I
I am Enrico. I live in the town of Antipolo. Halfway through my university studies, my living expenses became impossible to sustain. The money my parents sent was no longer enough, so I posted an ad on Facebook. I had no experience, and I was driven more by desperation than good judgment, so I made an offer as broad as it was vague:
"I will do anything for ten thousand pesos. This is no joke. I will do anything within my physical means, whatever I am capable of doing right here, in exchange for that amount."
At first, nothing happened. Weeks passed and I forgot about the post — until one night I received a message. It came from Mindanao. The sender was named Allan.
"I need you to pray for me. I am very ill. I will pay you one thousand five hundred pesos if you perform a simple ritual at three o'clock in the morning."
One thousand five hundred pesos.
I thought it was a joke.
Or a scam.
I didn't reply.
Two weeks later, I had no money left for food. I opened the refrigerator in my boarding room and all I found was a bottle of sauce and a warm beer. The electricity had also been cut off because of unpaid bills.
That was when I remembered Allan.
I reopened our conversation.
"What do I need to do?"
The reply came almost immediately, as if he had been waiting in front of his screen.
"A prayer. Nothing more."
I was to light three candles at three in the morning and read aloud a text he would send me.
I asked to see it first.
Moments later, I received the document. I understood almost nothing of it. It appeared to be a prayer directed at something called Ak Tuna, Ak Esiyen — not any god, spirit, or entity I had ever heard of. At the end was a sequence of words with no clear meaning, meant to be repeated seven times.
"Ak Tuna, Ak Esiyen… Ak Tuna, Ak Esiyen… Ak Tuna, Ak Esiyen…"
I had no idea what it was. But I spoke the words.
I assumed it was some sort of superstition, a religious charm, or a custom I simply didn't know.
"This isn't harmful, is it?" I asked. "It is just a prayer," he replied.
I accepted.
Minutes later, the money appeared in my GCash account.
One thousand five hundred pesos.
I had never seen that much money come so easily.
I spent half of it before I even began the task.
II
School break started and I went home to my parents' town in Leyte. My family had temporarily moved into my grandmother Lucia's house. She was beginning to show signs of dementia and they didn't want to leave her alone.
The house was old. Very old.
It stood in a quiet provincial town where time seemed to slow down, never rushing like it did in the city.
The moment I arrived, the air felt different — clean, fragrant, alive. It carried the scent of damp earth, fresh grass, ripe fruit, and ancient wood. Afternoons brought a gentle coolness that brushed against the skin; nights grew cold enough to make you reach for a thick blanket. No traffic noise — only the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves, and far away, the song of birds settling to rest.
The house itself was built of thick stone and wood darkened by age, yet still strong — standing like a sentinel watching over the past. The floorboards were polished, their grain and patterns revealed by years of wear, creaking softly with every step. Windows were tall, fitted with glass long grown slightly dim, draped with curtains that brushed the air whenever they were opened. Inside, it smelled of dry wood, incense, and cooking — the enduring scent of home. Sunlight filtered in gently, casting a warm golden glow across every corner. For all its age, it felt safe — like an embrace from the past that had never let go.
Towering trees, flowering shrubs, and lush green lawns surrounded the house. Stone paths led to the garden and a nearby stream where the water ran clear and cold. In the distance, hills covered in forest turned golden as the sun set. No high-rises blocked the view — the sky felt wider, bluer than anything I saw in the city. Quiet, but not empty — alive with the sounds of nature.
The people of the town were kind and genuine. Their skin held the golden hue of the sun, their smiles came from the heart — no pretense, no performance. They moved at a pace set by the sun, not by clocks. Everyone knew everyone; visitors were welcomed fully, fed, listened to. My family was part of this — simple in their ways, bound together, caring deeply for Grandma Lucia with patience and devotion.
Animals lived alongside us, part of the household and the land. Chickens wandered freely through the yard, foraging and greeting the morning. Dogs lay in the shade of trees, loyal and watchful, rising only to welcome those who came. Farther out, cattle and carabaos grazed peacefully — gentle, steady, quiet partners in daily life. All lived together, moving lightly, at peace — mirroring the stillness that filled the whole place.
Here, amid this quiet and loving family, with the wind moving through old trees and the house breathing at its own slow rhythm — I knew I had to do what I had agreed to. Three candles, three in the morning, words I did not understand, and the name… Ak Tuna, Ak Esiyen.
III
The walls were stone, cracked and weathered; ceilings were high, so that every sound seemed to echo. Large doors groaned as if in pain even when no one touched them. In the living room hung a mounted deer head. As a child, I avoided looking directly at it — it felt as though its eyes followed me across the room.
Grandma used to say that beneath the beds lived old women who had lost their way.
Not ghosts. Not demons.
Just old women.
Dirty, ragged things, hiding there to watch children while they slept.
I never saw them, but for years I felt movement beneath the mattress. One night I woke crying, and Grandma came into the room carrying a bucket she used as a chamber pot.
"Don't be afraid. They'll be leaving now."
