The Last Bus to Marilao

I’m a second-generation Filipino-American, born and raised in the fog of San Francisco, but when I told my lolo I wanted to go to med school in the Philippines, he cried with joy. He said it would ground me, teach me the old ways, the ‘aswang’ and ‘manananggal’ stories he’d told me as a kid. I thought they were just stories. I was wrong.

I flew into Manila in 1995, a fresh-faced 23-year-old with a stethoscope in my backpack and a burning need to escape the Bay Area’s predictable rain. Quezon City was a chaotic symphony of jeepney horns, sizzling street food, and the ever-present humidity that clung to my skin like a second layer. I aced my classes, bought a beat-up Honda Civic from a retired colonel, and dove headfirst into the archipelago’s wonders—from the chocolate hills of Bohol to the firefly-lit river of Palawan. It was on a weekend trip to Baguio that I met her: Liza, a nursing student from San Fernando, Pampanga. She had sharp, intelligent eyes and a laugh that made the city’s pollution momentarily forgettable. We started dating, and on occasional weekends, she’d kiss my cheek, say ‘I’m going home, don’t worry, I’ll take the Victory Liner,’ and vanish. I never questioned it. I never asked why she never invited me.

One Friday night, after a brutal anatomy exam I barely survived, Liza and I were at a hole-in-the-wall joint on Timog Avenue, drinking San Miguel and dissecting the professor’s sarcasm. My pager went off—it was her mother. Liza’s face went pale as she read the message. ‘My father… he’s sick,’ she said, her hand trembling. ‘I have to go home. Now.’ The night buses were unreliable, so I made a split-second decision. ‘I’ll drive you.’ She started to protest, but I was already grabbing her hand and pulling her to my car.

The drive north on the North Luzon Expressway was desolate. The highway’s lights flickered like dying fireflies, and the radio only picked up static and a strange, low hum that seemed to come from outside. Liza was silent, her knuckles white on the door handle. I tried to make conversation, but she just stared at the darkness beyond the shoulder, where the black silhouettes of palm trees swayed unnaturally. The air grew thick, and the car’s A/C began to smell of rotten mangoes. ‘Almost there,’ I said, checking my watch—11:15 PM. She shook her head. ‘You should have let me take the bus.’ When we finally pulled into her barangay, the streetlights were dead, and a single, bare bulb hung over her parents’ gate, casting a sickly yellow pool. Her father was waiting at the door, looking hale and hearty, a wide smile on his face. ‘Liza, anak! You came!’ He embraced her, then turned to me with a strange, knowing look. ‘Come in, come in. We have so much to discuss.’

I should have refused, but my legs carried me inside like they had a mind of their own. The house was old, smelling of vinegar and old wood, with a single ceiling fan that creaked in time with an unseen heartbeat. Liza’s mother served me turmeric tea, which stained my lips a bitter orange. They asked about my studies, my family, my lolo. When I mentioned his stories, her father’s eyes glinted. ‘Ah, the old tales. Do you believe them?’ he asked. I laughed, said I was a man of science. He nodded slowly. ‘Science is blinder than faith sometimes.’ Around midnight, Liza excused herself to ‘help her mother.’ I was left with her father, who suddenly grew serious. ‘You must leave,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Take the bus home. Take the last bus to Marilao. Do not stop. Do not look back, no matter what you hear.’ I was confused. ‘What about Liza?’ He grabbed my arm, his grip cold. ‘She is not Liza anymore. The real Liza took a bus home to Marilao a month ago. She never arrived.’

I ran for my car, but it wouldn’t start. The engine whined like a dying animal. I looked at the house—the lights were off, and the front door was ajar, revealing a single silhouette that was too tall, too thin to be her mother. She began to walk toward me, her steps silent on the gravel. A wave of nausea hit me as the stale smell of vinegar and decaying flowers intensified. I saw her face—it was Liza’s, but the eyes were sunken, and her mouth stretched impossibly wide. She was singing a song I recognized from my lolo’s stories, the one they said the manananggal used to lure victims. I jumped out of the car and ran down the dirt road, my shoes slapping against the packed earth. Behind me, I heard a tearing sound, like wet paper ripping, and a shriek that split the night.

I reached a small provincial station and found a blue bus marked ‘MARILAO – LAST TRIP.’ I climbed aboard, the only passenger, and slumped into a cracked vinyl seat. The driver, an old man with a face like crumpled newspaper, didn’t look at me. The bus rattled onto the road, and I felt the weight of exhaustion pull my eyelids down. But then I heard it—a giggle from the back seat. I turned. There was nothing. The driver coughed and said, ‘Don’t turn around, boy. They’ll know.’ The bus stopped at a deserted crossroads, and the door hissed open. In the distance, under a flickering stanchion, stood Liza—or the thing wearing her skin—her head tilted at a wrong angle, her hand raised in a wave. The driver spoke again, his voice coming from everywhere: ‘Every night, same bus, same stop. She took the last one home. You shouldn’t have seen that.’ I shut my eyes and felt the bus lurch forward. When I opened them, it was dawn, and I was parked at the Quezon City terminal, alone. On the seat beside me was a brown envelope. Inside was a photo of Liza, smiling in front of her family home, and a single, handwritten note: ‘You took a different bus. That won’t save you forever.’

I never went back. I finished med school and flew home to California, but sometimes at night, I still hear that humming. Sometimes, my reflection in the mirror tilts its head, just a few degrees too far, and smiles. And I know she’s still waiting at that crossroads, waiting for the last bus to Marilao, and I’m not sure which one of us is the passenger.