The Last Toll of San Miguel

Every Friday, Marco lived for the open road. His crew called him ‘Relentless’ for a reason—he never missed a ride, no matter the weather. But this particular Friday, his phone buzzed with a stream of apologies: family dinners, sick relatives, birthday parties. One by one, his riding buddies bailed. Marco, the only single one, was left staring at his Yamaha NMAX 155 in his cramped Manila apartment. Payday meant a full wallet, and the sky was a perfect azure. He decided to ride solo to the cool mountains of Sagada, a place he’d only seen in photos.

He left at 11 PM, the city lights blurring into the darkness as he hit the North Luzon Expressway. The familiar hum of the engine was his only companion. He passed through Bulacan, then Nueva Ecija, the air growing cleaner, the stars brighter. He planned stopovers for coffee and gas, but the thrill of the night ride kept him pushing. By 3 AM, he was in the province of Nueva Vizcaya, navigating the winding mountain roads that climbed into the Cordilleras. The temperature dropped, mist clinging to his visor. He felt alive, more alive than he had in months.

Around 4:30 AM, he reached a small town called Santa Lucia. A sign read ‘Last gas station for 60 km’. He pulled in, the fluorescent lights buzzing over a deserted station. An old man, hunched over a ledger, looked up as Marco removed his helmet. ‘You’re out early,’ the old man said, his voice like dry leaves. Marco smiled, filling his tank. ‘Headed to Sagada,’ he said. The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not the usual way. There’s a detour through San Miguel Pass. It saves time, but be careful—the road is narrow, and the bridge at the bottom is old. Locals avoid it after dark.’ Marco paid, thanking him. He’d checked the map, and the pass was a straight shot, cutting an hour off his trip. He decided to take it.

The road to San Miguel Pass was gravelly, winding through pine forests. The first hint of dawn painted the peaks orange, but the valley below was still draped in deep shadow. As he descended, he saw the bridge—a rusted steel structure spanning a deep ravine, with a narrow wooden plank surface. It groaned under his weight, but he crossed without issue. On the other side, the road narrowed further, clinging to the cliffside. He noticed a faded sign: ‘San Miguel Pass—Not Maintained’.

Just then, his headlight flickered. He tapped the dashboard, and it steadied. But a strange sound echoed through the canyon—a low, metallic groan, like the bridge was crying. He glanced back, but the bridge was hidden by a curve. He shrugged it off, but a knot tightened in his stomach.

A few kilometers later, he saw a figure on the road ahead. A woman in a white dress, waving frantically. He slowed down. As he got closer, he saw she was barefoot, her hair matted, her face pale. ‘Please, help me! My car broke down just ahead. I need a ride to the nearest town.’ Marco hesitated. His mother always told him to be wary of strangers, especially in remote places. But her eyes were desperate, pleading. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m just trying to get to Sagada,’ he said. She stepped closer, her voice turning cold. ‘You can’t go to Sagada. The bridge is out. You’ll die.’ He didn’t believe her. He had just crossed it. He revved the engine, and she stepped back, her expression unreadable. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, and vanished into the trees.

He rode on, unsettled. The road wound upward, and he began to climb again. After a while, he realized he had been riding for over an hour without seeing the pass summit. According to his GPS, he had passed the summit 20 minutes ago. He pulled over, checking his phone. The map showed a straight line through San Miguel Pass, but his location was a red dot in the middle of a vast green area with no roads. The GPS was confused, or the road was not on any map. He decided to turn back, but the road behind him was gone. Where he had come from, there was now a steep cliff edge, a sheer drop into darkness.

Panic gripped him. He turned the bike, but every path led to the same cliff. The engine sputtered, died. He was stranded in the middle of nowhere. The sun had fully risen, but the sky was a strange gray, and the temperature hadn’t warmed. He checked his fuel—half a tank. He tried to push the bike, but it was too heavy. He sat on the ground, his head in his hands.

Then he remembered the woman. ‘The bridge is out. You’ll die.’ He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He heard a sound—a bell, tolling deep in the forest. It was low, mournful, like a church bell from a distant valley. He got up and walked toward the sound, leaving his bike. The forest was dense, the path nonexistent. He pushed through ferns and mossy rocks, and after what felt like hours, he stumbled upon a clearing. In the center stood an old chapel, its roof collapsed, its walls covered in vines. The bell was swinging on its own, though no wind was blowing.

He entered the chapel. Inside, dust and decay. There was an altar, but instead of a cross, there was a bronze bell, cracked and green with age. A plaque read: ‘San Miguel Pass Bell—Dedicated to those who perished in the 1959 landslide.’ Marco’s blood ran cold. He had never heard of any landslide. He turned to leave, but the door had disappeared. The walls were solid rock.

A whisper came from all around him. ‘You cannot leave. This is your toll.’ He spun around. The woman from the road was now standing by the altar, her white dress stained with mud. ‘You are the toll,’ she said. ‘Every year, the mountain claims one soul. The bridge was out, but you took the old road. You are here now. You will join us.’ In the shadows, he saw shapes—figures of men, women, children, all pale, all standing motionless. They were the victims of the landslide, and they had been waiting for him.

His phone buzzed. He looked at it. It was 11 AM, around the time he had planned to arrive in Sagada. But the screen displayed a chilling message: ‘No Service. Last location: San Miguel Pass.’ He felt a pull, like the ground was dragging him down. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. The last thing he saw was the woman’s smile, and then the chapel walls crumbled onto him, burying him in darkness.

Three weeks later, his Yamaha NMAX was found abandoned on the side of the road near San Miguel Pass. The front wheel was caked in mud, the ignition still on, the battery dead. The seat had a strange mark, like a claw. His family filed a missing person’s report. A search party found nothing. But locals say that on quiet nights, when the fog rolls in, you can hear the faint sound of a motorcycle engine echoing through the pass, and a bell tolling, counting the dead.

And in his apartment, his phone, still charged, received one final notification: a photo of his bike, taken from the vantage of the shadowy trees, with a caption that read: ‘Toll accepted.’