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04/08/2025

Beneath the Velvet Gun

CHAPTER 2

Lyra’s POV

Here’s something they don’t tell you when you sign a half-million-dollar contract to live with a suspiciously attractive billionaire who may or may not have kidnapped your sister:

He walks around barefoot.

Bare. Freaking. Foot.

And somehow that’s more intimate than if he were shirtless.

I’m currently sitting at the ridiculous ten-foot-long glass breakfast bar, pretending to enjoy avocado toast while watching Damien Virelli stride across his kitchen like he owns every floorboard—and my sanity.

His shirt is partially unbuttoned. His hair is wet. There’s a tattoo on the side of his neck that disappears under his collar.

I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that he looks like sin or the fact that I’m ogling him while investigating him for potential murder.

“You’re staring,” he says calmly, not even glancing at me.

“You’re barefoot,” I shoot back. “It’s distracting.”

He smirks faintly as he picks up a mug of coffee. “Would shoes help you focus?”

“Shoes would help you look less like you just stepped out of someone’s fantasy.”

He pauses.

Then turns, slow and deliberate.

“Whose fantasy, Lyra?”

My cheeks betray me.

“You wish,” I mutter, slicing my toast like it owes me money.

---

The day drags in quiet elegance. I explore the first two floors—library, office, weapons room (?!), and what I can only describe as a private theater larger than most apartment buildings.

The third floor, however, is still locked. Literally. With a black-coded keypad and a motion sensor.

Every time I pass it, my curiosity itches.

What’s up there?

A vault? Bodies? Secret ex-wife? My sister?

Maybe all four.

Later, I’m back in my room scrolling through my laptop—again—with no new leads. It's like this man has erased every digital trace of his existence. Even his Wikipedia page is suspiciously short.

That’s when I hear it.

A thump.

From the third floor.

I freeze.

Then another thump. Louder. Followed by… a dragging sound?

Nope. I didn’t imagine that.

So what do I do?

Exactly what every girl in a horror movie does: I grab a flashlight and sneak toward the stairs.

Call it dumb. I call it justice.

I stop in front of the keypad and watch the red light blink.

I lift my hand.

But before I can touch it—

“Don’t.”

I jolt so hard I nearly fall down the stairs.

He’s behind me.

Barefoot again.

---

Damien’s POV

She’s nosy.

Bold.

Reckless.

Exactly the type I shouldn’t have brought into this house.

I watch her freeze, her body halfway turned toward the forbidden door. Her fingers twitch. She’s still debating whether or not to touch the keypad.

I speak again, softer this time. “That door isn’t locked to test you, Lyra. It’s locked to protect you.”

Her voice is sharp. “From what? The ghosts you keep in your closet?”

I don’t smile. I rarely do.

“From yourself.”

She narrows her eyes at me, and I can practically hear her pulse speeding up.

“You like riddles,” she accuses.

“You like breaking things.”

“You like watching me.”

That catches me off guard.

Just for a second.

She’s right, of course. I do watch her. From the monitors. From doorways. From reflections.

I watch the way her lips twitch when she lies.
The way her fingers tighten when she hears her sister’s name.

I’ve been watching Lyra Santiaga since before she knew my name.

But I say none of that.

Instead, I step closer.

And lie.

“I don’t waste time on people who don’t matter.”

She flinches—barely. But it’s enough to make me regret it.

Her voice is quieter now. “Then maybe I should leave.”

I should let her.

But I won’t.

“Do that,” I say, “and you’ll never know the truth.”

Her breath hitches.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

---

Lyra’s POV

He’s playing me. I know he is. But God, he’s good at it.

The moment he says “truth,” my anger fizzles into something more dangerous—hope.

And I hate him for it.

I hate how calm he is. How composed. How every word from his mouth is a calculated move in a game I don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m not here to play house,” I tell him. “I want answers.”

“You’ll get them.”

“When?”

“When you stop acting like a child.”

That stings.

I cross my arms. “You think this is a game, don’t you?”

“No,” he says. “Games have rules. This doesn’t.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving me standing alone in front of a door that hums with secrets.

---

Later That Night

I’m in bed, but sleep isn’t even on the menu.

