Trisha Ann Lamban 
The cold wind brushed through my cheeks, causing them to slightly warm up. 2:40 am, I sighed after slightly tilting my head down and reading the glow-in-the-dark time on the watch that rests on my left wrist.
I cannot help but feel a bit of an eeriness as the wind continues to slightly howl and ring in my ears while I speed up on the dark road, only hearing the rearing of the motorcycle engine and my occasional breathing. Then my mind starts wandering elsewhere as I pass by houses, orchestrating scenarios in my head to not get bored then—HISS!
The motorcycle’s tire started screeching and drumming, and I halted. I took off my helmet and got off. I started inspecting and walking around my motorcycle, checking for what was wrong with it. I mentally facepalmed myself when I saw the flat tire on its second wheel. That’s also when I realized that I was in the middle of a bridge—with a broken down flat tire.
I scanned around the area, searching for a single soul—contemplating if I should just wait for someone to pass me by and hitch a ride, then come back for the motorcycle or clutch it and basically wheel it with me until I get to the nearest vulcanizing shop.
And so I decided on the latter option. While carrying and wheeling the motorcycle with me, I was surrounded by utterly deafening silence, not even the sound of crickets, just my breathing. It was making me uncomfortable. I sighed once more and suddenly had the urge to check the time—it was 2:59 am.
“A quarter to the devil’s hour,” I joked, which was supposedly funny in my head, yet it had sent shivers down my spine the moment the sentence slithered out of my mouth; The atmosphere and fog thickened, and my body became tense. I shook my head and continued trudging down the bridge as if it would also miraculously whisk away the impending feeling of death forming.
I heard a crumpled movement of pavement rocks scratching together—no, is it dragging? I looked back. It was an old man; I couldn’t see his face in the dim light; I assumed he was old due to his almost crouching posture and limping; then, I stopped. I don’t know why, but the possibility of another soul paving the same bridge as me almost brought me comfort and made me smile, almost.
As he walked closer and faster, I furrowed my eyebrows. His clothes were ragged and shredded, especially his camisa de chino. It used to be white, but now it’s covered with mud and…
“Is that blood?” I thought to myself. I still couldn’t clearly see his face, yet I squinted more because I could see his lips mouthing something.
“Intoy! Intoy!” he finally yelled, and I panicked. I wasn’t sure how to react, but I quickly hit the stand on my motorcycle and jogged toward Tatay to help him.
He was only 20 feet away when I suddenly stopped in my tracks and stared at his figure, moving closer. It’s 3 am. How could an old man be with me in the middle of a bridge? When no cars nor buses, not even a single soul had passed by me for the past 20 minutes that I was walking; by this point, he was 10 feet away from me.
My face was painted with sudden realization, confusion, and dread. I tightened my fists and closed my eyes, then slowly turned my head to the side to look back at my motorcycle—thinking if I could run for it. My knees shaking, my breath heavy and ragged, and my body felt like it would collapse any minute from the fear and anxiety once I glanced back at Tatay and what horrors I would see.
Then I let out a deep breath and closed my eyes once more. Turning my head, feigning bravery as if it didn’t leave my body 5 minutes ago.
“Intoy, Intoy,” he muttered lowly, and I flinched. He was no longer yelling; he was whispering. His breath lightly blows air toward my face with each word.
My heart runs a hundred kilometers per second, my breathing hitching and beads of cold sweat rolling down my forehead as if it were a timer of my fate.
“Intoy, dalia pagdalagan. Kay an tubig nahitaas na,” he muttered once more—this time mockingly while smiling. Pale dead skin, peeling off half his face, dilated bloodshot eyes staring into mine, his scalp punctured with a metal bar, maggots crawling out of his ears, water pouring out of his mouth. His hands were now tightly wrapped around my neck. Stunned and gasping for air, feet glued on the pavement, my body paralyzed, not even my arms, to swat away his.
He then let out a blood-curdling scream, unsure if it was a cry for help or out of anger; then, I was engulfed by the darkness.
Trisha Lamban | Feature Writer
Chuck Cabarliza | Layout Artist
