The Sunken Bell

I never believed in the old tales until the summer I turned fifteen. My cousin Mara and I had flown from Chicago to the Philippines to visit my grandmother’s province, a place called San Isidro, known for its emerald rice fields and the ancient stone church at its heart. It was a scorching day in April, the dry season baking the earth, and Mara and I, desperate for relief, decided to hike to the ‘Blue Hole,’ a natural spring hidden in the hills, not the usual tourist spot.

We found it after a sweaty climb: a circular pool of startlingly clear water, surrounded by moss-covered rocks and overhanging vines. The silence was strange—no birds, no insects, only the gentle ripple of water. We stripped to our swimsuits and plunged in. The cold was a shock, wonderful at first, then a deep, bone-aching chill that seemed to seep into us. We swam and laughed, splashing each other, but I noticed Mara’s grin was tight, her eyes darting to the dark center of the pool. ‘It’s too deep,’ she whispered once, but we stayed until the sun began to dip below the trees.

That night, in my grandmother’s creaking wooden house, Mara woke me with a strangled cry. She was doubled over, clutching her stomach, her face pale and slick with sweat. ‘It burns,’ she gasped, ‘like something inside is on fire.’ My grandmother tried everything: warm compresses, ginger tea, even a poultice of crushed leaves from her garden. But Mara’s condition worsened. By morning, she was shivering violently, her lips blue, her eyes glassy. My grandmother’s face was grave. ‘The water,’ she muttered, ‘you went to the Blue Hole. That is the ‘Sunken Bell’ place.’ Apparently, years ago, a church bell had fallen into the spring during a great flood, and it was said the bell trapped a vengeful spirit that dragged swimmers to the depths.

Desperate, my grandmother summoned an old man from the barrio, a ‘mangkukulam’—a witch doctor. He arrived with a burlap sack and a solemn air. He asked to see Mara, then produced a large, clear crystal—tawas, my grandmother called it. He held it over Mara’s body, tracing intricate crosses in the air. Then, he placed the crystal in a glass of water and had Mara drink a sip. As she drank, the crystal clouded, turning milky white. The old man’s eyes widened. He took the glass, held it to the light, and whispered, ‘She is not the one. The bell has taken a different toll.’ He turned to me. ‘You, boy. You were also in the water?’ I nodded, numb. He pointed to my arm. A faint, circular bruise had formed, like a ring. ‘The bell has marked you,’ he said. ‘It wants you. The burning in your cousin was a warning, a transfer of misery. You have three nights before it pulls you under.’