Blood!
"No!" I exclaimed, my voice trembling with disbelief and horror. "The blood staining my shirt—it isn't mine!"
Where am I!?
Philip Cadence awoke to darkness, disoriented and bewildered, the unfamiliar alleyway of Manila offering no solace to his confusion.
As he scrambled to gather his thoughts, a sense of unease prickled at his skin, heightened by the sight of glowing eyes glinting in the shadows ahead.
Heart pounding, he instinctively reached for any semblance of defense, only to find himself under attack by an unknown entity—a monstrous, dog-like creature lunging at him with feral intent.
Desperate, Philip fought against the weight bearing down on him, the creature's jaws snapping dangerously close. In the nick of time, a figure cloaked in darkness emerged, hurling a paper-sealed bottle that shattered upon impact. As the beast writhed in agony, the mysterious figure began chanting in tongues, his words a powerful invocation against the forces of darkness.
As the beast writhed in agony, the man swiftly yanked Philip from its grasp, urgency etched in his features as he urged Philip to flee and follow him. Confusion gnawed at Philip's mind, but in the chaos of the moment, he found himself compelled to trust the stranger who had just saved him from certain peril.
Together, they rushed to the waiting car, the engine roaring to life as they sped away to the safety of the cathedral. Within the hallowed walls, Philip felt a sense of sanctuary wash over him, though the weight of uncertainty still hung heavy in the air.
Escorting Philip to a secluded room reserved for priests, the man ensured that they were out of harm's reach before turning his attention to Philip's well-being. With practiced hands, he checked Philip for any injuries, his touch gentle yet purposeful in the dimly lit chamber.
Philip's voice quivered with urgency as he demanded, "Who are you!?"
The man's response was steady, his tone calm amidst the chaos. "I am Father Mathew, the parish priest of the cathedral," he replied.
Father Mathew's brow furrowed with concern as he sought to unravel the mystery of Philip's plight. "What happened to you that brought you to that kind of situation?"
Philip's words spilled forth in a rush, his recounting tinged with confusion and unease.
"I remember wandering the bustling streets of Divisoria, my mind consumed with the quest for relics and accessories steeped in historical significance. Then, out of nowhere, a man collided with me, his expression a mask of fear and desperation. He thrust a talisman into my hand, its markings foreign and foreboding. I hesitated, instinctively wary, but before I could protest, my mind clouded with confusion. The next thing I knew, I was at the mercy of some unknown assailant, teetering on the brink of danger until you intervened."
Father Mathew paused, his gaze somber as he considered Philip's question. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air as he began to unravel the unsettling truth.
"The creature you encountered is known by many names," Father Mathew began, his voice tinged with a solemn gravity. "But here, in the Philippines, it is commonly referred to as an 'Aswang'."
Philip's breath caught in his throat, disbelief coursing through him like a sudden gust of wind. He staggered backward, his legs giving way beneath him as he sank to the floor, the reality of the situation crashing down upon him like a relentless tide.
"An aswang?" he echoed, his voice barely a whisper, the word tasting foreign and surreal on his lips. "This can't be real," he muttered, his mind reeling with the impossibility of it all. "Am I still dreaming?"
Philip's disbelief was palpable, his voice tinged with skepticism as he demanded, "Those things that are made to scare children? You must be mistaken, right?" He pressed Father Mathew for another explanation, his doubts threatening to unravel the fragile threads of reality.
Father Mathew remained composed, his attention focused on the ancient text before him, its pages whispering secrets in a language long forgotten. When Philip accused him of fabricating the tale, he shook his head, his expression resolute. "I assure you, I am not making this up," he insisted, his voice firm with conviction.
Philip's heart raced as he frantically searched his belongings, his fingers fumbling over the contents of his bag and the fabric of his clothes. But the talisman remained elusive, its presence a haunting absence that gnawed at his senses.
