Prologue
To look at a map of the Philippines, you would have to trace your finger far south, past the bustling tourist hotspots and the well-traveled shipping lanes, to find Isla Pulong Diwatahon. It sits alone near the edge of the deep waters, a jagged emerald jewel surrounded by an ocean that turns an inky, impenetrable blue just a few miles from the shore.
By all accounts, it is a beautiful place. Lush, green mountains roll down into pristine white beaches. But despite its natural beauty, tourists rarely visit. The travel brochures don't mention it, and the neighboring mainlanders tend to change the subject when the island is brought up.
There are rumors about Isla Pulong Diwatahon. The fishermen who dare to sail close to its borders speak of an eerie, low-frequency hum that vibrates against the hulls of their boats in the dead of night. They whisper about weird, unnatural lights that dance on the horizon, glowing in cold, sickly colors that no lighthouse or passing ship could produce. Worse still are the stories of the deep, garbled whispers bubbling up from the water itself—voices that sound too human, yet far too old, echoing from the abyssal trenches below.
Despite its isolation, the island is home to roughly two and a half thousand people. The population is spread across three main districts: the bustling Barangay of Santa Dilis, the lower coastal stretch of Barangay of Isla-Ilalim, and the elevated ridges of Barangay of Lunas-Lunos. Flanking the main island are two smaller, uninhabited landmasses known as Isla Abismora and Isla Mapanglaw—twin silhouettes that cast long, dark shadows over the water at sunset.
Life on the island isn't entirely primitive. Thanks to the current Mayor's heavy-handed influence, the townspeople enjoy surprisingly updated amenities. The roads are paved, the infrastructure is sturdy, and there is a decent internet connection—at least, when the weather holds up. Yet, despite the concrete and the Wi-Fi, the island remains deeply, fundamentally isolated. When the sun goes down, the modern world feels very far away, and the ancient, creeping dark of the ocean takes over.
It was late at night in the Barangay of Santa Dilis. The town was dead to the world, the streets empty and bathed in the pale, flickering glow of the few working streetlights. The only sounds were the rhythmic, crashing waves against the shoreline and the occasional, mournful howl of a stray dog echoing through the alleys.
Down on the shore, where the sand met the foaming tide, the ocean spat something out.
It washed up with a heavy, wet thud, rolling limply in the shallow surf. At first glance, it looked like a pile of discarded fishing nets or a piece of waterlogged driftwood. But as the tide receded, the shape became undeniable. It was a person.
For a long time, the figure lay there, half-buried in the wet sand, battered by the incoming ripples. It didn't shiver from the cold sea breeze. Its chest did not rise and fall. It was perfectly, unnaturally still.
Then, a faint, rattling groan slipped from its pale lips—a sound less like a human voice and more like air being forced out of a punctured lung.
A hand twitched. Stiff, swollen fingers dug into the sand. Slowly, agonizingly, the body began to crawl. It dragged its dead weight out of the water, leaving a thick, unnatural trail behind it. The person was covered from head to toe in a slick, oily black substance that clung to the skin like tar. The clothes they wore were tattered and torn to shreds, as if the person had been chewed on by rows of massive, jagged teeth.
The figure stopped crawling. It pushed its hands into the sand and, with a sickening series of pops and cracks that sounded like dried branches snapping, forced itself to stand. It swayed heavily in the coastal breeze. Its eyes were wide open, milky and unblinking, staring blankly ahead. For a full minute, it just stood there, dripping that foul, black slime onto the pristine white beach. Then, it took its first stiff, mechanical step forward.
The figure bypassed the small, humble cottages of the fishermen. As it walked, the stray dogs that had been howling suddenly went dead silent, retreating under porches with soft, terrified whimpers. The figure's destination was the grandest house in the barangay.
The Mayor's residence was impossible to miss. It was a massive, imposing structure built in the style of an old Spanish colonial home, with heavy stone foundations and thick wooden upper floors. It loomed over the rest of the neighborhood, a symbol of power and wealth.
The dripping figure dragged its feet up the stone steps of the porch. It raised a slick, blackened fist and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Inside, a light flicked on. Heavy footsteps approached. The lock clicked, and the door swung open to reveal the Mayor. He was wearing an expensive silk robe, his face etched with deep, grumpy lines of annoyance. He hated being woken up, and he hated unannounced visitors even more.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" the Mayor barked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Whatever complaint you have, the barangay hall opens at eight!"
