grabbed the most potent weapon of the three.
He grabbed the frying pan.
Classic. He timed it right. Just as the creature lunged, Gray side-stepped and clocked it across the face. A sickening crack. The thing staggered. Gray wasn't done. He grabbed the rice cooker, yanked the lid, and shoved the hot inner pot right into the creature's gut. Steam hissed. The aswang screeched. It thrashed wildly, knocking over the dish rack and scattering utensils. One claw nicked Gray's arm. He winced, twisted around, and kicked the fridge door shut behind him to block another swipe.
Then, breathing hard, he grabbed the walis tambo and jammed the hardened, bristled end straight into the creature's throat. Not sharp, but enough to choke. With one last push, Gray slammed it against the wall, then twisted around and elbowed the monster's head into the hanging pots above the stove.
The creature gurgled, then dropped. Unconscious. Gray stood still for a long second, panting, one hand still gripping the walis like a halberd. His heartbeat thumped in his ears. He turned to his grandmother, who hadn't moved.
"Okay," Gray gasped. "So... that's new."
Gray didn't get a second to breathe.
The front door slammed open with a crash, the knob smashing into the wall. Two men burst inside like they'd kicked the hinges off. One in a dark blue police uniform, complete with silver nameplate, baton, and the kind of walk that said he didn't ask questions, he just solved them. The man was older, maybe in his sixties, but thick-bodied and squared at the shoulders like a cement wall. His hair was silver with streaks of black, and his face had the hardened look of someone who'd seen wars. A scar traced the right side of his cheek like a knife had once tried to erase it.
His badge read: Montenegro.
Beside him, a shorter, wiry man followed, his eyes darting in every direction like a startled bird. He wore a black wide-brimmed hat, worn-out trench coat, and a twisted mustache so long and curled it practically had a life of its own. There was a glint in his eyes. Half genius, half unhinged uncle who reads conspiracy theories out loud on long jeepney rides. He smelled faintly of tobacco and garlic.
Before Gray could even process what was going on, Lola Basyang screamed. Her voice cracked like a whip: "I knew it! I knew it was you people!" Both men turned. "You anitos—" she spat the word like a curse—"you destroyed the life of my daughter before. This time, I will not let you destroy the life of my grandson!"
Gray's stomach turned cold. What?
Montenegro paused, frowning. The man in the black hat blinked and looked toward the unconscious creature, then back to Lola Basyang. "Ma'am," Montenegro said, calm but firm. "With respect, we didn't—"
"You didn't stop it either!" she snapped. "All these years, and now you people are here again? Because of him?" She pointed. Not at the creature.
At Gray.
Gray backed up half a step, his mind struggling to catch up. Anito? What the hell is an anito supposed to be? And what does this have to do with... Mom?
No one answered.
The creature lay on the floor, still unconscious. Its chest rose and fell in heavy, shallow gulps. The whole room stank of sweat, smoke, and the metallic tinge of something not quite blood. The chaos around them hung in the air like fog, but none of it seemed to bother the two men who'd just arrived. If anything, they looked... used to this. And that's what unnerved Gray the most. They looked down at the monster on the kitchen tiles as if this was Tuesday. But even they didn't seem to understand why it was here now.
Montenegro bent slightly, checking the creature's neck for a pulse, his mouth tightening into a grim line. The man in the hat just whispered, "Something's not right." His eyes wandered around as if he didn't hear his grandmother.
Lola Basyang glared at them both, her voice trembling with rage. "Leave him out of this. You want to finish what you started? Kill me instead."
Silence.
Gray looked at his grandmother, the two strangers, the broken furniture, the creature sprawled like a broken shadow in their home, and then asked the only question that made any sense at all:
"What the hell is going on?"