She pulled back the blanket and emptied the bucket onto the floor under the bed.
"You shameless old things," she muttered. "That's how you leave."
Then she covered me up and turned off the light, as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world.
The house felt sick. As if something broken in my family had been trapped within these walls, breathing along with us.
Grandma's room was filled with holy images, crucifixes, and burning candles.
She also owned a doll — something she carried everywhere.
No one knew where it came from.
One day it simply appeared among her things.
She would set it at the table, lay it beside her, and in the afternoons place it by the window, facing the street.
"It listens to me," she would say.
My father thought it best to just let her be.
"As long as she's peaceful, let it be," he said.
Then one night, I remembered the ritual.
The instructions were clear: three o'clock in the morning.
I thought Grandma's room would be the perfect place. No one would disturb me, and in any case, we took turns staying with her.
"I'll stay with Grandma tonight," I said at dinner.
No one found it strange.
At exactly three, I lit the candles.
Three small yellow flames filled the room with soft light.
Grandma sat on the bed. The doll rested in her lap.
"What are you doing, grandchild?" she asked. "Just something I need to do," I said.
She looked at the candles and smiled.
"Ah… that again."
A chill ran through me. I looked at her.
"What do you mean?"
She said nothing.
I placed one candle before me and the other two on either side, just as the document directed. I unfolded the paper and began to read:
"O great lord of the night, Ak Tuna, Ak Esiyen, open your dwelling so that I may witness your true power, your light, and your warmth. Guide me through the night so that I may behold your being. Fill your flock and quench your thirst, and make me the bearer of your word and your presence."
At first the prayer seemed ridiculous — yet something about it unsettled me deeply. It spoke of opening a door, crossing over, letting something unknown in.
Grandma began to laugh.
Then she clapped.
I tried to ignore her and raised my voice, hoping to quiet her. But she repeated every word after me, growing more amused as she stroked the doll's hair.
Suddenly she stopped laughing.
"You don't know what you're doing, grandchild."
The paper slipped from my hand.
Her voice had changed.
Not completely.
Just enough to make my blood run cold.
"What did you say?" I asked.
She smiled and stroked the doll again.
I kept reading. The text gave instructions to walk in a pattern facing the four directions. At the end was a line no translation could identify:
"Crossing over the west, awaken the sleeping shadows so that your army may gather and walk with you toward the greatness of the universe for all eternity."
Below it was written:
"Urm. Raj cisclusta ubaneh kazz po gherrám."
I was to repeat it seven times.
I spoke slowly, struggling over every syllable.
"Urm. Raj cisclusta ubaneh kazz po gherrám."
Grandma repeated it.
Perfectly. Exactly.
I stared at her.
I had struggled to pronounce those words — and she had never seen the paper.
"How did you know that?" I asked, trembling.
She didn't answer.
I read it again.
She repeated it again.
On the third time, she stood up.
She began circling the candles with an agility no one her age should have.
She was smiling — but her lips did not move in time with the words.
That was when I realized — the voice was not coming from her.
It was coming from the doll.
My eyes went wide. Above everything else, my own heart thudded loud in my ears. I stood frozen as the scene unfolded. I lost track of time. Grandma stopped moving, and slowly, calmly, she returned to her bed as if she had done nothing tiring at all.
She lifted the doll to face her, stroked its hair, and said with a gentle smile: "He doesn't know what he's doing." She laughed softly, then lay down, holding the doll close.
I had no idea how I would sleep. I turned over and over, filled with confusion, fear, and doubt. I closed my eyes, telling myself this would all pass.
IV
Morning came. I tried to convince myself it was all in my head.
Maybe she was just repeating sounds she had heard.
Maybe the doll had some mechanism I hadn't seen.
A few weeks later, my brother and I sat with her in the living room. She held the doll.
"Grandma, why do you talk to it?" my brother asked. "Because it listens," she said. "Go on then — make it speak."
Grandma brought the doll close to her mouth and whispered something in its ear.
We waited.
Nothing.
My brother laughed.
"There you go."
Grandma kept whispering.
Just as we were about to stand up, we heard a faint sound.
"Heeeeellloooo…"
The voice was metallic, rough — as if every word scraped its way up a diseased throat.
The smile vanished from my brother's face. He snatched the doll from her hands.
"I know what this is. Batteries," he said — but his voice shook.
He pried open the compartment on its back.
He froze.
"What?" I stepped closer.
It was empty.
No batteries. No wires.
No speaker. Nothing.
He dropped the doll back into Grandma's lap.
Neither of us touched it again.
The doll just sat there, watching us.
V
Weeks passed. My throat began to hurt.
At first it felt like something was stuck there. I thought it was just a sore throat. Then the feeling of something lodged there never went away. I went to the doctor expecting medicine.
After many tests, the result came.
Throat cancer.
When I started hearing voices, I told myself it was the treatment making things feel strange. But as I listened to that endless whispering, I remembered something I had spent years trying to forget.
The old women under the bed.
