The Kangkong Wail

In the summer of 2011, I took a night-shift job at a remote piggery in the dusty province of Nueva Ecija. The facility, known as ‘Hacienda Delgado’, was a sprawling compound of twenty-four identical concrete barns, each housing dozens of swine. My assignment was Barn 12, the one closest to a murky, rectangular pond, half-choked with kangkong vines. The pond had been built by the original caretakers years ago, its green surface now a breeding ground for mosquitoes and, according to the older workers, something far more sinister.

The job was monotonous: feed the pigs, check the water lines, and clean the pens. But it was the hour before the 6 PM shift change that I dreaded most. It was a liminal time, when the sun’s last rays cast long, distorted shadows and the air grew heavy with an almost electric tension. One evening, as I walked towards Barn 12, a sound rose from the pond. It was not a natural sound – not a frog’s croak or the rustle of reeds. It was a deep, resonant hum, like a giant tuning fork struck against the earth. It vibrated through my boots, up my spine, and settled in my skull.

My heart thumped, but curiosity, that fatal flaw, tugged at me. I crept towards the pond, my steps silenced by the soft mud. The kangkong seemed to writhe, as if stirred by an unseen current. The hum grew louder, and within it, I thought I could discern a rhythm – a slow, mournful beat, like a giant heart pumping beneath the water. I stopped at the edge, peering into the green-black depths. The surface was as still as glass, but the hum was now a low thrum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Then, the water began to churn. The kangkong vines parted, and a face emerged – not human, but vaguely porcine, with pale, milky eyes and gaping jaw. It let out a wail that was half pig, half human, and utterly wrong. The sound pierced my ears, sending a searing pain through my head. I stumbled back, falling onto the muddy bank. The creature, if it could be called that, stared at me with an expression of ancient hunger. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it sank back into the depths, leaving the pond still once more.

I scrambled to my feet and ran to Barn 12, my breath ragged. I tried to tell the other workers, but they just exchanged knowing glances and told me to ‘forget it.’ One old man, Tatay Pedring, pulled me aside and whispered that the pond was a portal, a place where the farm’s countless dead pigs – thousands of them, slaughtered over decades – had congealed into a single vengeful spirit. He said that every new worker had to hear the wail at least once, to be marked, so that the spirit could find them when it hungered.

I didn’t believe him. Not then. But that night, as I tried to sleep in the bunkhouse, I couldn’t shake the sound. It echoed in my skull, a constant, low pulse. And in the days that followed, I noticed changes. The pigs in Barn 12 became restless, their squeals filled with a fear I had never heard before. And every evening, at the same liminal hour, I felt an irresistible pull towards the pond. I would stand at its edge, watching the kangkong dance, listening for the wail.

One week later, at 5:58 PM, I was at the pond again. The hum began, soft at first, then swelling. This time, I did not run. I stepped closer, the water lapping at my boots. The kangkong parted, and the face appeared again, but closer, its milky eyes staring directly into mine. It opened its mouth, and the wail came – a sound that was not a sound but a physical force, pulling me in. I tried to resist, but my feet were rooted. The water rose, cold and slimy, up to my chest. The creature reached out with a black, root-like appendage, and I felt something touch my mind, a claw that scratched away my fear and left only the same hunger I saw in its eyes.

The next day, the workers found Barn 12 empty, the gates wide open, and the pigs gone. They searched for hours, but found only my boots at the pond’s edge. A week later, a new worker arrived, assigned to Barn 12. He was told about the precautions, the wail, the legacy. And as he walked towards the barn at dusk, the pond began to hum. He stopped, listening to that deep, mournful tone, and felt an uncanny craving for something he couldn’t name. The kangkong rustled, and behind him, the water churned. He turned to look, and for a moment, he thought he saw a face in the depths – but it wore my smile.