It’s him.
At first, I didn’t recognize him. That night, I saw a twisted face and fangs. I saw the blood-red thread and followed it to the roof.
And I saw the monster.
The fangs are replaced by a gleeful smile and the hair is slicked back with too much pomade, but it’s the same face.
I ask around and find out that his name is Fortunato Leviste. He’s in the area trying to get some votes to be the governor.
If only they knew.
Growing up we’d be told to be careful in the night, especially if we were sick. There were creatures that flew through the moonlit sky, ready to land on your roof and feast on your bowels.
My lola told me a story once about these monsters. She said they were beautiful, with ivory-white skin and alluring eyes. Men were warned against this beauty though, for it was said that they marry their victims and flee, never to be seen again.
Maybe he’s doing the same here. He’s handsome and mestizo, charming every woman in the room. They’re practically falling over themselves to have a conversation with him.
But one thing keeps nagging me.
Mananaggal are only female, right?
I think back to all the stories.
Women that remove the upper half of their bodies.
Women with batlike wings.
Women that can’t reconnect their lower parts if it’s covered with ash, vinegar or salt.
Women with a threadlike tongue that sucks the bowels of their victims and feast on them.
No.
I know what I saw.
He’s standing four feet away from me and laughing.
I wonder what he’s thinking about. His next victim perhaps?
I won’t let that happen.
Not after what I’ve seen.
I follow him out the door into the street. The smell of tobacco cloyingly lingers on my nose.
He sees me and his smile widens.
Then I tell him I know what he is and I know what he tried to do to me. I tell him I won’t let that happen, that there would be no more victims.
And then he laughs.
He tells me I’m just a hysterical girl.
Who would believe me?
The police?
My friends?
My family?
What could they do?
He walks by me and looks me in the eye. Fear rolls down my spine.
“I’m going to go ahead,” he says “I haven’t had dinner.”
I could feel his tongue get longer, long enough to reach the back of my neck.
I fall to the ground, tears streaming down my face.
No.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I find out where he’s staying.
And prepare.
Salt, garlic and a knife.
I hope this is enough.
Please God, let this be enough.
*The Iqui is also known as Ikki / Ike
Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza
Story inspired by the Iqui description in Creatures of Philippine Lower Mythology. Ramos. 1971.
Iqui Illustration by Michael Sean B. Talavera
IG: @maykelshan
Deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/isaneleach13