Instead, I’m pacing in my oversized pajamas, muttering to myself like a lunatic.

Who puts a freaking security door in a house and expects no one to be curious?
Who hires a woman whose sister vanished years ago and doesn’t expect her to ask questions?

And most importantly:
Why the hell does my stomach twist every time he’s in the room?

I glance at the mirror.

My reflection looks tired. Angry. Scared.

But also… alive.

Damien Virelli is dangerous.
But danger, I’ve learned, is better than numbness.

Suddenly, a soft ding echoes from my laptop.

An anonymous message.

> “He keeps everything behind locked doors. But the key isn’t always metal. Sometimes, it’s emotion.”

I stare at it.

No sender. No trace.

I type back.

> Who are you?

No reply.

I shiver.

This place is watching me.

But I’m watching back.

---

Damien’s POV

I stand in my office, reviewing footage of her pacing her room like a lioness in a cage.

She’s restless.

Predictable.

But also… fascinating.

She hasn’t cried. Not once. Most women in this house crack within the first 48 hours.

Not Lyra.

She fights everything. Including herself.

I pour a drink and lean back, watching her freeze at the laptop message. Good. Let her know she’s not alone. Let the paranoia begin.

Because paranoia makes people honest.

And I need her to be honest if I’m ever going to tell her what really happened the night her sister vanished.

I look at the photo on my desk.

Lyra’s sister. Smiling. Posing.

Alive.

Somewhere.

But if Lyra learns the full truth now… it’ll break her.

And I need her strong.

Because what’s coming…

Will destroy us both.

---

04/08/2025

Beneath the Velvet Gun

They say falling in love is beautiful. But what if you're falling for someone who might have killed your sister? Lyra Santiaga doesn’t believe in love. Not anymore. Not after her older sister vanished five years ago—last seen getting into the back of a black velvet-lined car owned by the infamous “Mister D.” And now, that same man—who’s never been caught, who runs a private empire with whispers of blood, drugs, and high-class women—just offered Lyra a job. As a live-in secretary. In his house. With a curfew .And rules like “Never go to the third floor” and “Don’t ask questions you can’t handle the answers to.” But Lyra is desperate. For revenge. For answers. For closure. What she doesn’t expect is the slow, consuming, dangerous pull toward Damien Virelli—the man with the coldest eyes she’s ever seen and the softest voice she’s ever heard. He’s arrogant. He’s obsessive. He’s hiding something. And at night, behind closed doors... he’s everything she shouldn’t crave. But how do you resist the devil when he makes you laugh... and he touches you like sin?

CHAPTER 1

Lyra's POV

The last time I saw my sister, she was wearing red lipstick and a smile she didn’t mean.

She told me she was going out for a "business opportunity."
She never came back.

Five years later, her side of the closet is still untouched, and I sleep with a switchblade under my pillow. That’s not an exaggeration—I live in a neighborhood where people steal dogs, and not even cute ones.

So when an envelope slides under my apartment door at 3:03 in the morning with nothing but a black business card and an address I’ve never seen before, I do what any emotionally unstable woman would do.

I pack my bag and go.

After all, curiosity didn’t kill the cat. It just severely messed up her credit score and dragged her into a situation that smelled like gunpowder and expensive cologne.

I should’ve stayed in bed.
But I’ve never been good at doing what I should.

---

The building looks like a hotel for assassins.

Black steel, no signs, no windows, just a single glass door that opens automatically when I approach. I half-expect a voice to say “Welcome to your doom,” but instead, soft jazz plays as I step inside.

A woman in a gray suit greets me with a neutral face that probably hasn’t smiled since 2007.

"Lyra Santiaga?" she says.

I nod.

"This way."

No small talk. Just vibes.

We walk down a hallway that’s too clean, too quiet. My sneakers squeak with every step like they’re trying to announce, Hey everyone, here comes the broke girl with trauma issues!

The woman opens a door without knocking. Inside: a single chair, a desk, and a black folder resting on top like it’s about to change my life.

"Wait here," she says, and leaves me with it.

I eye the folder like it might bite.

