Since I was young, the dream has haunted me. It always begins the same way—a world on the brink of destruction. The skies, once vibrant and alive, are swallowed by swirling, malevolent clouds, their dark tendrils stretching out as if to suffocate the Earth. Thunder roars like an angry god, and lightning splits the heavens with blinding fury. Beneath me, the ground shudders and cracks, the very bones of the Earth groaning in pain.
I stand frozen, watching as chaos consumes the world. Storms rage, volcanoes spew rivers of molten fire, and earthquakes reduce entire cities to rubble. The air thickens with ash, clinging to my skin and stinging my eyes, choking me even though I know it's only a dream. I want to run, but there's nowhere to go.
Then, the dream shifts. The Earth isn't the only victim of this apocalypse—it's the universe itself. Planets, drawn by some unseen force, begin to collide and merge in a cosmic ballet of destruction. A billion worlds become one, their gravitational pull creating a monstrous super-planet. And at the heart of this celestial fusion lies Earth, crushed and encased within an unyielding cavern of stone and rock.
The sky vanishes, replaced by towering stone pillars that stretch endlessly into the void. These jagged formations are fragments of other worlds, their surfaces etched with alien textures and glowing with faint, eerie light. The air is suffocating, filled with the pungent scent of brimstone and the distant sound of grinding stone. I feel the weight of the cavern pressing down on me, a silent reminder that escape is impossible.
As I struggle to comprehend this twisted reality, the land begins to shift. Continents collide, grinding together to form a single, vast supercontinent—Pangea reborn. Familiar landmarks disappear, replaced by jagged peaks and yawning chasms. Cities crumble into dust, and rivers flow in unnatural directions. The Earth becomes a stranger, its surface alien and unrecognizable.
And yet, humanity clings to life. In the dream, I see people scavenging among the ruins, their faces etched with despair and desperation. They fight to survive in this new cave-like world, where the rules of nature have been rewritten. But it's not the physical challenges that terrify me most—it's the look in their eyes, a reflection of the fear and hopelessness that threatens to consume them.
Each time, the dream ends the same way. As I stand amidst the ruins of this dark new world, a crushing silence falls. Then, the ground beneath me cracks open, and I'm falling, plunging into an abyss with no end.
That's when I wake, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. My heart races as my eyes dart around the room, struggling to remind myself that it's just a dream. The soft glow of dawn filters through the curtains, bathing everything in a gentle light. But no matter how many times I wake, the dream lingers, its images burned into my mind.
It feels too real—too vivid to dismiss as mere imagination. I can't shake the sense that it's more than just a nightmare. It's a warning. A glimpse of a fragile reality on the edge of collapse. And every time I close my eyes, I know it will come for me again.
I glance at the bracelet given to me by an albularyo—a traditional healer skilled in both magic and herbal remedies—who helped me when I was a child. Even back then, I knew I was different. I could see things that ordinary humans couldn't—spirits of the dead and other supernatural beings. My dreams were equally strange, often foretelling events that would come to pass or revealing moments from the past as though I had witnessed them myself.
The albularyo, with his profound knowledge of magic and healing, was the only one who could help me. He temporarily halted my ability to see spiritual creatures, as these entities had plagued me during my childhood. They haunted my nights, bringing sickness and torment to my young body. The bracelet he gave me became a shield—a protective charm that not only prevented me from seeing spirits but also kept them from approaching me.
I am forever grateful for the albularyo's help, yet his words of caution weigh heavily on my mind. He warned me about three grave concerns.
First, the dreams that keep repeating—the visions of an impending catastrophe—grow more vivid with each passing night, filling me with dread. Second, the bracelet itself is fragile. The albularyo told me that if it ever breaks, it would signal great danger. He explained that as I grow older, my abilities will strengthen, making me a beacon for malevolent spirits seeking to possess my body. And lastly, the most troubling revelation of all: I am not just someone gifted with the so-called sixth sense or third eye. I was born to be a babaylan, a shaman destined to serve as a bridge between the mortal world and the divine.
