The Last Harvest Moon

It was the final month of my senior year, and the town of San Isidro was buzzing with the promise of the annual barrio fiesta. The air smelled of ripe mangoes and burning sugarcane, and the streets were lined with colorful banderitas that snapped in the warm January breeze. My friends—Lito, Ramon, and I—decided to walk to the dance at the old high school, taking the shortcut through the kawayan grove and the abandoned rice paddies. Everyone said the path was cursed, but we laughed it off, too excited for the night ahead.

As we crossed the rickety bamboo bridge, the river below gurgled like a hungry throat. The handle was slippery with moss, and Ramon nearly lost his footing. ‘Careful,’ Lito teased, ‘the spirits don’t like clumsy feet.’ We laughed, but the sound of the forest around us seemed to swallow our voices. The trees leaned in close, their leaves whispering secrets we couldn’t understand. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air.

We emerged into a field of tall sugarcane, the stalks swaying like a dark sea. The moon was full and low, casting long shadows that danced between the rows. In the distance, we could see the lights of the school, and the faint thump of bass music reached our ears. But as we walked, I noticed something odd—a figure standing at the edge of the field, half-hidden by the bamboo. She was tall, about five foot six, with long black hair that moved as if underwater. She smiled, and I felt an inexplicable pull toward her.

Her name was Mika, and she joined us on the path, chatting as if we were old friends. She was bubbly and clever, making jokes about the barrio’s gossip and the teachers we all hated. But there was something off about her laugh—it came a beat too late, and her eyes never quite focused on us. When we reached the school gates, she paused. ‘I’ll meet you inside,’ she said, and vanished into the crowd before I could ask where she’d been all year.

The dance was a blur of noise and color. The gymnasium was packed with teenagers from nearby towns, their bodies swaying to a live band. I looked for Mika in the throng, but she was nowhere to be seen. Lito and Ramon found drinks and started dancing with some girls from the neighboring barangay, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I stepped outside for air, and that’s when I heard a faint humming from the field behind the school.

I followed the sound, past the bleachers and the old mango tree, into a patch of wild talahib grass. There was Mika, standing perfectly still, her back to me. The humming stopped. She turned, and her face was not the same—her skin was pale as ash, and her eyes were black voids. ‘You came,’ she said, but her voice was like the rustle of dead leaves. I tried to run, but my legs felt glued to the ground.

‘You remember the girl who drowned in the river two years ago?’ she asked, tilting her head. I did—everyone in San Isidro did. It was the reason the shortcut was considered bad luck. ‘They never found her body,’ she continued, taking a step closer. ‘But I’m still here. I just needed a companion for the dance.’ I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The last thing I saw was her reaching for my hand, and I felt a cold dread seep into my bones.

The next morning, Lito and Ramon found me wandering near the river, my clothes soaked and my mind blank. They said I had wandered off after the dance, but I had no memory of it. The festival ended, and life returned to normal, but sometimes, when the moon is full and the wind carries the scent of sugarcane, I hear a faint humming, and I know that Mika is still waiting at the edge of the field, ready for the next dance.