I should walk out.
I should burn the folder.
I should do a lot of things.

Instead, I sit.

I open it.

And for a second, I forget how to breathe.

There, on the first page, is a picture of my sister.

Not a police photo. Not the one I gave the press. This is different.

She’s in a silk dress. Her hair is curled. She’s holding a glass of champagne and smiling at someone off-camera.

And standing behind her, one hand casually placed on her back, is a man I’ve seen in whispers and rumors and blurred security footage.

Damien Virelli.

A name like a razor. A man no one meets twice.

The billionaire who vanished from public life a decade ago but somehow still runs half the city's underground.

The man whose mansion is off-limits to the press, the law, and everyone with a moral compass.

And apparently…

The man offering me a job.

There’s a second page.
It’s a contract.

"Position: Private Secretary. Confidential residence. Strict NDAs. Six-month commitment. Compensation: $500,000 upon completion."

I laugh. Loudly.
Then I look around like someone might pop out and yell “Pranked!”

But no. It’s real.

My hands are shaking.
Because I know what this means.

Damien Virelli was the last man to be seen with my sister.
And now he’s inviting me into his house?

Oh, I’m taking that job.

Not for the money.

For the answers.

For the fire that’s been burning in my ribs since the night they closed her case.

---

[Later that week]

“You’re either brave,” says the driver picking me up, “or incredibly stupid.”

I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Little of both. But mostly bored.”

He doesn’t laugh. No one in this world seems to.

The car is bulletproof, black, and smells like leather and secrets. It takes me through streets I’ve never seen—quiet, gated, polished like movie sets. The kind of neighborhood where crime exists, but only if it wears a suit.

Then we reach it.

The mansion.

No, scratch that—castle.
It’s modern, all glass and sharp lines, but the air around it feels like a warning.

The gate opens slowly.

And my stomach tightens.

I remind myself: I’m not here to flirt. I’m not here to play games. I’m here to find out what happened to my sister.

But the second I step out of the car, a man in black is waiting at the top of the steps.

I know it’s him before he says a word.

Damien Virelli.

He’s taller than I expected. Broader. His black button-down hugs a body that wasn’t built in boardrooms.

His hair is tousled like he woke up and decided chaos was fashionable. His eyes? Cold. Silver. Like they’d look better staring down a rifle scope than at a resume.

“Miss Santiaga,” he says.

His voice is low. Smooth. The kind of voice that should come with a warning label.

“You’ve come.”

I swallow. “You summoned.”

He stares at me for a long second.
Then—God help me—he smirks.

And it’s not a nice smirk.
It’s a I-know-things-that-could-break-you kind of smirk.

“I think we’re going to have fun,” he murmurs, turning away.

I follow, mentally writing my will.

---

Inside the house, it’s darker than expected. Black floors. Black walls. Curtains drawn. Shadows in every corner.

“This will be your room,” he says, pushing open a door.

It’s bigger than my entire apartment.

“Any questions?”

“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. “Why me?”

He stops. Doesn’t turn around.

“Because you’re curious enough to say yes,” he says. “But reckless enough to break things. I like that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He finally looks at me.

“Don’t go to the third floor.”

I blink. “That’s oddly specific.”

He smiles without warmth. “You’ll understand later.”

Then he’s gone.

No explanations. No welcome package. No wine.

Just silence.

---

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

The silence here isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy. Alive.

And I know—deep down—that something is watching.

Or someone.

I don’t sleep.
Instead, I sit up and open my laptop.

And I start searching.

Damien Virelli.
My sister.
Velvet rooms.
Black folders.
Vanished women.

But every link leads nowhere. Every article is scrubbed. Every picture is gone.

Except one.

A photo from five years ago.

Damien. My sister. And a car.

A black car with velvet seats.

I zoom in.

And in the reflection of the window—

My blood runs cold.

It’s me.

Standing at the edge of the street.

I was there.

The night she vanished.

And I never even knew.

---

16/07/2025

📖 Kapag Tumunog ang Huling Kampana (Part 3)

---

Prologue – Ang Silid ng Katotohanan

Nang idilat ni Clara ang kanyang mata, nasa isang malamig na silid siya na puno ng lumang libro.

