The Haunting of the Acacia Tree
written by: Michelle Ayon Navajas
@poetrybymich
In a forgotten barrio of the Philippines, every Friday the 13th, a thick veil of superstition cloaked the air. Children huddled in whispers about the giant that lurked in the gnarled branches of the ancient acacia tree at the village’s edge. Its twisted limbs reached out like skeletal fingers, casting ominous shadows that danced in the fading light.
Legend told of Mang Kulas, once a gentle protector, transformed into a vengeful spirit after the villagers turned against him in fear of his immense size and strength. On this cursed night, he emerged from the shadows, his deep growl sending shivers through the very ground beneath their feet.
As dusk descended, a group of daring children gathered near the tree, their bravado quickly fraying. They dared each other to approach, their hearts pounding, when a rustle in the branches made them freeze. A low, echoing growl resonated through the night.
“Who dares disturb my slumber?” a voice boomed, dark and thunderous.
The children trembled, faces pale and wide-eyed. But one, a defiant girl named Lila, stepped forward. “We’re not afraid of you, Mang Kulas!” she called, though her voice quavered. “Why do you haunt us?”
Silence enveloped them. Then, through the branches, a massive head emerged, eyes glowing like embers in the night. “I do not haunt you,” he rumbled, sorrow mingling with menace. “I am your nightmare come to life.”
The children exchanged fearful glances, Lila pressing on. “What do you want?”
“Your fear feeds me,” he growled. “Every Friday the 13th, I rise to remind you of the darkness lurking in your hearts.”
Lila’s bravery faltered, but she managed to ask, “What darkness?”
“Fear of the unknown, betrayal among friends,” he hissed, leaning closer, his breath cold and heavy. “I am the shadow that creeps in when you forget to trust one another.”
As the tree creaked ominously, Mang Kulas extended a massive hand, but instead of warmth, it radiated an unsettling chill. The children hesitated, but an irresistible pull drew them closer. He lowered them into his palm, lifting them high above the barrio.
“Look!” he thundered, his voice shaking the very ground. “See how fear can twist even the brightest night into a nightmare.”
Below, the village glowed, but a dark cloud loomed, whispering doubts and secrets. “You must remember,” he warned, his gaze piercing. “Bravery is not the absence of fear, but facing it together.”
Lila felt her heart race, realizing they were at the mercy of the giant. “We can be brave!” she shouted, desperate to break the spell.
With a chilling smile, Mang Kulas leaned closer, shadows swirling around him. “Then let me show you what true fear is.”
Suddenly, the village twisted and contorted, laughter morphing into eerie wails. The children screamed as the shadows enveloped them, darkness creeping in, echoing with their fears.
From that night on, every Friday the 13th, the acacia tree stood as a grim reminder of the giant who watched over them—not as a protector, but as a reminder of the fears that lay in wait, ready to ensnare those who dared forget the power of unity and courage against the haunting darkness.
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