Mga Multo sa Bangin (Ghosts by the Ravine)

They say the lake in Sitio Luntian never forgets.

Long ago, two lovers— Santa and Luis—would meet at the wooden railing by the water, hidden beneath the canopy of acacia and balete. Their love was quiet, forbidden, stitched together by letters tucked into tree hollows and glances exchanged during misa. But one stormy night, they vanished. No footprints. No bodies. Only a pair of dark shoes left by the edge.

Now, every October, when the air thickens and the moon hangs low like a lantern, two figures appear at the same spot. Draped in white sheets, eyes hollowed out, they sit side by side—silent, unmoving. Locals call them mga multo ng bangin. Some say they’re cursed to wait for a blessing that never came. Others believe they’re reenacting their final goodbye, hoping someone will remember.

But one child, Maria, dared to approach.

She brought a candle and a poem, written in shaky Tagalog:
“Kung pag-ibig ay lihim, kailan ito magiging malaya?”
(If love is secret, when will it be free?)

The ghosts turned slowly. Not menacing—just tired. One reached out, not with a hand, but with a whisper that rustled the leaves:
"Hindi kami galit. Gusto lang naming magunita."
(We are not angry. We only wish to be remembered.)

The candle flickered. The poem vanished. And Maria, now grown, writes stories about them every year—gentle tales of longing, wrapped in white and silence.

Some ghosts do not haunt—they wait. For memory, for mercy, for the quiet kind of love that dares to be seen. (Hindi lahat ng multo ay nananakot—ang iba'y naghihintay. Sa alaala, sa awa, sa tahimik na pag-ibig na nais lang makita.)

© 2025 Amee  Tala at Dilim Writes