While babaylan are often associated with women, It's important to note that men could also fulfill this role in traditional Philippine societies. Though less common , male babaylan possessed powerful spirit gifts and played a vital role in their communities.
I am a babaylan without a guardian spirit, leaving me vulnerable to possession by a powerful demon or even an evil god.
I've tried to dismiss these fears, telling myself they're nothing but superstition. Yet deep down, I know the albularyo's words are true. Still, I force myself to push these thoughts aside. I have responsibilities to attend to. Work awaits me later in the day.
It's only 3 a.m., yet sleep eludes me. The vivid nightmare that woke me has left me wide awake, my heart pounding and my mind racing. No matter how much I try, I know I won't be able to sleep again tonight.
By the time the alarm clock buzzes at 6 a.m., the images of my dream have faded, leaving only a dull ache in my chest and a lingering sense of unease. I shake off the remnants of sleep, pushing myself out of bed. The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. I prepare for another grueling day at work, each movement mechanical as I try to shake off the weight of the night's visions.
My life as an accounting assistant wasn't glamorous. It was a far cry from the world of dreams and visions, rooted instead in endless spreadsheets, invoices, and looming deadlines. I trudged to the kitchen, the rich aroma of coffee filling the air, and poured myself a quick cup before dressing in my neatly pressed office uniform. The sight of the bracelet on my wrist caught my attention again, but I quickly dismissed it. There was no time to dwell on omens when reality demanded my focus.
By 7:30 a.m., I was on the packed commuter bus, the jostling of bodies and the hum of conversation fading into the background as my mind raced through the tasks awaiting me at the office. The place was a small accounting firm that mostly handled bookkeeping for local businesses. It wasn't prestigious, but it paid the bills—barely.
I arrived at the office just before 8 a.m., greeted by the hum of fluorescent lights and the relentless tapping of keyboards, like an old, unwelcome friend. My desk was a chaotic sea of papers, receipts, and files—the work of three people, all piled onto one small, overworked assistant.
"Finally, you're here," barked my boss, Mr. Reyes, from across the room. His sharp tone cut through the morning quiet like a knife. He was a stout, balding man with a perpetual scowl etched onto his face. "Do you have any idea how much work is waiting for you? Those reports for Rivera Enterprises should've been done yesterday. And don't forget the reconciliation for the Gomez account—I need that by noon."
"Yes, sir," I muttered, sinking into my chair, the weight of his words pressing down on me.
"And for god's sake," he added, his voice dripping with disdain, "try not to mess up this time. You've already proven that your academic background is barely worth mentioning. A 3.0 GWA? Really? It's a miracle you even got hired here."
His words stung, a flush creeping up my neck, but I didn't respond. I'd learned long ago that arguing with Mr. Reyes only made things worse. Instead, I buried myself in the work, the glow of my computer screen blurring as I sifted through the never-ending data.
The hours dragged by in a haze of numbers and deadlines. Mr. Reyes loomed over me occasionally, barking orders and pointing out minor mistakes with exaggerated derision. "Do you even know how to do your job? It's not rocket science, you know."
By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, most of my coworkers were packing up to leave. But not me. Mr. Reyes dropped another stack of files on my desk.
"You're staying late tonight," he said flatly. "These need to be done before tomorrow's meeting."
"But sir," I began, knowing it was futile. "I've already been working on—"
"No excuses," he snapped. "Unless you want to lose this job, you'll do as you're told. Or maybe you think someone with your stellar academic record can just waltz into another firm?"
I swallowed my frustration, nodding silently as he walked away. My back ached, my eyes burned, and the weight of the day pressed heavily on my shoulders.
By the time I finally left the office, it was nearly midnight. The streets were eerily quiet, the city's usual buzz replaced by the distant hum of streetlights. My body screamed for rest, but my mind was restless, haunted by the dreams that awaited me in the dark.
