#ecwffs

note:

i just, uh, started thinking about what our characters would think about us. thought it would be, uh, cute but my mind was leaning more towards a dark theme so, here we are.

this kind of sucks, i think. i'm just trying to get over this slump with red complex. tbh.

there might be a lot of these in the next few days. so, just ignore me.

The civil guards stationed in the village were on the lookout for a criminal, a serial murderer. He was the first one in the history of the entire colony. He was a menace, targeting women and children. No matter who they are, how rich or poor, as long as they’d satisfy him. Their pleading cries and muffled screams for help were music to his ears. No one had escaped his grasps.

He was fast like the wind, slippery like an eel. A master of disguise too. On most days, he would be an Indio, a sweaty native plowing the fields, seemingly hard at work, but attentive to any unfamiliar onlookers and civil guards out of uniform. Sometimes, he’d be an Ilustrado, prim and proper. One of the young men in line for succession clad in suits, privileged with the highest quality of education available. And no one would ever think such a man would taint themselves with blood and crime. An immature notion, really. Around these parts, intellect comes with power. And power deranges a man.

No one knew what he really was.

With the number of lives increasing than their arrests, the civil guards grew mad and strict. They were ordered to patrol for longer hours, even beyond the pay grade they received. The first murder was that of a native woman, but no one seated in law enforcement cared. Not until a Principalia had demanded his daughter’s assailant be found. Ever since then, civil guards had taken records of every murder committed with the same motif.

Tonight, he was on his third kill of the year, seventeen overall. He carved the number on the back of the body, keeping count of his deed. And a reminder of his pursuers’ incompetence. The blood streaming off the woman’s body colored the white sheets like art often seen inside the Galleons.

With his bloody shirt and knife in hand, he carefully slipped out of the victim’s home. But the natives have prayed every day and night for his arrest; and for Sitan to take him to the depths of his punishing realm and make him suffer after he dies. And when he heard the shouts of civil guards, he ran.

His fast steps took him through the farming field towards the forest, confident of his speed to stir away from the bullets’ path. No one had ever caught sight of him before, and he’s determined to keep it that way.

He rustled through many bushes and skipped over dead woods. The forest was oddly loud, as if the guardians were helping him escape the guards. Or perhaps protesting his inhumanity.

Then, everything went silent—no stridulating of crickets, footsteps of the civil guards, or even the low howl of the wind.

He passed through the barrier, finally.

The moon shined brightly where he stood as he composed himself. The civil guards seemed to have lost their way when he reached the clearing. But he remained on alert. The area was quite odd, it looked as if it didn’t belong with the rest of the forest. It was a world of its own.

And it felt too familiar to him.

A thin mist was masking the woods around the clearing and the dew sparkled like crystals reflecting the moonlight. He felt as if the guardians of the forest were indeed helping him escape his demise.

But he stood corrected.

A floating ball of blue ligh—No, a floating blue fireball appeared in front of him. He was frozen, the proximity of it too close.

Everyone who grew up in the village, in the entire archipelago knew what it is. To outsiders, it could only be a mere weather phenomenon. But to natives and believers, they’re much more than what the current science perceived it to be.

Santelmo, a fireball soaring above ground. The same one in front of him right now. He never believed those folklores. Those tall tales. Stories elders used to tell children to keep them inside at night. Deranged narratives fishermen rambled on while they drown themselves in Tubâ.

Natives believed that a Santelmo brings bad luck to those who’d see it, causing confusion and misdirection, especially to travelers. A creature derived from the soul of those who was murdered, their graves unmarked in isolated places such as this mystic glade.

Another fireball appeared behind the first one. Then another. And another one, until the whole clearing seemed to be filled by its blazing blue light.

Slowly, the first one turned to face him. Its calm visage and long limbs finally in sight. It had a face of a woman, much like the one he encountered earlier; the blood of her still drying on his clothes, sticking on his skin.

Something was drawing him to touch the glowing creature. And he did. True to what the stories told, the fire didn’t burn him, but he felt extremely cold; colder than the sea at night.

He held the creature in his hands, completely captured by its light. The Santelmo’s eyes opened abruptly, startling him. He took a step back but he couldn’t remove his hands. He was starting to feel much colder than a moment ago. Its long limbs reach out to his face, imitating his action. That’s when he realized, he was done for.

What he didn’t know about these particular Santelmos, was that they existed for a reason—revenge. And this glade was made specifically for him.

Once his eyes were locked with the Santelmo’s fiery ones, and his hand completely intact with it, he was sent to a deep spiral of memories. Reels of someone else’s life kept flashing in front of him at the speed of light. It felt like he was reliving her life from the moment her eyes laid upon the world until the moment she died.

But her death wasn’t natural. She was murdered. The poor woman was taken advantage of when she was sleeping. She was tied with the rips of her thin sheets to the frame of her wooden bed. She pleaded for him to stop, for mercy. But the man holding her down was getting worried the neighborhood would wake. He was quick to shatter the lamp on her bedside and used the largest shard to strike her heart and stop it from beating.

He was the man. He killed her.

The man stumbled back, out of breath and in excruciating pain. He was mortified, questioning everything he’d ever done. The pleasure all those crimes gave him was replaced with horror. Every hit he had on those women, he felt it too. And he didn’t want them for himself.

But it was too late for him to realize that. Too late to turn a new leaf, too late to ask for forgiveness. The gods had already sealed his fate.

The rest of the Santelmos, closed in on him., surrounding him with their cold heat and blinding blue light. All of them had their limbs reaching down for him, eager to have him a taste of what he had done. To feel the knife on his back, carving a number with a knife. To have him feel the blood spilling out of their bodies with his every strike.

That’s what they all wanted. Something a prayer nor a lit candle could never achieve.

Every blazing hand that touched him made him go through all their lives at once. He kept shouting for help, hoping the civil guards could hear him beyond the barrier of the glade. Whatever verdict they plan to cast upon him was certainly better than this.

There was no hope for him, not anymore. He took the hope of many, hope for a future. Hope for many things. So why would he deserve it?

His mind couldn’t take much more of it, but he kept feeling every emotion they had while still alive. The pain he caused coursed through his body until his whole being gave up, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

And died.

One by one, the Santelmos disappeared, their purpose finally achieved. The barrier of the glade was no more. And when morning came, civil guards had found the body of a man, crows gathered around him. He was the man they were pursuing all night. The man who was a serial murderer, the first one in the history of the colony.

And he will never kill again.

Glossary:

I threw a few terms in the story (all italicized) that might not be familiar to everyone who read it. So, here’s a list.

Civil guards – or guardia civil, the law enforcement during the colonial era in the Philippines.

Indio – a term Spanish colonizers used to refer to the locals and natives of the archipelago, usually with the intent to insult.

Ilustrado – basically those who were able to avail education during the colonial era.

Principalia – the noble, ruling class.

Galleons – in the story, I was referring to the cargo ships used in the Galleon Trade.

Tubâ – a Filipino alcoholic drink made from the sap of palm trees. I tried it before, not my drink. LOL.

Sitan – basically, Satan, guardian of Kasamaan (which is Hell.)

Santelmo – I describe this creature as a blue fireball, with a face and long limbs. In the illustration of this book, a Santelmo looked like this:

A note from Aye:

Thank you for reading! I met the deadline! Honestly, I was struggling to finish this very very short story. I hope the story was an interesting read and I hope it was okay overall (especially to writersnet. Thank you for having this event! Hope y’all are well and having a great day/night!) This is the first time I’m submitting my work for a writeblr event so I’m kind of nervous about it.