Anak ng Aswang by Lerah Mae Barcenilla

Wasafiri is proud to publish the 2024 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize shortlisted pieces. In this evocative piece of fiction, Lerah Mae Barcenilla weaves Filipino folklore – specifically a mythical shapeshifting creature or aswang – with a young girl's coming of age.

The 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize is open until 30 June 2025. Read the full guidelines and submit your work.

They called her anak ng aswang.

The child of an aswang.

They said she inherited her father’s temper and her mother’s claws.

They told us to stay away. It was easy enough. Calypso Sinagtala kept to herself for the most part of high school. She often sat alone on the roots of a yellow-petalled tree at the centre of the grounds with a book propped on her bony knees. If she was ever bothered by the incessant whisperings of our classmates, she didn’t show it.

We first met when I was eleven. One hot afternoon, Manang Delores sent me on an errand, said: ‘Ne, can you drop by the tsange to buy some sugar? Just the small bag will do. But stay clear of the Sinagtala house.’

The house was more of a small wooden hut huddled at the edge of our barangay. It was hidden behind a row of trees with drooping branches. We were told that the house was haunted by the ghosts of the aswang’s victims. But on the other side of the road was a small tsange, a store with sloping metal rafters where Manang Antonia hung packets of peanuts on the grated windows and sold cold calamansi juice in the hotter months.

‘Nang Tonia’s away,’ a small voice said from behind me. I tore my eyes away from the shuttered windows and found the night closing in. From behind the bark of a tree with weeping leaves, Calypso carefully stepped out.

Anak ng aswang. I remembered the words whispered across the school grounds, not only by the students gossiping among themselves but by the teachers too when they thought no-one was listening. I remembered Manang Delores’ warning. But Calypso didn’t look like an aswang — not that I’d ever seen one before, but I’d heard stories. She didn’t have the long tongue or rotten wings protruding from her back and her nails were clipped short like mine. She was only a few months older than me but already she moved unlike the others at school — carefully, like a cat would when stalking a bird.

‘Is she?’ I slowly backed away, putting as much distance between us. She didn’t look like an aswang but I remembered that, even then, something about her gaze made me uneasy. ‘I’ll come back next time then. Sorry to bother you.’

‘It’s no bother.’ She made to walk forward but her steps faltered. A small frown appeared on her face. I followed her gaze as they travelled down to my arms before stopping at my hand. I tugged at the red ribbon tied around my wrist. Our grand uncle was a manggagamot; a traditional healer who cured illnesses with native herbal medicine. Mama said he also had the ability to cure illnesses caused by malignant magical beings usually invisible to the naked eye. When we were old enough to venture outside the gates, he gifted us with red ribbons. He said it would keep the monsters away.

When Calypso’s gaze met mine again, I saw my face twisting upside-down in her clear, brown eyes. ‘What did you need?’ The narrow rough path separated us like an ocean.

I glanced back at the closed tsange. I could have returned home, told Manang Delores the store was closed. But there was something about the way Calypso waited patiently on the other side of the road with her hands behind her back.

‘Do you have sugar?’

Her smile looked relieved. She nodded and disappeared through the creaking gates. When she returned, she cradled two medium-sized paper bags in her arms. She stopped at the edge of the road, glanced at me warily before placing them both on the ground, before taking five steps backwards. When I remained on the other side of the road, she motioned towards the paper bags.

‘Thank you.’ I quickly picked them up and made my way down the road towards our house.

Calypso stood there until I turned a corner and the night swallowed her whole.

When Manang Delores asked, I didn’t mention Calypso or her aversion to the colour red or her strange sunlit brown eyes.

We were eighteen when Calypso disappeared for two weeks, returning in the middle of the third with shadows under her eyes.

I found her sitting at her desk with her chin against her hand. She didn’t notice when I sat on the desk in front of her, but when a piece of paper flew across the air and bounced off the side of her hair, those sunlit eyes flickered towards the perpetrator with fire.

‘I saw you yesterday,’ the girl, Magdalena, snickered. ‘Saw the woman who dropped you off at the edge of town.’ Calypso merely raised a delicate brow. ‘Bit too old for a girlfriend, isn’t she?’ A few students giggled. ‘Guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else from an aswang.’ Calypso chuckled at that, turning away from them. Her eyes briefly met mine, the corner of her lips curling into a smile. Magdalena huffed. ‘You think this is funny?’ she whispered. ‘Seems you’ll be taking after your mothe—’

Within the blink of an eye, Calypso had the girl by the collar of her shirt, pressing her against the classroom wall.

‘Get my mother’s name out of your filthy mouth,’ she hissed.

‘Calypso Sinagtala, what do you think you’re doing?’ The maestra had entered in the middle of the commotion and stood in the doorway with a look of absolute shock. Magdalena whimpered. Her neck bloomed with finger-shaped flowers, red against her tanned skin. The maestra crossed the room with big strides, grabbed Calypso by the arm and pulled her towards the door, uncaring for the way her legs collided with the desks. ‘To the Headmistress’ office,’ she hissed. ‘Now.’