Sa mesa, naroon ang p**ang tela.

Sa itaas nito, nakapatong ang isang makapal na aklat na may pamagat:

> “Ang Sumpa ng San Felipe”

Unti-unti niyang binuksan ang pahina.

---

Ang Aklat ng Sumpa

Sa unang pahina, may nakasulat:

> “Hindi ito kathang-isip. Ang San Felipe ay baryong itinayo sa ibabaw ng sagradong pook ng mga lumang anito. Bawat pista, isang kaluluwa ang kailangan.”

Napakunot ang noo ni Clara. Lumingon siya sa paligid—wala si Lucas. Wala ang Anino.

Nagpatuloy siya sa pagbasa.

> “Taon 1901. Unang pista. Isang dalagang si Amelia ang nawawala. Siya ang unang inalay. Ngunit hindi pa sapat ang kanyang puso.”

> “Nang sumunod na pista, nawawala naman ang isang binatang si Lucas.”

Napahawak siya sa dibdib.

> “Hindi ito isang cycle. Isa itong pag-ibig na hindi matanggap ng kaluluwa ng puno.”

---

Ang Tunay na Mukha ng Anino

Sa likod ng silid, biglang bumukas ang pintong kahoy.

Pumasok si Lucas—maputla, tila walang lakas.

“Clara…” bulong niya. “Wala na akong oras.”

Tumunog ang kampana sa malayo.

Isa.

Lumapit siya, pilit itinayo si Lucas.

“Anong ibig sabihin nito? Sino ang Anino?” tanong niya, nanginginig.

“Hindi ako ang nawawala, Clara. Ikaw.”

Dalawa.

---
Ang Alaala

Biglang bumalik sa isip niya ang mga gabing naglalaro sila ni Lucas sa plaza—pero hindi siya bata roon. Bata si Lucas. Siya’y palaging nakatayo sa likod ng balete, nakatingin.

Tatlo.

“Bakit ako?” halos isinisigaw niya.

“Dahil ikaw si Amelia,” sabi ni Lucas, habang unti-unti siyang tinatablan ng liwanag.

---

Ang Katotohanan

Muling bumalik ang alaala—isang daang taon na ang nakalipas, siya si Amelia, ang unang inalay. Ang pag-ibig niya kay Lucas ang naging dahilan kung bakit nabuo ang sumpa—pag-ibig na hindi tinanggap ng mga matatanda ng baryo, pag-ibig na sinumpa nilang hindi matatapos.

Apat.

Sa bawat pista, isisilang siyang muli sa ibang anyo, palaging naghahanap, palaging nawawala.

Ang Anino ay ang dahil ng lahat—ang kaluluwa niya, pira-piraso, bumabalik upang muling makumpleto.

---

Ang Huling Pagpili

Limang tunog.

“Paano matatapos ito?” humihikbi siya.

“Tanggapin mo,” sabi ni Lucas, “na ikaw at ako ay iisang sumpa. Walang hiwalayan, walang kalayaan, hanggang tanggapin mo kung sino ka—at kung sino ako.”

Anim.

Lumapit siya. Inabot niya ang kamay ni Lucas, pinisil iyon.

“Kung ito ang totoo…”

Pito.

“…kung ikaw ang simula at wakas ko…”

Walo.

“…handa na akong matapos.”

---

Ang Huling Kampana

Pumikit siya, inihilig ang noo kay Lucas.

Sabay nilang winika:

> “Hanggang huling tunog.”

Tumunog ang kampana—pang-siyam, at huling beses.

Isang matinding liwanag ang bumalot sa kanilang dalawa.

---

Epilogo – Ang Umagang Wala na ang Anino

Kinabukasan, ang San Felipe ay tahimik. Walang pista. Walang nawawala.

Sa gitna ng plaza, may dalawang estatwang magkaakbay sa lilim ng balete. Nakapikit, tila natutulog.

Sa paanan ng puno, may lumang p**ang tela na tinatangay ng hangin.

At sa wakas, sa baryo ng San Felipe…

hindi na muling tumunog ang kampana.

---

WAKAS.

