The Mufflered Men

I’ve always thought that elementals, whatever you want to call them—spirits, fairies, nature’s guardians—have a particular distaste for loud noise. Three times I witnessed it, and the last one left me with a scar I can’t explain.

My name is Mara, and I live in a tiny village called Kinabuhayan, tucked in the foothills of the Sierra Madre. It’s a place where the forest presses in on all sides, and the old folks still leave offerings of rice and tobacco at the base of the balete trees. We have mango and rambutan groves, but the heart of our community is the cluster of wooden houses around the plaza, with a single sari-sari store that serves as our meeting point.

It was a hot afternoon in May, the dry season just beginning to break. I was in the store, helping my auntie count inventory, when we heard it: a thunderous roar, like an angry beast, echoing off the hills. Two men on dirt bikes, stripped of their mufflers, came tearing down the dirt road, kicking up dust and stones. They were weekend tourists from the city, wearing sleeveless vests and bandanas, laughing and shouting over the noise. They circled the plaza twice, revving their engines, before finally parking by the store and swaggering in for cold drinks.

As they drank, I noticed the air in the store felt heavy, almost electric. My auntie, a devout believer in the spirits, whispered a prayer and crossed herself. The men paid no attention, bragging about their ride and how they’d conquered the mountain roads. Then, without warning, one of them—a burly fellow named Jake—started choking. His face turned red, then purple, and he clawed at his throat as if invisible hands were squeezing. His friend panicked, trying to help, but Jake collapsed, gasping for air. We called for a doctor, but by the time help arrived, Jake was dead. The coroner said it was a severe allergic reaction to something he’d eaten, maybe a bee sting, but I saw the look in my auntie’s eyes. She knew. The spirits don’t like loud, arrogant visitors.

The second time was a year later, on the eve of the town fiesta. A group of teenagers from the city decided to celebrate by setting off a ton of firecrackers in the plaza. They thought it was fun, but we elders pleaded with them to stop, to respect the quiet of the night. They laughed and lit another string of crackling bombs. Just as the last one exploded, a sudden gust of wind blew through, toppling the sound system’s speakers, and a massive branch from the old acacia tree cracked and fell, narrowly missing the kids but crushing their parked motorcycle. The bike was a twisted wreck, and the kids were shaken. They left the next morning, vowing never to return. We later found a small, smooth stone in the exact spot where the branch had fallen, polished and warm to the touch, as if placed there by unseen hands.

But the third story is the one that haunts me. It involves a group of hunters who came one winter, bragging about their high-powered rifles and their plan to bag a wild boar. They hired a local guide, an old man named Lolo Ramon, who warned them to keep their voices down and not to shoot near the sacred grove. They scoffed at his superstitions. On the second morning, they were deep in the forest when they spotted a large, black boar. They fired, but the boar didn’t fall. It just stood there, staring at them. They fired again, and again, but the bullets seemed to vanish into thin air. Then, the forest went silent. No birds, no insects, no rustling leaves. The hunters looked at each other in fear. A low hum began, like a thousand bees, and the trees seemed to close in around them. They dropped their rifles and ran. Two of them were found days later, wandering in a daze, unable to speak. The third, the most boastful, was never found. Lolo Ramon said the spirits had taken him.

That last event changed me. I started to listen to the forest’s silences, to the patterns of wind through the leaves. I learned to keep my steps soft and my voice low when passing the balete trees. Because now I know: the elementals are real, and they demand quiet. And if you disturb them, they will make sure you never forget. Even now, as I write this, I hear a faint whisper from the trees outside my window. I’m not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation. But I’ll leave the volume low, just in case.