My condition worsened quickly. I stayed at Grandma's house through the treatment. Tests and medicines drained me — but the nights destroyed me.
When the house fell quiet, the noises began.
First soft: wood creaking, footsteps in empty rooms, knocking from inside the walls.
Then whispering.
I thought it came from outside — until I realized it was coming from inside the house itself.
The doll whispered from dark corners.
The walls repeated words no one had spoken.
Once, passing through the living room, I heard the voice coming from the deer head on the wall.
All the voices said the same thing:
"Urm. Raj cisclusta ubaneh kazz po gherrám."
One night I dreamed. A man sat by my bed.
He said his name was Allan.
He thanked me. He said he was feeling better.
Much better.
"Your voice…" he whispered close to my ear, "it is growing stronger. We are growing."
I didn't understand what he meant.
I looked toward the dark. At the far end of the room, the doll stood there. And it was smiling.
I woke up gasping, soaked in sweat.
I told myself it was just a dream — sickness, medication, fear.
Then I remembered what Grandma used to do. In the yard she grew red hibiscus. As a child I would pluck petals and float them in a basin of warm water, then sit and stare, breathing slowly.
"It calms the mind," she said. "And sometimes it shows you what is normally hidden."
I didn't know then if she was serious.
That night I prepared the basin. My mother helped me, then left me alone.
I closed my eyes.
Breathed slowly.
I focused only on the air moving in and out.
For the first time in weeks, there was silence.
But it was too deep, too still. I opened my eyes.
The doll sat across from me, beside the basin.
I hadn't brought it there.
"Jasmín?" I said — I don't know why I knew that name.
Slowly, the doll's head tilted.
Its eyes, once lifeless, seemed to look directly into me. The water in the basin was perfectly still — a mirror. And what I saw reflected was not my face.
VI
Then it moved.
I felt its small hands close around my throat, pushing my face into the water.
It was light as any doll — yet its arms held with impossible strength. I kicked the basin away, thrashed, and finally broke free.
I threw it against the wall.
It hit — and stood upright.
Its mouth opened.
"Urm. Raj cisclusta ubaneh kazz po gherrám."
I ran from the room, barefoot, down the hallway.
Passing Grandma's room, I stumbled.
Something had my ankle.
I looked under the bed.
Two hands reached out of the dark.
Then more.
Bony fingers closed around my legs, pulling me down.
From beneath, women laughed.
"You will never escape us."
I clung to the doorframe. The saints and crosses on the wall — things that once gave comfort — now seemed powerless.
I made the sign of the cross. I closed my eyes.
But the pull grew stronger, dragging me down.
Then I remembered what Grandma used to say.
I gathered every bit of strength I had left.
"Get out! All of you — leave!"
The laughter stopped.
The hands loosened.
I kept shouting until I broke
free.
I ran for the main door.
It was locked. I had no key.
For the first time, I understood exactly how Grandma must have felt every time we shut her inside to keep her from wandering out alone.
The house had fallen completely silent.
I sank onto a bench in the living room, struggling to catch my breath.
Straight ahead hung the deer’s head on the wall.
I closed my eyes.
Breathed in.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Hssssst…”
My eyes flew open.
Nothing there.
“Hey, grandchild…”
It was Grandma’s voice.
But she was not in the room.
“Up here.”
I lifted my gaze.
The deer was watching me.
Its snout parted slowly.
“Getting a little mystical, aren’t we, child?”
My stomach knotted tight.
“You aren’t real,” I said.
The deer smiled.
I do not know how a dead animal’s head can smile — but it did.
“All that searching and you still haven’t learned the truth.”
The walls began to murmur.
Then the doll.
Then something from beneath the sofa.
And finally — the whole house.
“Urm. Raj cisclusta ubaneh kazz po gherrám.”
I clamped my hands over my ears.
The voices swelled, pouring from every room, from the ceiling, from the floorboards beneath my feet — closing in from all sides.
The deer’s jaws kept moving.
“Urm. Raj cisclusta ubaneh kazz po gherrám.”
That night I knew silence could only come by ending it all.
I remember opening the window.
I remember the cold air.
I remember jumping.
Then I woke with a start — safe in my own bed.
The window was shut.
I could not tell whether it had all been a dream.
But the voices had stopped.
They never returned.
The house stayed quiet.
So did the doll.
The cancer, though — it kept advancing.
In time, I understood what had truly happened.
I looked for Allan.
His account no longer existed.
I read through our messages again and again — until I saw what I had missed the first time.
He never asked me to pray for him.
He only needed someone else to speak the words.
Perhaps the ritual did work.
Perhaps for one to heal, another must fall ill.
Perhaps someone must accept the pact without ever knowing.
Perhaps someone must read the words. That is why I wrote this story.
Not to excuse myself.
Not to ask for pity.
I needed someone to reach this far.
I needed you to read them.
“Urm. Raj cisclusta ubaneh kazz po gherrám.”
I thought they were only words, too.
Thank you for reading.
Now the pact is yours as well.
THE END