---

16/07/2025

📖 Kapag Tumunog ang Huling Kampana (Part 2)

---

1. Prologue – Ang Pagbabalik

Tatlong buwan na ang lumipas mula nang umalis si Clara sa San Felipe.

Araw-araw, pilit niyang kinukumbinsi ang sarili na totoo ang lahat—na totoo si Lucas, totoo ang sumpa, at totoo ring may naganap na pag-ibig. Pero tuwing gabi, paulit-ulit bumabalik sa isip niya ang huling eksena:

> Ang p**ang mga mata sa likod ng balete, nakatitig sa kanya habang papalayo ang bus.

Hanggang isang araw, tumawag si Mang Resty, ang matandang dating pulis na dati’y kasama niya sa isang kaso.

“Clara,” sabi nito sa telepono, “kailangan mong bumalik.”

“Bakit?”

“Wala na si Lucas.”

---

2. Baryo ng Nawawala

Pagdating niya sa San Felipe, wala na ang pista. Ngunit mas kakaiba ang itsura ng baryo—tila walang tao. Sarado ang mga tindahan, dilaw ang langit kahit tanghali.

Sa lumang bahay ni Lucas, nakabukas ang pinto.

Walang laman.

Sa gitna ng sahig, nakaukit ang isang linya ng mga titik, tila isinulat gamit ang dugo:

> “Hanggang Tunog ng Huling Kampana.”

---

3. Ang Sulat ni Lucas

Sa lumang aparador, may natagpuan siyang liham na nakasulat sa punit na pahina ng aklat:

> “Clara, kung binabasa mo ito, ibig sabihin hindi ako nakalaban. Patawarin mo ako… pero may bagay akong hindi nasabi. Hindi si Amelia ang nawawala—ako iyon. At ikaw ang kailangan ng Anino.”

Napaupo siya. Para siyang nalunod sa sariling dibdib.

Hindi niya alam kung alin ang mas matindi—ang galit, o ang takot na baka totoo ang lahat.

---

4. Ang Pangitain

Nang gabing iyon, nagising siya sa malamig na hangin. Nakatayo si Aling Nida sa pintuan, nakatingin sa kanya.

“Hindi ka pa rin handa,” sabi nito. “Hindi pa rin totoo ang iyong nararamdaman.”

“Ano’ng ibig mong sabihin?” nanginginig niyang tanong.

“Wala kang ibang mahal kundi ang misteryo. Hindi tao.”

Biglang nagdilim ang paligid. Sa isang iglap, nasa gitna siya ng plaza. Walang ilaw, walang ingay, wala ni isang kaluluwa.

At doon niya nakita si Lucas, nakatalikod, unti-unting lumulubog sa lupa.

“Lucas!” sigaw niya.

> Tumunog ang kampana…

Isa.

> “Sabihin mo…”

Dalawa.

> “…kung totoo…”

Tatlo.

“…na mahal mo ako,” bulong nito, habang unti-unting nagiging abo.

Apat.

---

5. Ang Pagpili

Muli siyang bumalik sa ulirat, nanginginig sa sahig ng lumang bahay.

Ngunit sa kanyang palad, may iniwan si Lucas na p**ang piraso ng tela. At sa pirasong iyon, nakasulat ang tanong:

> “Kung pipili ka, ako ba… o ang misteryong wala pang katapusan?”

Hindi niya alam ang isasagot. Hindi niya alam kung mas gusto niyang sagipin si Lucas o manatiling bihag ng hiwagang ito.

Ngunit alam niya—kapag tumunog muli ang kampana, wala nang makapipigil sa Anino.

---

6. Ang Huling Kampana

Sa pinakagitna ng gabi, bumalik siya sa plaza. Nakatayo roon ang puno ng balete, mas malaki at mas itim kaysa dati.

Sa ilalim nito, lumitaw ang Anino.

> “Isang puso ang hinihintay ko,” sabi nito. “Isang pusong marunong umamin.”

Lumapit siya. Nanginginig ang boses.

“Lucas…” bulong niya, habang tumutulo ang luha.

Tumunog ang kampana.

Isa.

“Hindi ko alam kung totoo…”

Dalawa.

