The Beneath of Balete

The island of Siquijor had always been a place of whispers, but not the kind that came from the wind. It was a place where the old gods still lingered, where the boundary between the living and the dead was thin as a spider’s silk. My family had inherited a plot of land there, a stretch of black sand and jagged rocks that faced the open sea. The house we were building was half-finished, so we crammed into the old stone cottage that had stood for over a century, its walls thick with moss and its roof patched with corrugated iron.

It was the week after Christmas, and the air was heavy with salt and the scent of decaying leaves. I was twenty-four, the eldest of three siblings, and I had brought my younger brother, Leo, and my sister, Mara, along. My parents, my Auntie Lita, and our old family driver, Mang Tonyo, were there too. We were supposed to be celebrating, but the island had a way of making you feel watched. On the first night, I saw them—the little people, the engkanto. They peeked from behind the banana grove, their eyes like dark pools, their feet not quite touching the ground. They didn’t approach, just observed, as if we were the strange ones. I convinced myself it was just the moonlight playing tricks.

The second night, the wind died. The sea became a sheet of glass, and the coconut palms stood like sentinels. We had a bonfire on the beach, the flames crackling against the eerie stillness. My father, a man of science, was the first to comment on the quiet. ‘Even the crickets are silent,’ he said, his voice too loud in the emptiness. We went to bed early, exhausted by the heat.

I woke to the sound of gunfire. It was sharp, close, and my heart slammed against my ribs. I sat up, disoriented. The room was dark, but I could see that my parents’ bed was empty. Leo was already awake, his eyes wide. ‘Did you hear that?’ he whispered. I nodded, and we crept to the window. Outside, in the yard, my mother, father, Auntie Lita, and Mang Tonyo were standing in a loose circle, all of them staring up at a massive balete tree that loomed at the edge of the property. It was twisted with age, its roots crawling across the ground like gnarled fingers. In the pale light of the moon, I could see that my father held his hunting rifle, the barrel still smoking.

We ran out, barefoot, the gravel biting into our soles. As we approached, my mother’s face was ashen, her lips trembling. ‘There’s something in the tree,’ she said, not looking at us, her gaze fixed upward. I followed her line of sight. High in the branches, something moved. It was not a bird. It was not a monkey. It was a shape that seemed to flicker, like a badly tuned television, and from it came a sound—a low, guttural hum that vibrated in my chest.

My father raised the rifle again, but my mother grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just watching.’

But then it moved. It descended, not jumping, but flowing down the trunk, its limbs bending at unnatural angles. I caught a glimpse of a face—pale, elongated, with eyes that were voids. It wore the tattered remains of a barong, the fabric rotting and hanging in shreds. It was the thing from the old stories, the aswang, the ghoul that feeds on the unborn and the dying. But this one was old, ancient, and it was not hunting. It was searching.

We stood frozen as it reached the ground. It took a step toward the house, and then another. My father fired again—a single, deafening shot that pierced its chest. The creature staggered, but it did not fall. Instead, it let out a sound like a woman’s scream, but twisted, as if underwater. Then it turned its head, and its gaze fell on me. It smiled—a slow, wet smile that revealed needle-like teeth.

I felt something in my mind, a pressure, a presence. It was not speaking words, but I understood: ‘You see me, child. You have always seen me. But I have been waiting for one who can see to come home.’ I tried to move, but my legs were lead. The creature reached out a hand, its fingers impossibly long, and touched my forehead. The contact was cold, like being dipped in a well. In that instant, I saw everything—the island’s history, the drowned villages, the bones beneath the sand, the pact made by the first settlers to ensure their survival. The aswang was not a monster; it was a guardian, bound to the land, and it had been feeding on the fear of the living for centuries.

Then it withdrew its hand and spoke, this time aloud, in a voice that crackled like old paper: ‘You have three days. Choose one of your blood to take my place, or the land will take you all.’ And with that, it melted back into the shadows, leaving us huddled in the yard, the smell of gunpowder and ozone in the air.

We didn’t sleep that night. We gathered in the kitchen, and my father tried to rationalize it, but even he couldn’t explain the wound in the tree where the creature had stood, or the strange markings left behind—symbols that looked like a spiral with a heart in the center. Auntie Lita, who had spent her life in the province, told us the old tales. The aswang could be beaten, she said, but only if you found its source—the source of its power, which was always hidden, usually in a jar or in the body of a loved one. It was a parasite, but it could be expelled.

But we didn’t have three days. The next morning, the sea turned red. The fish washed up dead, and the sky was the color of a bruise. The island had begun to reject us. The younger children, my cousins who had been playing in the shallows, were found with strange bites, their faces gray. And I started to see things—not just the elementals, but the drowned, standing at the water’s edge, their mouths open as if to speak.

The aswang came to me in my dreams. It showed me the truth: that my great-grandmother had made the bargain, when the island was being taken from the natives. She had offered her firstborn’s blood to the aswang in exchange for safety. The creature had been feeding on my family ever since, waiting for the day when one of us would be strong enough to take its place. It had grown tired of its existence, and it wanted to move on.

On the third day, we found the source. In the cellar of the stone cottage, beneath a rotting floorboard, was a wooden box. Inside was a small clay vessel, sealed with wax, and within it, a mass of roots and a single human tooth. Auntie Lita said we had to burn it, but the aswang appeared then, blocking the door. It was stronger than before, its form now fully solid, its skin like bark.

‘You cannot destroy me,’ it hissed. ‘I am this land. I am the guardian. But you can free me, if you choose.’

I looked at my family. My father was ready to fight, but I saw in his eyes that he knew we were outmatched. I saw my mother clinging to my younger sister, her face streaked with tears. And I understood. The aswang had been a protector, but a protector that demanded a sacrifice. The only way to end it was to offer myself as the new guardian—to become the thing that watches from the balete tree, to ensure the island’s balance.

I stepped forward, and the aswang’s eyes widened. ‘You choose?’ it asked.

I nodded. ‘I choose to end this.’

It reached out, and I felt its cold fingers wrap around my throat. I didn’t resist. I felt the life being pulled from me, but instead of fear, I felt a strange peace. As my vision dimmed, I saw the faces of my family, screaming, but also a future where they would be safe. And then the aswang let go. I collapsed to my knees, gasping, but I was still me. The creature looked at me with something like gratitude.

‘You have shown mercy. The pact is broken. I will sleep until the island calls for me again.’

It turned and walked to the tree, and as it did, its form began to dissolve into motes of light that were absorbed into the bark. The balete tree seemed to shudder, and then it was still. The red sea turned clear, and the birds returned.

My family left the island the next day. I stayed behind. Not because I wanted to, but because I had become part of the land. I now live in the stone cottage, tending to the tree. I don’t age. Sometimes, when the moon is full, I see the shapes moving at the edge of the property, and I know that the aswang is still there, sleeping beneath the roots. But I am the one who watches now. And I have a secret: I know that when the island is threatened, I will rise, not as a monster, but as a guardian. And I will remember the day I almost lost my humanity, and I will hold onto it, in the face of the darkness that whispers from the deep.

I write this not as a warning, but as a confession. If you come to Siquijor and see a stranger staring at the sea, with eyes that seem too old, know that I am a story waiting to be rediscovered. And the balete tree is always listening.