The Moonlit Mango

When I was nine, we lived in a dusty town called San Rafael, where the church bell rang at odd hours and the old folks sat on their porches, chewing on stories instead of betel nuts. My mother, pregnant with my sister, had taken to walking at night, her belly a small moon under her housedress. She always brought me along, and I didn’t mind, because we’d stop at Aling Nena’s carinderia for its famous pork barbecue and vinegar dip, and I’d get to watch the flickering fluorescent light chase the moths across the greasy counter.

One night, the air was warm and heavy with the smell of ripe mangoes from the trees that lined the plaza. The moon was so bright it turned the dust on the road into silver powder. We were a few steps from Aling Nena’s, past the dark, shuttered municipal clinic that everyone swore was haunted since the old doctor died in a fire there, when I saw something at the top of a tall mango tree in the clinic’s yard. It was a shape of a small child, perched among the leaves, its skin the color of moonlit milk, and its eyes were like two black seeds. It was looking down at us, and when it saw me staring, it smiled with a mouth too wide, full of needle teeth.

I tugged my mother’s sleeve and pointed. ‘Ma, there’s a boy in the tree.’ She glanced up, frowned, and said, ‘Don’t be silly, child. That’s just a branch.’ But I knew what I saw. The thing was motionless, but its smile seemed to stretch even wider as we walked past. I felt its gaze on my back, cold as the inside of a well, until we ducked into the warm light of the carinderia.

Aling Nena served us with her usual cheer, but as I bit into my barbecue, I looked out the window at the mango tree. The shape was gone. But then I saw it again, this time perched on the roof of the clinic, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, still smiling. I dropped my food. My mother, lost in her own thoughts, hummed a lullaby to her belly.

On our way back, I kept my eyes glued to the sidewalk, but I couldn’t help glancing up as we passed the clinic. The thing was now hanging upside down from a branch, its arms dangling, its mouth open in a silent laugh. I buried my face in my mother’s dress and ran with her, my heart thumping like a wild drum. When we reached home, I told my father, but he just laughed and said, ‘It’s the moon playing tricks on you.’

But I saw it again the next night, and the night after that. It would appear in the mango tree, sometimes closer, sometimes further, but always watching. It started to move. One night, it was on the lower branch. The next, it was clinging to the fence. It was getting closer to our house.

I started to refuse to go on the walks, but my mother insisted, saying the exercise was good for the baby. So I’d go, trembling, holding her hand so tight my knuckles went white. I’d point, she’d dismiss, and the thing would inch closer. It began to mimic my mother’s walk, waddling behind us with its belly protruding, but its skin was the color of a dead fish.

One night, when we were passing the clinic, I saw it standing right at the gate, its face pressed against the bars. It reached out a long, bony arm, and it whispered, ‘Let me join you.’ Its voice sounded like dry leaves scraping. My mother finally saw it. She screamed, grabbed me, and ran all the way home, her pregnant belly bouncing. She told my father, and they called the priest.

The priest came with holy water and a Bible. He stood in the clinic yard, sprinkling water and chanting, but I saw the thing in the tree laughing, its mouth stretching ear to ear. It reached down and plucked a mango, took a bite, and then hurled the rest at the priest. It hit him square in the forehead. The priest cursed, and the thing shrieked with delight, a sound that grated like broken glass.

The next morning, my mother went into early labor. She gave birth to a healthy girl, but there was a small, dark mark on the baby’s shoulder, shaped like a mango seed. My mother never walked at night again. We moved away shortly after, but on some nights, when the moon is full and bright, I still see that pale shape in my mind, biting into a mango, its eyes fixed on me, its smile never fading. And I know it’s only waiting for me to come back.