“…kung anong meron tayo…”

Tatlo.

“…pero—”

Apat.

“…hindi ko kayang mawala ka.”

Limang tunog.

Sa huling pagkakataon, hinawakan niya ang p**ang tela at nilapat sa kanyang dibdib.

> “Kung ito ang kailangan, kunin mo na.”

---

7. Ang Pagwawakas na Walang Katapusan

Sa isang iglap, nagdilim ang lahat. Naramdaman niyang unti-unting nabubura ang kanyang katawan, parang usok na dinadala ng hangin.

Ngunit bago tuluyang mawala, may narinig siyang boses ni Lucas:

> “Clara… salamat.”

Nang idilat niya ang mata, wala na siya sa San Felipe.

Nasa isang lumang silid siya, malamig ang sahig. Sa harap niya, may mesa. May lumang aklat.

At isang pamilyar na p**ang tela.

Pagdampot niya rito, isang malamig na tinig ang bumulong sa kanyang likuran:

> “Hindi pa tapos ang lahat.”

Tumunog ang kampana.

16/07/2025

“Kapag Tumunog and Huling Kampana”

---Panimula

Minsan, mas madaling paniwalaan ang multo kaysa sa pag-ibig.

Iyon ang paniniwala ni Clara Velasco, isang freelance paranormal investigator na kilala sa buong Timog Luzon. Hindi siya kilala dahil magaling siya, kundi dahil kahit ilang beses na siyang muntik mapahamak sa bawat kaso, lagi pa rin siyang bumabalik. Parang relasyon na toxic—kahit paulit-ulit ka nang sinasaktan, balik ka pa rin ng balik.

At gaya ng inaasahan, isang gabi ng Hulyo, dumating sa kanyang maliit na opisina sa Maynila ang isang sulat na walang lagda kundi isang pangalan:

> “Lucas A. – Tulong. Nawala ang aking kasintahan. Pakiramdam ko’y sinumpa ako.”

Kasama ng sulat ang isang polaroid. Larawan iyon ng isang lalaki—mataas ang cheekbones, bahagyang kulot ang buhok, guwapo sa paraang hindi siya sanay makita. Pero hindi iyon ang pumukaw sa pansin ni Clara.

Sa gilid ng larawan, may isang aninong nakatayo, mahaba ang leeg at p**a ang mga mata. Parang likha ng panaginip, o bangungot.

Hindi na siya nagdalawang-isip. Kinabukasan, sumakay siya sa lumang bus papuntang baryo ng San Felipe.

---Ang Baryo ng Anino

Pagbaba niya, sinalubong siya ng isang kakaibang katahimikan. Hindi ito iyong payapang katahimikan, kundi iyong klase na parang pinipigil ang lahat ng tao na magsalita o huminga.

Ang kalsada, tinabunan ng itim na banderitas. Halos wala kang makitang kulay, maliban sa p**ang tela na nakatali sa bawat poste.

Isang matandang lalaki ang lumapit sa kanya. Nakatungkod ito at may takip ang isa nitong mata.

“Ikaw ba si Clara?” tanong nito, paos ang boses.

“Opo,” sagot niya. “Kayo po?”

“Hindi mahalaga. Naghihintay siya sa lumang bahay sa dulo ng kalsada. Pero… bago ka pumunta, alalahanin mo ito.”

Tumigil ang matanda. Sumulyap sa paligid na parang may nakikinig.

“Sa bawat pista, may nawawala. Ang hindi nakauwi, hindi na nakakabalik kailanman.”

Bago pa siya makasagot, bigla itong tumalikod at naglaho sa masukal na eskinita.

Napakapit siya sa kanyang bag kung saan naroon ang kanyang lumang recorder. Hindi niya alam kung bakit, pero tumindig ang balahibo niya.

---Si Lucas

Ang lumang bahay sa dulo ng kalsada ay halos gumuho na sa luma. Ang mga bintana’y may lumot. Ang pintuan, nangangalawang.

Nang kumatok siya, halos agad itong bumukas.

