Deal with the Devil - Version 2

“I can’t believe you’d rather travel at this ungodly hour to some forgotten corner of the countryside than have a proper party in the city,” Iphigeneia complained, her voice echoing irritably within the cavernous interior of the old Hispano-Suiza J12 as it lumbered along the narrow provincial road. “And ‘Dios mío’ (‘My God!’) —where did you even find this ancient jalopy? It smells like something crawled in here and died,” she continued, wrinkling her nose at the heavy, funereal scent of leather, oil, and age that clung stubbornly to the 1930s classic Spanish-Swiss limousine. The car, a Hispano Suiza, was far too large for the road, its headlights slicing weakly through the darkness as though intruding where it was not welcome. But it was also astounding that Maria could pilot this vintage classic without raising an eyebrow. “I can’t miss my Aunt Lisa’s ‘anibersaryo ng kamatayan’, Iphigeneia,” Maria replied patiently, for what must have been the tenth time. “And my ‘abuelo’ (grandfather) prefers it when I arrive in his old car. He entrusted it to me on my birthday. It’s a solemn occasion—this car lends it the proper gravity.” “But can’t we just go tomorrow instead?” Iphigeneia pleaded, hugging her coat tighter as the night pressed in. “We’re already on the road. And my grandfather and I promised her—on her deathbed—that we would visit her grave every year. We pray, light candles, and offer. It’s how we remember her… and how we make sure her soul isn’t still wandering,” Maria said quietly. “Besides, we’re only an hour away now.” “Okay. Whatever, girl,” Iphigeneia muttered, slumping back into her seat. “It’s only three days before October thirty-first,” Maria added. “There are preparations to make. Most Filipinos only observe the ‘unang taon ng luksa’—the first death anniversary. But in our family, those who died tragically are remembered every year. Otherwise…” She paused. “Otherwise, spirits don’t always rest.” “Oh my God,” Iphigeneia scoffed. “Where did you dig up all that creepy stuff?” “It isn’t ‘stuff’,” Maria said softly. “And it isn’t creepy. It’s what happened to my family. I’ll explain later.” Silence fell between them, thick and uneasy. The only sound was the deep, rhythmic thrumming of the Hispano-Suiza’s twelve cylinders, like a mechanical heartbeat echoing through the dark night. Maria’s ancestral home lay in an isolated stretch of countryside beyond the old colonial town of Vigan, in Ilocos Sur—a region where Spanish stone houses still cast long shadows, and time itself seemed reluctant to move forward. From Baguio City, the journey took several hours, winding down through La Union via San Fernando and following the western coast of Luzon, where the sea murmured endlessly to the land. Both women worked as legal clerks in Baguio’s local government offices. With their department temporarily closed for renovations, they had been granted several days’ leave. Iphigeneia had imagined cafés, music, and late-night laughter. Maria had said nothing of graves, promises, or restless souls. After hours of driving, a rusted sign emerged in the headlights: ‘VILLA LUCIANO — 2 MILLA’ Arriving at the Villa Maria slowed the car. Moments later, looming iron gates appeared, standing open as if in silent invitation—or warning. Moss clung to the stone pillars like old scars. Maria glanced sideways. Iphigeneia was asleep, her mouth slightly open, oblivious. “Iphigeneia,” Maria said gently. “Wake up. We’re here.” Iphigeneia stirred, yawning. “So… this is the old man’s villa?” “Yes,” Maria replied, maneuvering the old car toward the shadowed entrance and parking near the front steps. “My God,” Iphigeneia breathed. “It’s enormous. And ancient.” “It is,” Maria said with a faint laugh. “And creepy,” Iphigeneia added. “Like something out of a ‘kwento ng multo’ (ghost story).” Maria shrugged. “My grandfather’s too old to maintain it now. After my grandmother and aunt died, it just… stopped being a home. People say it looks abandoned. Haunted, even.” “Yes,” Iphigeneia said quietly. “Haunted. That’s the word.” A smile flickered across her face. “Maybe we’ll see something supernatural inside.” “You think so?” Maria asked, though her voice lacked conviction. … They retrieved their luggage from the trunk and approached the massive oaken door. Maria knocked firmly. “ ‘Abuelo!’” she called. “We’re here.” “I think he’s asleep,” Iphigeneia whispered. “I told him what time we’d arrive.” Maria tried the handle. The door creaked open. They stepped inside. “Let’s go straight to the kitchen,” Maria said. “I’m starving.” “Same. Feed me now or I’ll perish right here and become your next family ghost,” Iphigeneia declared. Maria laughed despite herself. “Where do you get all this energy?” “I’m blessed,” Iphigeneia replied, grinning. They passed through several vast, dimly lit rooms before reaching the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of old rotting wood, extinguished candles, and something else—something stale and watchful. “Why don’t you check on your grandfather?” Iphigeneia asked, sitting down. “I will. After I eat.” The pantry was nearly bare. Maria made do with bread and jam, and a pot of thick hot cocoa. Iphigeneia grimaced but ate hungrily. “I swear,” she said between bites, “tomorrow I’m driving to San Fernando. I need real food.” Maria smiled faintly, then turned toward the staircase. She went to go upstairs.