As I trudged home, the events of the day mingled with the lingering images of my dream. The weight of reality and the terror of the unknown felt like twin anchors, pulling me deeper into exhaustion.
When I finally collapsed onto my bed, I clutched the bracelet on my wrist, its familiar texture grounding me in a way nothing else could. I whispered a silent prayer—to whom, I didn't know—that I would make it through another day.
And as sleep began to claim me, a chilling thought crept into my mind: If my dreams were warnings, what would happen if I ignored them?
Sleep came reluctantly, a fleeting reprieve from the grind of reality. The faint hum of the city outside my studio apartment was a distant lullaby, but even that wasn't enough to drown out the heaviness of the day. I tossed and turned, the thin mattress doing little to comfort my aching body. The nightmare from last night still lingered in the back of my mind, though exhaustion finally pulled me into an uneasy slumber.
But peace didn't last.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I jolted awake, my heart hammering in my chest. Someone was knocking at my door—no, pounding on it. My apartment was pitch-black, save for the faint red glow of the digital clock on my nightstand: 2:07 a.m.
For a moment, I froze, listening intently. The knocking stopped, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. My breath caught in my throat. Who could be visiting at this hour?
I slid out of bed cautiously, my feet brushing against the cold tiled floor. My hand instinctively went to the kitchen counter, where I grabbed the only thing that offered a sense of security—a small kitchen knife. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
The pounding resumed, louder this time, the sound echoing through the tiny apartment.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Who's there?" I called out, my voice cracking with fear. No answer.
With trembling hands, I approached the door. The hallway outside was usually dimly lit, but through the peephole, there was nothing but darkness. Not a single light illuminated the corridor, and the silence was deafening.
I hesitated, gripping the knife tightly, my mind racing with possibilities. What if it was someone in trouble? Or worse, what if it was someone looking for me? Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the door and yanked it open.
Nothing.
The hallway was empty, the oppressive darkness stretching endlessly in both directions. Even the usual hum of city life seemed to have vanished, replaced by an eerie, unnatural stillness. A cold breeze swept past me, carrying a faint, metallic scent that made my stomach churn.
I slammed the door shut and locked it, my heart racing. "Just my imagination," I muttered, trying to convince myself. But deep down, I knew something wasn't right. This felt like a manifestation of the fears I had been trying to ignore, a warning I couldn't afford to dismiss.
I crawled back into bed, clutching the knife under my pillow for reassurance. Just as I began to relax, the pounding returned.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
It was louder, more insistent, as if whoever—or whatever—was on the other side wanted to tear the door down. My blood ran cold.
"Who are you?" I shouted, my voice breaking. Again, no response.
I repeated the same ritual: grab the knife, approach the door, look through the peephole—darkness. This time, when I opened the door, the air felt colder, heavier, as though the void itself had seeped into my apartment.
Still, nothing.
I closed the door again, my hands trembling uncontrollably. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Was it a prank? Or something worse?
Back in bed, I stared at the ceiling, too afraid to close my eyes. Minutes passed. Then hours. Each time I tried to drift off, the pounding would resume—louder, angrier, more demanding.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
It became a horrifying loop. Open the door, find nothing, shut it again, and wait for the next assault. My nerves were frayed, my grip on reality slipping with each passing moment. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, a relentless reminder of the fear that gripped me.
By the time my alarm blared at 6 a.m., signaling the start of another workday, I was a wreck. My face in the mirror was pale, my eyes bloodshot and sunken. The knocking had stopped at dawn, leaving an eerie stillness that felt almost worse.
As I got ready for work, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had visited me in the night wasn't done. The dream, the knocking, the oppressive darkness—it all felt connected, like threads weaving a tapestry of dread.
With a deep breath, I glanced at the bracelet on my wrist, its faint warmth a small comfort. I whispered to myself, "Just get through the day. One thing at a time."