Sa loob, may isang lalaking nakaupo sa lumang sopa. Si Lucas. Mas mukhang pagod siya kaysa sa larawan—namumutla ang balat, nangingitim ang ilalim ng mata. Pero kahit ganoon, hindi maitatangging maganda ang hubog ng kanyang ngiti.

“Clara,” bati nito. “Akala ko hindi ka darating.”

“Hindi naman ako tumatanggi sa kaso. Pero hindi mo nilagay sa sulat na multo ang kalaban natin,” sabi niya, pilit pinipigil ang kaba.

“Hindi ko rin alam kung multo siya o mas malala pa.”

Lumapit si Lucas. Amoy niya ang lumang kahoy at kaunting pabango.

“Ano’ng nangyari?” tanong niya.

“Si Amelia—ang kasintahan ko. Kagabi… Naglalakad kami pauwi mula sa plaza. May tinig na tumawag sa kanya mula sa dilim. Hindi ko siya napigilan. Para siyang na-engkanto. Nang humakbang siya papalapit sa puno ng balete, naglaho siya.”

“Walang bakas?”

“Meron.” Nilabas ni Lucas ang isang bagay mula sa bulsa ng kanyang amerikana—isang piraso ng tela. P**a. Basa ng malamig na likido. “Dugo.”

Hindi sinasadyang nagsalubong ang tingin nila. Para bang may saglit na pag-unawa, o koneksyon. Ngunit mabilis niyang iniwas ang mata.

“Bakit mo ako pinili?” tanong niya, iniiwasan ang kilig na nag-uumpisang sumiksik sa likod ng kanyang takot.

“Dahil ikaw lang ang may reputasyon na… kahit sinong multo, hindi mo tinatalikuran,” sagot ni Lucas. “At…” Tumigil siya, tila nagdadalawang-isip. “…dahil ikaw ang tanging may alam sa alamat ng Anino.”

---Ang Alamat ng Anino

Habang umuulan ng ambon sa labas, binuksan ni Lucas ang makapal na lumang aklat. Nakasulat dito ang matandang kasaysayan ng San Felipe.

> “Tuwing pista ng San Felipe, muling bumabalik ang Anino—isang nilalang na minsa’y tao rin, ngunit isinumpa ng kanyang sariling pagkagahaman. Sinasabi nilang sa bawat pista, isang puso ang kanyang kinukuha. Isang puso na puspos ng pag-ibig.”

> “Kung sino man ang tanggihan, ang kanyang kaluluwa’y magiging alipin. Ang kanyang katawan, mawawala.”

Si Clara, pilit ipinapaliwanag sa sarili na gawa-gawa lamang ito. Ngunit hindi niya maalis ang bigat sa dibdib.

“Mahal mo ba siya?” tanong niya, halos pabulong.

“Mahal ko,” sagot ni Lucas, walang alinlangan. Pero may lungkot sa tono niya, parang may ibang hindi sinasabi.

Hindi niya alam kung bakit nasaktan siya sa sagot.

---Ang Simula ng Pista

Paglabas nila, nagbubukas na ang mga karnabal. Ngunit walang kasiyahan. Parang lahat ng tao’y napipilitan lamang.

Sa entablado, isang matandang babae ang nakatayo—si Aling Nida, ang kilalang manghuhula. Nakatakip ang isang mata, parang kakambal ng matandang nakita niya kanina.

“Ano’ng ginagawa natin dito?” tanong ni Clara.

“Kailangan nating malaman ang susunod na hakbang,” sagot ni Lucas.

Lumapit sila. Walang ibang pumapansin kay Aling Nida.

“Tadhana,” sabi ng matanda nang makita sila. “Kayong dalawa—hindi niyo pa rin tinatanggap.”

“Tinatanggap ano?” tanong ni Clara, naiinis.

“Ang damdamin,” sagot ni Aling Nida. “Kaya kayong dalawa ang susunod na pagdudusahan.”

Bago pa sila makaalis, hinawakan ni Aling Nida ang kamay ni Clara. Biglang lumamig ang palad niya.

> “Sa huling kampana ng gabi, ang Anino’y darating. Kapag hindi mo inamin ang iyong nararamdaman, ikaw ang mawawala. Hindi siya.”

