The Cicada’s Last Call

The heat of the afternoon clung to the narrow streets of San Isidro, a small town nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Madre. My cousin, Diego, was leaving for Manila the next morning, and the weight of that departure hung in the air like the thick, humid breeze. His two playmates, Yolly and Mari, had pleaded with him to play one last time before he went off to the city. Diego had agreed, telling them to come back at 4 pm because he still had errands to run with his mother.

At exactly 4 pm, as the sun began its slow descent, Diego heard a voice calling his name from outside the house. It was Yolly’s voice, high and clear, cutting through the drone of cicadas. He stepped out onto the dusty porch, expecting to see her standing by the gate, but the yard was empty. The street was deserted, the usual afternoon noise of children playing and dogs barking eerily absent. A strange quiet had settled over the town, broken only by the incessant hum of the cicadas. Diego shook his head, blaming his overactive imagination, and decided to go to Yolly’s house to see if she was there.

He found Yolly at her doorstep, her mother tidying the garden. ‘You didn’t call me?’ Diego asked, a bit confused. Yolly looked at him with innocent eyes. ‘No, I was about to come get you. I hadn’t left yet.’ Diego felt a prickle of unease, but he dismissed it, thinking it was just his mind playing tricks. They went to fetch Mari, who lived a few blocks away, and the three of them settled into their usual game near the narrow dirt road that wound between the houses.

They decided Diego would be ‘it’ since he was the oldest. He leaned against the trunk of a gnarled acacia tree, counted to ten, and shouted, ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ The cicadas’ chorus seemed to swell, almost drowning his words. He opened his eyes and scanned the area. No sign of the girls. That was odd; they usually hid nearby, behind the bamboo grove or under the bridge. But the road was empty, and the only movement was the swaying of tall grass.

Minutes passed. Diego called out, ‘Yolly! Mari! Come out! I’ll find you!’ No response. The cicadas’ song grew louder, a pulsing drone that seemed to come from all directions. Diego felt a cool dread creep up his spine. He walked toward the bamboo grove, parting the stalks. Nothing. He checked the old wooden bridge over the shallow creek. Nothing. A growing panic seized him, and he ran back to Yolly’s house, pounding on the door. ‘Yolly! Are you there?’

Yolly’s mother opened the door, her face pale. ‘What’s wrong? Yolly hasn’t come home. I thought she was with you.’ Diego’s heart hammered. They rushed to Mari’s house, but Mari’s parents said she had gone out with Yolly and Diego. The three adults searched the area, calling the girls’ names, but the only answer was the deafening sound of cicadas, which had become almost unbearable. As evening fell, the town gathered, flashlights cutting through the darkening underbrush. But there was no trace—no footprints, no clothing, nothing.

The search continued late into the night, but the girls had vanished as if the earth had swallowed them. Diego was questioned, but he could only recount the strange voice he heard earlier and the eerie silence that had fallen after they started playing. Exhausted and trembling, he went home, unable to sleep. As he lay in his bed, the cicadas outside his window began to chant in a pattern that sounded eerily like the girls’ names: ‘Yo-ly, Ma-ri, Yo-ly, Ma-ri.’

He covered his ears, but the sound grew louder, echoing in his skull. Then, from the darkness of his room, he heard a soft whisper, barely audible over the drone: ‘Diego… we’re still hiding… come find us…’ He turned on the lamp, but the room was empty. The voice came again, now from the corner, now from under the bed, now from the ceiling. ‘You didn’t count to ten and wait… you didn’t give us a chance…’

Then, the cicadas stopped abruptly. A profound silence filled the room, broken only by the frantic beating of Diego’s heart. In the silence, he heard the sound of small footsteps, running away, fading into nothing. The next morning, Diego left for Manila, his eyes hollow, his skin pale. He never spoke of that day again, but sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would wake up, drenched in sweat, hearing the distant hum of cicadas and the faint, accusing whispers of two little girls who never stopped hiding.