"Wait!" Father Mathew interjected, a furrow forming between his brows as realization dawned. "That's strange. It should be near you if it attracted that thing." With a sense of urgency, he implored Philip to strip away the layers of his clothes, his voice tinged with a note of urgency that sent shivers down Philip's spine.
"What for?" Philip's voice quivered with uncertainty, his gaze fixed on Father Mathew as he awaited an explanation.
"Just take it off," Father Mathew urged, his tone tinged with urgency. "If what I'm thinking is right, it has already attached itself to you."
Intrigued by Father Mathew's cryptic words, Philip complied, shedding his garments with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. With each layer removed, his anticipation grew, his pulse quickening with the anticipation of discovery.
Father Mathew's practiced eyes scanned Philip's exposed skin, his expression solemn as he traced the contours of Philip's body. And then, as if uncovering a long-buried secret, he found it—a translucent, tattoo-like inscription etched upon Philip's flesh in a language unknown.
A heavy silence settled between them as Philip's eyes widened in disbelief, his mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "What is it?" he demanded, his voice barely a whisper.
Father Mathew let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the revelation. "The talisman," he explained, his voice heavy with resignation. "It has attached itself to you. Removing it will be challenging, to say the least."
"What?!" Philip's voice cracked with disbelief, his mind racing with a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. "Then what am I supposed to do about this!?"
Father Mathew's gaze softened with empathy as he met Philip's panicked expression. "We'll discuss it later," he assured, his tone steady and reassuring. "For now, stay here until daybreak."
As the morning sun painted the cathedral in golden hues, Father Mathew and his fellow ministers bustled about, preparing breakfast. "Philip, lend a hand in the kitchen and freshen up," Father Mathew instructed gently.
After a modest breakfast, Philip found himself guided to the confessional booth by a silent lay minister. Kneeling in the dimly lit sanctuary, he poured out his heart to Father Mathew, his soul laid bare in the sacred space.
Exiting the confessional, Philip listened intently as Father Mathew spoke of the importance of confession and penitence. "It's a cleansing of the soul," Father Mathew explained, his words carrying the weight of wisdom accrued over years of devotion.
In the quiet of the cathedral, Philip pondered the power of words, their ability to shape destinies and mend broken spirits. And as Father Mathew instructed him to return later, Philip's mind swirled with questions left unanswered.
Back at his apartment in ermita, Philip found himself greeted by his colleague Gabriel, their conversation veering toward the strange occurrences of the night before. "I had some things to take care of," Philip explained, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
As they shared a meal, Gabriel revealed troubling news from the excavation site in Intramuros, sparking Philip's curiosity. "Strange indeed," Philip murmured, his mind already churning with possibilities.
"Philip, you won't believe what happened at the excavation site," Gabriel began, his eyes widening with a mixture of excitement and concern. "We uncovered this ancient jar, right? But here's the kicker—everyone who handled it fell sick and ended up bedridden."
Philip's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That's bizarre. What kind of sickness?"
Gabriel shrugged, a troubled frown creasing his brow. "No one knows for sure. But it's serious enough that they had to halt operations. So, we've got some unexpected downtime on our hands."
Philip leaned in, intrigued. "What are they saying about the jar?"
Gabriel's expression darkened. "Rumors are flying, of course. Some say it's cursed, others think it's just bad luck. Either way, it's got everyone spooked."
Philip pondered this for a moment before Gabriel's next words snapped him out of his reverie. "Since we've got some free time, how about we grab a drink with the rest of the team? It'll be a good chance to unwind."
Philip hesitated, a thought flickering through his mind. "Actually, I've got plans later. But thanks for the invite."
Gabriel nodded understandingly, though a hint of disappointment lingered in his eyes. "No worries, mate. Catch you later then."
With a heavy heart, Philip bid Gabriel farewell and made his way to the cathedral, the weight of his newfound knowledge heavy upon his shoulders. The mysteries of the night awaited him, and Philip knew that the answers lay hidden within the hallowed halls of the cathedral.