But as I stepped out into the morning light, a single thought gnawed at the edges of my mind: What if it comes back?
The morning felt heavier than usual, as though the strange events of the night had left an unseen weight pressing down on me. After a quick shower and throwing on my usual work attire, I moved to the small kitchenette to grab a hurried breakfast. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the apartment—too quiet after a night filled with relentless pounding.
Hoping to shake off the unease, I switched on the TV for background noise while I poured myself a cup of instant coffee. The screen flickered to life, displaying the morning news.
What I saw made me freeze.
A grim-faced reporter stood in front of a nondescript suburban house, police tape stretched across the front yard. Behind her, officers moved methodically, their faces grim. The headline at the bottom of the screen read:
"Local Businessman Brutally Murdered Outside His Home: Killer at Large"
I gripped the edge of the counter as the reporter began speaking.
"Authorities have identified the victim as Cesar Reyes, a well-known businessman and owner of Reyes Accounting Services. He was found dead early this morning in front of his home. Sources confirm that he was shot multiple times at close range while knocking on the front door."
The mug slipped from my hand, shattering on the floor. Coffee splattered across the tiles, but I barely noticed.
"Reyes," I whispered, my stomach churning. "That's… my boss."
The reporter continued, her voice steady but tinged with tension. "Police believe the suspect is an escaped inmate, convicted of multiple violent crimes, including armed robbery and murder. Witnesses claim the victim was attacked as he attempted to enter his residence. The assailant fled the scene immediately after the crime. Authorities are urging the public to remain vigilant, as the suspect is considered armed and dangerous."
The screen cut to a grainy image of the killer—a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a jagged scar running down his left cheek. His face was the embodiment of menace, a stark contrast to the hollow feeling growing inside me.
I could barely process what I'd just heard. Mr. Reyes—my boss—was dead. Killed in front of his own home while knocking on the door. My mind raced back to the relentless pounding from the night before, the sound that had echoed in my dreams and haunted my waking moments.
A chill ran down my spine. Was it a coincidence?
I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. There was no way the two events were connected. Mr. Reyes lived on the other side of the city, far from my tiny apartment. Still, I couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that something was wrong—something beyond logic.
"...The victim was last seen leaving his office late last night," the reporter added, her voice pulling me back to the screen. "Colleagues describe him as a driven man, known for his demanding leadership style."
I turned off the TV, unable to hear any more. My hands trembled as I grabbed a towel to clean up the spilled coffee, my thoughts a chaotic mess.
He's really gone.
The weight of the news settled heavily on my chest, a suffocating reminder of the fragility of life. I felt as if the ground beneath me had shifted, leaving me unmoored in a world that suddenly felt darker and more dangerous.
Despite everything—his harsh words, his impossible expectations, the way he belittled me—I never imagined his life would end like this.
I forced myself to focus, knowing I couldn't afford to be late. The city didn't stop for grief or fear, and neither could I. Slipping the bracelet securely onto my wrist, I muttered a quick prayer for protection before stepping out into the bright, uncaring morning.
When I arrived at the office, the usual hum of activity was absent. The reception area was eerily quiet, the tension palpable. My coworkers huddled in small groups, their whispered conversations filling the air with unease.
As I made my way to my desk, the weight of their stares followed me like a heavy cloak.
"Did you hear?" someone murmured as I passed. "Reyes was…"
"…Killed," another voice finished, barely above a whisper.
I sat down, my hands trembling as I tried to focus on my tasks. But the news kept replaying in my mind. The pounding at my door, the murder outside Mr. Reyes' house, the escaped killer still on the loose—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle I didn't want to solve.
As I stared at the empty chair in Mr. Reyes' office, a single thought refused to leave me:
What if I was supposed to be next?
The chilling notion settled in my gut, twisting like a knife. I could almost hear the echo of that relentless pounding, a sinister reminder that danger lurked just beyond the surface of my everyday life. I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought, but it clung to me like a shadow, darkening the bright morning.