The Salt and the Cicadas

In the summer of 1998, when the heat turned the air thick as syrup and the cicadas screamed from the acacia trees, we owned the nights. Our village, nestled in the heart of Pangasinan, didn’t have much, but it had the long, dusty roads, the overgrown sugarcane fields, and the kind of darkness that wrapped around you like a damp blanket. There were eight of us, ranging from my nine-year-old cousin, Lito, to Andoy, who was thirteen and claimed he had once seen a kapre. We spent every evening playing patintero and taguan, our bare feet slapping the warm earth, until the moon climbed high and our mothers’ voices, sharp as cracked bells, called us home. But that night, no one called. We were too deep in the thrill of the game, and the moon was full, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move on their own.

We had just finished a round of hide-and-seek, and we collapsed in a heap on the side of the road, panting and laughing. The topic, as it often did, turned to the wrestling we’d watch on the old television set at Mang Pepe’s sari-sari store. Andoy was demonstrating a finishing move on the air, while I argued that The Undertaker was cooler than Stone Cold. Lito, who was always fidgeting, was tossing a pebble from hand to hand. The night was alive with the usual sounds: the low hum of crickets, the distant bark of a dog, the rustle of leaves in a breeze that carried the faint smell of burnt rice from someone’s kitchen. Then, in an instant, that normalcy shattered.

A wind came from nowhere, not a gentle breeze but a violent downdraft that slammed into us like a hand from the sky. It whipped the dust into our faces, stinging our eyes, and sent a chunk of corrugated tin sliding across a nearby roof with a screech. At the same moment, a sound tore through the air—a sound I have never been able to shake from my bones. It was not a scream, not a roar, but a deep, guttural growl, thick with rage, yet it had a strange, high-pitched quality, like a crow’s caw after being twisted into something monstrous. It came from above, from the darkness where the stars hid behind the clouds, and it was far away, yet so close it seemed to vibrate in our chests. We all froze, our hearts pounding. The sound hung in the air for a long moment, then faded, swallowed by the night. Andoy, his voice trembling, whispered, ‘You heard that, right?’ We nodded, not daring to speak louder. Then, as if on cue, the crickets resumed their song, and the wind died away as quickly as it had come. But the night felt different—the air was thick, pregnant with something unspeakable.

We tried to laugh it off, to convince ourselves it was just thunder or the wind playing tricks. But none of us wanted to stay on the road. We gathered our things—our slippers, our kites, the empty soda bottles—and started walking back to our houses, sticking close together. The walk home took us past the old, abandoned well at the edge of the village, a place we avoided even in daylight, under the scorching sun. That night, the well seemed to pull at us, its dark mouth gaping like a hungry throat. As we passed it, a second gust of wind, colder than the first, swept past us, and this time, the sound came again, but closer. It was so near that it felt like it was just above the acacia tree, and with it came a heavy, metallic smell, like rust and copper. Lito let out a whimper, and we all broke into a run, our feet pounding the dry earth, not stopping until we reached the safety of the dim porch light of Andoy’s house.

We huddled there, catching our breath, too scared to speak. Andoy’s grandmother, Lola Ising, came out, drawn by the noise. She was a tiny woman, wizened and with sharp, knowing eyes. She saw our pale faces and asked, ‘What happened?’ When we told her, her expression darkened. She didn’t mock us or dismiss it. Instead, she went inside and came back with a handful of salt and a bunch of dried herbs. ‘You’ve heard the Sigbin’s call,’ she said, her voice low. ‘It’s a creature of the old times, a master of disguise, but its voice is unmistakable. It hunts those who are out too late, and it’s been hungry for many years.’ She sprinkled the salt in a circle around us, then tied the herbs into small pouches and gave one to each of us, telling us to carry them always. ‘Don’t wander at night until the moon wanes,’ she warned. ‘And if you hear that sound again, never look up.’ We promised, our voices shaky, and then we each went home, clutching our pouches of dried anise and kamagong leaves.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in my bed, listening to the wind outside, and I could have sworn I heard that sound again, faint and far away, but unmistakably there. It seemed to come from the direction of the abandoned well. In the days that followed, the topic was forbidden, and we stayed indoors after sunset, much to our parents’ confusion. But the sound followed us into our dreams. In my dreams, I stood at the edge of a vast field under a blood-red moon, and above me circled a creature with wings like tattered cloth, its eyes like embers, its voice a growl that shattered the sky. Each night, the dream grew longer, the creature closer, until one night, it spoke. Its voice was a chorus of gravelly whispers, and it said, ‘The salt will not save you forever. The salt will not save you forever.’ I woke up screaming, and my mother came to comfort me, but when she asked what was wrong, I couldn’t find the words.

A week later, the well disappeared. I don’t mean we forgot where it was—I mean it was gone. In its place was a patch of earth that looked freshly turned, as if someone had filled it in and stamped it flat. The villagers said it had collapsed from age, but we knew better. And that night, the sound returned, no longer distant but directly above our houses. It was so loud that the windows rattled, and even the dogs refused to bark. We all hid under our beds, clutching our salt-filled pouches, which had begun to turn black, as if tainted by something. The next morning, a rumor spread: a traveler passing through the village had gone missing, and his body was found in the rice field, his throat torn out in a way no animal could manage. That was when my parents decided to move us to my aunt’s house in the city, away from the village, away from the nightmare. We left three days later, and I never saw the place again.

But twenty years have passed, and I still hear it. Not the full sound, but an echo, a phantom sensation at the back of my skull, especially when I’m alone and the wind picks up. The doctor says it’s anxiety, the result of a traumatic childhood event. But I know better. I’ve read about the Sigbin, the ghost cat from the old tales, and I know its call is not just a warning—it’s a claim. It marks the ones who hear it, follows them through the years, waiting for the moment when they let their guard down. I keep salt by my bed, even now, and I never walk outside after midnight, never look up when I hear a crow cackle. And last week, when I returned to Pangasinan for my father’s funeral, I passed by the old village. The well was still gone, but the earth at the site was damp, and there, in the mud, I saw not footprints, but a pattern of long scratches, and in the center, a single black feather, brittle as ash. I didn’t stay for the burial. I drove back to the city with the windows up, the radio blaring, but underneath it all, I could hear it—a distant growl, a crow’s caw, a promise that one day, the salt will run out.