It took ten minutes before I made my way down the corridor towards the Headmistress’ office. I found Calypso outside the door, standing against the wall with her arms held up and a book balanced on her head.

She glanced at me, confusion melting into amusement, as I took my spot next to her. ‘What are you out here for?’ The book wobbled precariously on her head when she turned to face the school grounds.

‘I told the maestra what happened.’ I placed my copy of Spanish grammar on top of my head. ‘The others had a different story.’

‘Ah. I’m sorry.’

The curiosity was too much. ‘Where do you disappear to?’ I glanced at her at the corner of my eye, careful to keep my back straight and shoulders steady.

Calypso’s eyes were trained on the courtyard. ‘The city.’ There was a curt end to her syllables that stopped me from asking more. ‘You’ll like it there,’ she said after a while.

We were graduating in less than six months. I was heading to Manila for college.

We stayed like that for a while but when the quiet giggles reached my eyes, I carefully turned to face her. The curve of Calypso’s lips signalled only mischief. My own amused confusion was reflected upside down in her sunlit eyes.

‘What?’ Before I could react, she leaned over until our shoulders collided. I squeaked, losing my balance. The book slipped off my head and fell onto the stone with a loud slapping sound.

I joined in on her laughter. When the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, Calypso quickly placed the book on top of my head with the concentration of an architect before returning to her position against the wall. When the maestra’s shrill, reprimanding voice echoed against the walls, I didn’t care much. I was too distracted by the way Calypso’s eyes disappeared into crescents, how she leaned her head against the wall with an open smile.

Summer passed by swiftly like the wilting of jasmine. My uniform clung to my skin as I made my way through the high school corridors one last time. This time next month, I will be in Manila, chasing after a dream that once belonged to my mother.

A wide archway led into the centre of the school grounds where every morning the Headmistress recited morning prayers beneath the yellow-flowering tree. When I walked under its shadow I heard someone call my name from the branches as though every letter was a petal that the wind might blow away. Calypso studied me from her perch atop a branch, long fingers curving over the peeling wood. She nodded. I took a step backward as she jumped down with the grace of a cat.

She kept her distance, the size of a narrow river between us.

‘When do you leave?’

‘Next month.’

The muscle in her jaw pulsed. She looked towards the silhouette of the mountains in the distance carved with the face of a god. When her gaze returned to meet mine, I saw only shuttered windows. ‘You’ll like the city.’ Her shoulders brushed against mine when she walked past.

I turned around. ‘I’ll be back in the new year—'

Calypso was too close, brows furrowed as she studied my face. When she took a step forward, I took a few steps back until my shoulders hit the bark of the tree. The scent of jasmine spilled from her skin like a monsoon flood.

She waited. I gave a small nod. I closed my eyes. I felt her inhale. Then, her lips, chaste and warm, against mine. The briefest of touches, butterfly wings that left me breathless, hot.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ I felt her whisper against my mouth.

When I opened my eyes Calypso had turned around. She walked away like it burned to be close, so close.

I returned home as one year ended and another began.

That was when I met a black cat without a tail.

I liked to think she was waiting for me.

There was one bus stop in a long strip of the highway outside our barangay. It was the only way one could travel to the city. The cat sat beside the rotten wooden beams. She studied me with sunlit brown eyes as I stepped out of the grumbling bus struggling with my suitcase.

‘Oh, hello.’ The heat bore down on my neck with full force. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ I watched the way my face twisted upside down in her eyes.

The cat didn’t reply but, when I made my way down the narrow path between the rice fields, she followed. It cut between the walls of two houses which led into the road outside our front gates. The cat stayed sitting outside.

Manang Delores spotted her through the sala windows and grabbed one of the feather dusters hanging from the wall. She swiftly made her way to the locked gates. Despite her frantic waving, the cat simply studied her and stayed sitting by the flowering sampaguita.

She said we were being played with by an aswang. Ginahampangan sang aswang. Maybe someone angered them and now there was a black cat without a tail stationed outside our gates watching people walking past. Shapeshifter. Witch. I thought it was all harmless, but for the next few weeks, we attended mass religiously until I could no longer wash the smell of incense and candle-smoke from my skin.

I found Calypso standing among the santan shrubs in the plaza after Sunday mass, studying the marble head of one of our barangay’s founders. It had been months since our paths last crossed. Whenever I returned home she was always away and now, standing beside her, I could see how much she had grown. Her hair reached her curved waist in gentle curls. There was now a sharpness to her jaw and cheekbones. Those penetrating sunlit eyes glanced at me with the sharpness of a blade. She was a few inches taller now too. I understood then, why people looked at Calypso Sinagtala in a particular way. It wasn’t only fear, but a degree of reverence too, something that drew your gaze and forced your attention.