But his anger faltered as a horrific stench hit his nose. He gagged, taking a step back. It was the smell of rotting meat, stagnant ocean water, and a sharp, burning tang of sulfur. He looked at the man standing on his porch. The dim porch light illuminated the tattered clothes, the pale, chewed-up skin, and the disgusting black oil dripping onto his expensive welcome mat.
The Mayor's lip curled in disgust. He assumed it was a sick joke—some drunk, homeless fisherman who had fallen into a grease trap trying to make a statement.
"Look at my porch!" the Mayor yelled, his right hand trembling slightly as it always did when he was furious. "You're dripping filth everywhere. I don't care if you're drunk, high, or lost, you are trespassing on my property."
The man did not budge. He just stood there. The Mayor noticed, with a sudden chill creeping up his spine, that the man wasn't breathing. There was no rise and fall of the chest, no breath fogging in the cool night air.
"I know everyone on this island," the Mayor continued, his voice losing a bit of its confident edge. "And I don't know you. Who sent you? Was it Ben? Is this some kind of stupid prank?"
Silence. The milky, unblinking eyes just stared.
"Listen to me, you idiot," the Mayor said, trying to regain his authority. "Get off my property right now, or I swear to God I will have the police drag you to a cell so deep you'll forget what daylight looks like. Leave!"
When the man still didn't move, the Mayor lost his patience. He stepped forward and shoved the man's chest, trying to push him backward down the stairs.
It was like pushing a block of solid ice. The flesh beneath the tattered shirt was freezing cold and unnaturally rigid. The man didn't move an inch. Instead, the figure's hand shot out with terrifying, mechanical speed. It grabbed the Mayor's arm in a vice-like grip. Before the Mayor could even shout, the man's other hand lunged forward, wrapping around his throat.
With effortless, terrifying strength, the man lifted the Mayor off his feet and slammed him hard against the stone wall of the porch.
The Mayor kicked and thrashed, his eyes bulging as the air was cut off from his lungs. He clawed at the man's arm, scraping his nails against the oily skin, but it felt like tearing at wet leather. He tried to scream, to bargain, to curse, but all that came out was a pathetic, choked wheeze.
Then, the man looked deeply into the Mayor's terrified eyes and opened his mouth.
He opened it wide. Too wide. The pale, rotting skin at the corners of the man's mouth stretched, went taut, and then tore with a wet, nauseating ripping sound. The jaw unhinged, dropping down to his chest, revealing a dark, bottomless cavern of a throat. There was no tongue. No blood. Just an empty, black void.
From deep within that impossible maw, a thick, swirling black smoke began to pour out. It smelled of ancient decay and the crushing depths of the ocean. The smoke moved with a life of its own, slithering through the air and forcing its way into the Mayor's face. It shoved itself up his nostrils and pried his lips apart, rushing down his throat.
The Mayor choked violently. His body seized up, his eyes rolling back into his head as the freezing, suffocating darkness filled his lungs, his stomach, his veins. He felt as though he were drowning in the middle of the ocean, the pressure crushing him from the inside out.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.
The corpse released its grip. The Mayor collapsed onto the wooden floor of the porch, gasping and coughing violently, clutching his chest.
He looked up, terrified of what the monster would do next. But the figure just stood there in silence. Suddenly, the body began to shake. It started as a small tremor and quickly escalated into a violent, bone-rattling convulsion. The flesh on the man's face began to melt and flake away, turning to gray ash. Within seconds, the rigid body crumbled, collapsing into a pile of foul-smelling, decomposing sludge and oily dust on the porch boards.
The Mayor stared at the mess, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was in shock. He couldn't process what he had just seen. But as he sat there, shivering in the warm night air, a strange sensation washed over him.
He felt something inside him. Something cold. Something ancient. It settled deep in his chest, wrapping around his heart like a parasite making itself at home.
Slowly, the Mayor stood up. His right hand, which had trembled for years, was perfectly still. He stared out into the darkness of the island for a long moment, his eyes void of their usual arrogant spark, replaced by something dark and hollow. Without a word, he turned, walked back inside the house, and quietly closed the heavy wooden door.
Outside, Isla Pulong Diwatahon stayed completely still. The waves seemed to quiet down to a mere whisper.
From the dark, churning waters of the deep ocean, a thick, inky Black Fog began to roll toward the shore. It didn't move with the wind; it crawled with purpose, slipping over the sand and weaving through the trees. It blanketed the Barangay of Santa Dilis in a quiet, peaceful, and absolutely terrifying embrace.