---Ang Unang Gabing Mag-isa

Pabalik sa lumang bahay, wala silang imik. Kapwa pinipilit na huwag seryosohin ang hula.

Pero nang magdikit ang balikat nila sa makitid na daanan, may tila kuryente na dumaloy sa kanyang balat.

“Wala kang balak matulog?” tanong niya, pilit iwas ang tingin.

“Ayokong maiwan kang mag-isa,” sagot ni Lucas. “Alam kong hindi mo aaminin, pero takot ka rin.”

Napapikit siya. Pilit na pinipigilan ang sariling mapangiti.

--- Ang Panaginip

Sa gitna ng mahimbing na tulog, nagising si Clara sa malamig na hininga sa kanyang tenga.

“Clara…”

Napabangon siya. Wala si Lucas sa sopa. Ngunit sa gilid ng dilim, may nakatayong hugis—mahaba ang mga daliri, p**a ang mata, nakangiti.

> “Hindi niya kayang mahalin ka. Kahit kailan…”

Saglit siyang na-paralisa. Pero bago siya makasigaw, biglang bumukas ang pinto at pumasok si Lucas, dala ang lumang lampara.

Naglaho ang Anino.

Humihingal siya. Hindi niya namalayang yakap na siya ni Lucas.

“Wala ka nang dapat patunayan. Hindi mo kailangang maging matapang lagi,” sabi nito, mahina ang boses.

Ngunit bago siya tuluyang bumigay sa yakap, binawi niya ang sarili.

“Hindi ito totoo. Hindi ito pag-ibig. Trabaho lang ito,” bulong niya sa sarili.

---Ang Huling Kampana

Dumating ang hatinggabi. Tumunog ang kampana ng simbahan. Isang beses.

Nang pumasok sila sa plaza, lahat ng tao’y naglaho. Walang ilaw. Walang ingay.

Sa gitna ng entablado, may p**ang liwanag. Mula roon, unti-unting bumuo ang anyo ng Anino.

> “Sa bawat pista, isang puso ang sa akin. Isa na lang ang kulang…”

Lumapit si Lucas, nanginginig.

“Ako na lang!” sigaw niya. “Ako ang kunin mo! Palayain mo siya!”

Tumawa ang Anino.

> “Hindi ikaw ang aking kailangan. Hindi ang pag-ibig mong peke… Kundi ang kanyang pusong takot umamin.”

Nagtama ang tingin nila ni Clara. Humahagulhol siya, pilit itinatanggi ang katotohanan.

“Clara… sabihin mo. Kahit ngayon lang,” bulong ni Lucas.

Dalawang beses na tumunog ang kampana.

Lumapit siya. Naluluha.

“Hindi… Hindi kita kayang—”

“Sabihin mo!”

Huling tunog ng kampana.

“MAHAL KITA!” sigaw niya, sabay yakap.

Sa isang iglap, nagliyab ang paligid ng puting liwanag. Naghiyaw ang Anino, parang daan-daang tinig ang sabay-sabay na nagdadalamhati.

“Walang sinuman… ang… makatatakas…”

Nang mawala ang liwanag, wala na ang Anino. Nakatayo silang dalawa, magkayakap sa gitna ng entablado.

---Wakas na Walang Sigurado

Kinabukasan, bumalik na ang kulay sa baryo. Ang mga tao’y nagdiwang. Ngunit sa kabila ng pista, nanatiling palaisipan kung totoo nga bang tapos na ang sumpa.

Nang umalis si Clara, hindi niya sinabi kung babalik pa siya.

Ngunit bago siya makasakay sa bus, may kamay na humawak sa kanyang braso.

“Babalik ka pa, di ba?” tanong ni Lucas, ngumiting may lungkot.

Napatingin siya sa mga mata niya—mata na dati’y hindi niya kayang salubungin.

“Siguro,” sagot niya, pinilit itago ang ngiti.

Sa likod ng puno ng balete, may pares ng p**ang mata na muling nagliwanag.

At sa huling sandali bago tuluyang umalis si Clara, isang malamig na tinig ang bumulong sa kanyang isip:

> “Hindi pa tapos ang lahat…”

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