‘How was Manila?’

‘Loud.’

Behind us, hushed whispers rose into a wave. From the church courtyard, two women stumbled out held by the arms by two men. Three more followed as they made their way through the plaza. The men were tall, skin as white as candlewax, blushed crimson under the heat. Their eyes were the blue of ocean water. Though they wore casual beige chinos and short-sleeved white shirts, they walked with the posture of trained soldiers.

‘Oh dear. Seems they were caught hanging around the wrong sort.’ I tilted my head towards the pair of women standing on their tiptoes to see over the flowering orchids. ‘I heard they are messengers for the rebel group.’ I’d heard whispers, of course, of the guerilla group who had set up camp up in the mountains with the face of a god.

Her companion tutted. ‘It’s never worth it.

Calypso stiffened beside me as the two girls and their escorts walked past. One of the girls turned her head in our direction. Fire simmered behind her hazel eyes. They stayed focused on us until she was forced to look away. I glanced at Calypso. That sunlit gaze followed them as the group turned towards the edge of the barangay. Her jaw was clenched. I reached for her hand and unfurled her fingers. She hissed like my touch burned and made to pull away. But I tightened my grip, traced the moon-shaped indents on her palm.

‘Do you know her?’

Calypso didn’t reply. She wrenched her hand away from my grasp. And, without looking back, she walked away.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, I cared for the books in our barangay library. It was the perfect refuge from the heat. A few high school students had a similar idea. They huddled together around a table, each one with a book propped open in front of them.

‘What a pretty librarian.’ A gruff voice said followed by the gust of warm air from the closing door.

One of the five men back in the church courtyard smiled down at me. The students peered over their books curiously.  He wasn’t from around here. His skin was alabaster, eyes of the bluest seas and he spoke our language with an odd twang, like the syllables didn’t quite belong in his mouth.

I smiled back. ‘Is there anything you were looking for in particular?’ I ignored the prickles of unease running down my neck.

‘Yes, actually.’ He glanced around the room before leaning over the desk until I could smell the sharp sour odour of his perfume. I wrinkled my nose. ‘Have you seen anything out of the ordinary around these parts?’

I blinked at him, tempted to reply: ‘The only thing out of the ordinary around these parts is you.’ But I had a feeling he didn’t mean that. I shrugged. ‘No, not that I’ve seen.’

‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. I could feel his gaze at the side of my face as I returned to sorting through the books. ‘I heard there was an odd family here. Sinagtala, was it?’ My hands faltered. He must have noticed. He leaned forward even closer. ‘I’ve seen their daughter around the town centre. Always wondered why everyone else in this town’s so wary of her.’ When I turned my attention back to him, he smiled, showing bone white teeth. ‘I saw you with her outside the church this morning.’ He tilted his head to the side. ‘Is it because she is an aswang?’ I raised a brow, wondering how he knew of such a term. ‘I heard those monsters are terrifying.’ I shrugged. He sighed and turned away, tugging uneasily at his shirt. Before he left, I heard him mutter under his breath: ‘Can’t believe you people believe in such things in the first place.’           

When stars spilled onto the street, I made my way home with a stack of books. Through the trees, I spotted the Sinagtala house. I stopped in my tracks. The curtains were drawn but light peeked through. I glanced at my wrist, at the red band that had been with me since I was a child. I remembered Calypso’s distance, how much it might’ve hurt her to be close – if the stories were true. I set down the books on the wall by the old tsange, tried to tug at the ribbon but it wasn’t until I used my teeth that it became undone.

‘You’re out late.’ Calypso stood under the weeping tree. When she took a small step towards me, I caught the flicker of surprise on her face. She glanced down at my bare wrist, then to the stack of books by my side. ‘Can I help?’

I stopped her with a hand around her wrist. I’d been mulling it over. Her frequent disappearances and travels to the city, the rumours of aswang living in the mountains, the rebel group, the foreigners.

‘Clever girl.’ She leaned over to place a kiss on my temple. Calypso reached into the collar of her shirt. With one hand, she held my wrist and with another she pressed something warm into my palm. ‘I’ll be away for a few months this time.’

‘Where will you go?’ I kept my hand curled around her gift.

‘To the city.’

That was the last time I saw Calypso Sinagtala.

Every few days I would search for her, but the Sinagtala house remained empty, unlit.

Days turned to weeks to months and still, there was no sign of her. But there had been whispers, of course, always whispers. After all, her disappearance coincided with the day the strange men left our barangay never to return.

Some say she’d been taken.

By the men. By an aswang. By the rebels who used to live up in the mountains.

Some say she simply left.

But I kept her gift: a black stone pendant in the shape of a black chick. When I curled my fingers around it, the stone hummed against my palm, alive and breathing.

The 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize is open for submissions until 30 June 2025. Submit here.

Photo: Habib M'henni, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons