MANANANGGAL (2018)
(Cover art by Karl Lundstedt)
If you're in New York City and looking for anything of Filipino origin, your best bet is Little Manila. Located in Woodside, Queens, the nine-block neighborhood is home to some 13,000 Filipinos. It was also home to the recent wholesale slaughter of pregnant women.
John F. Kennedy International Airport, Tuesday, June 13th, 6:00 p.m. Corazon Bautista, 27, was a top fashion model in Southeast Asia. Her agent, deciding it was time his client broke through in the States, booked her several gigs in New York. Corzaon flew from Manila to Tokyo and on to JFK. By the time her connector flight set down, she was famished. Corazon knew exactly what to eat and where to find it. She needed only to get there before nightfall.
Roosevelt Avenue, Queens, 9:30 p.m. Dalisay Parungao, 23, was walking home from her fast-food job at Jollibee. She was four months pregnant with her first child and about to marry the baby's father. Dalisay thought herself the happiest woman alive. Minutes later, she wasn't alive at all.
I was at home watching a DVD when the call came in on my police-band radio. I should have turned the damned thing off and watched my movie in blessed ignorance. But my newsman's instinct had kicked in, so off I went to Queens.
I parked the Yellow Submarine next to a police car. EMTs were tending to the body as police questioned people and kept rubberneckers at bay. A plainclothes African-American woman dealt with a minuscule lady of about 75. She stood with a Filipino man in his 20s and screamed hysterically. She kept repeating the same thing: “Manananggal! Manananggal!” The young man held her arm and spoke soothingly in a foreign tongue.
I approached the plainclothes, a middle-aged woman with a badge hanging around her neck. “Excuse me? Captain?”
“Who are you?”
“Carl Kolchak. I'm a reporter.” I showed her my press credentials.
Her eyes narrowed. “I've heard of you.”
“Oh, that doesn't sound good.”
“You're right; it doesn't.”
I returned to the subject at hand. “So what happened here, Captain, um...?”
“Roberts. Sheila Roberts. A young lady was killed.”
“How?”
The old woman repeated, “Manananggal!”
“What is she saying?” I asked.
“I don't speak her language,” said the captain. “I don't even know what language it is.”
The young man said, “It's Tagalog. My grandmother doesn't speak English.”
I asked him, “What's that word she keeps saying?”
“It's nothing; she's hysterical. The dead girl was her granddaughter. And my cousin.”
“Oh! I'm terribly sorry. But your grandmother sounds awfully sure of herself. And you sure it's nothing?”
Captain Roberts said, “Yeah, he's sure. Now I need you to leave these folks alone. They just suffered a tragedy.” To the young man, “Why don't you take your grandmother home?”
He said something to the old woman in Tagalog and they left.
The captain told me, “Kolchak, I know you got a job to do, so go ahead and do it. But you impede my investigation and you're outta here.”
I walked to the alley where the dead woman lay. EMTs were lifting her onto a stretcher. I asked to get some pictures.
One EMT said, “I don't think you're going to want to print this.”
I saw what he meant. The victim's stomach had a hole maybe a quarter-inch wide. Blood covered, and had congealed, on her abdomen. I pulled out my camera and snapped away.
I asked the EMT, “What happened to her?”
“The fetus was taken from the womb.”
“Whaaat? How can that be? Look at the hole; it's too small.”
“I know, but that's still what happened. It's like the killer sucked the baby out with a straw.”
That was a mental image I did not need. “So, where's the fetus?”
“It's not here.”
“The killer took the fetus?”
“I don't know, sir. You'll have to ask the police.”
A fat lot of good that would do.
Wednesday morning, June 14th. I stopped in at the city morgue to see my old pal, Gordon Spangler, A/K/A Gordy the Ghoul. He stood near the wall of drawers with his supervisor, Dr. Carol Huizenga, a stern-looking heavyset woman of 60 whose humorless face was topped with a tight gray bun.
I said, “Oh, sorry. Didn't know you were busy.”
Dr. Huizenga said, “Are you Kolchak?”
“Um, yes.”
“Come in.”
I didn't like the sound of that.
“I was telling Mr. Spangler that it's both illegal and unethical to sell information on our decedents for personal gain.”
Gordy said, “And I was telling Dr. Huizenga, I couldn't agree more.”
“Well,” I said, “I wouldn't want to intrude on your meeting, so I'll just be on my way.”
Dr. Huizenga said, “Not so fast!”
I gulped.
“I was going to further advise Mr. Spangler that the law can be quite flexible, and that my personal ethics are on a sliding scale.”
My eyebrows raised. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning,” she said, “that if you cut me in, I'm willing to look the other way.”
Gordy and I each broke out in smiles. I said, “Dr. Huizenga, I think we'll get along just fine!”
“Very good,” she said. “I'll leave the two of you alone to discuss business. But remember: I expect an envelope every Friday. And, Mr. Spangler? If you get caught, it's your ass, not mine.”
“I understand fully,” said Gordy. Once she had left, “How about that?”
“Good news for us both. Now, about the young Filipino woman….”
“Just a moment.” Gordy held out his hand. “And now that I have a partner, I'll need to charge more.”
Instead of the usual $25, I pulled twice that much out of my wallet. I'd get it back from I.N.S. I just had to come up with something creative for my expense account.
Gordy pocketed the cash and opened the drawer with the decedent inside. As I got a closer look at the hole in her stomach, Gordy pulled Dalisay Parungao's file.
“The M.E. says she died of massive blood loss after a four-month-old fetus was taken from her womb. Judging from the size of the hole, it likely was done with a tube of some kind. And here's the best part: the wound contains traces of saliva, only half of which is human.”
“What's the other half?”
“He didn't know; couldn't match the DNA to any known database.”
Vincenzo would love that.
“Carl, this is not the assignment I gave you.”
I stood in front of Tony Vincenzo's desk.
“I know, but when I heard the call on my police radio, I just had to check it out.”
“Would you mind terribly if I decide who gets which stories around here? That's why my nameplate says Editor-in-Chief.”
“Tony, somebody—or something—killed that young woman and sucked out her unborn child!”
Vincenzo, taking a bite out of a danish, suddenly looked nauseous. “And what is this about the DNA being only half-human?”
“That's what the M.E.'s report said.”
“And where's the report, Carl? I haven't seen it.”
“That's because you're sitting on your butt, eating danishes, while I'm out gathering information!”
“How about gathering information on the story you're supposed to be writing? That is what we pay you for.” He crumpled up my story and put it in the trashcan.
“You know what, Vincenzo? You're not a newshound; you're a news mouse.”
“Out!”
65th Place, Queens, Wednesday, June 14th, 10:00 p.m. Tala Mendoza, 32, stood in the dimly-lit parking lot behind her building. She had just lit a cigarette. Pregnant with her fourth child, Tala had tried to cut back on her smoking, but without luck. She only hoped it would not affect her new baby any more than it had the first three. Mrs. Mendoza never got the chance to find out.
Though it still wasn't my assignment, I drove to Little Manila to cover the murder. I saw Captain Roberts, who rolled her eyes when she saw me approach her.
“Captain, who's the victim?”
“No comment.”
“Another pregnant woman?”
“No comment,” Roberts repeated.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
“I don't care how you take it. Just keep my name out of your damned paper.”
“It's a wire service, not a paper.”
“Like I give a shit.” She walked away.
I looked at Tala Mendoza's body. As with last night's victim, she had a quarter-inch hole in her stomach. I asked an EMT, “Is the fetus gone?”
“Looks that way.”
Whether or not Captain Roberts would admit it, Little Manila had a serial killer. This gave me a Herculean task: persuading a certain editor of that. But as fate would have it, I didn't need to.
69-10 Roosevelt Avenue, Queens, Thursday, June 15th, 11:00 p.m. Fritzie's Bake Shop specialized in traditional Filipino fare along with cakes, coffee and donuts. Once they had closed for the night, Jasmine Pilar, 19, stood out front and offered a service of her own--one she hoped would raise enough money to end her unplanned pregnancy. It ended a few minutes later, along with her young life.
Vincenzo called me himself. “You wanted to report on those dead pregnant women? The assignment is yours. Now get your ass to Woodside; there's another victim.”
“So, you finally admit it. I was right the whole time.”
“Just go!”
It was pure disarray. The dead woman lay on the sidewalk while police fired into the air and civilians ran for cover. I looked up and saw a winged figure soaring above the building. It looked like a huge bat but appeared to have human arms. The figure was gone before I could pull out my camera.
Captain Roberts ordered, “Cease firing! And get those civilians outta here.”
I noticed the old woman from two nights before. She stood with her grandson and screamed, “Manananggal! Manananggal!”
I approached them. “Hello. I believe we met the other night.”
“Yes,” the grandson replied. “You're the reporter.”
“Carl Kolchak. I never got your names.”
“Mauricio Balinton. My grandmother's name is Umpeylia.”
“Did you see what happened?”
The old woman grabbed my arm and repeated, “Manananggal!”
I asked Mauricio, “What is that word she keeps saying?”
Soothingly, he spoke Umpeylia in Tagalog, but the old woman was having none of it. “No!Manananggal!”
I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder: Captain Roberts.
“Kolchak, what have I told you about harassing my witnesses?”
“I'm not harassing! I'm asking questions. You know, like a reporter is supposed to do?”
“Yeah? Well, go ask your questions somewhere else. I need to talk to these people.”
I gave Mauricio a business card. “Call me when you get a chance?”
I made my way to the murder scene and overheard two officers talking.
“What the hell was that thing?”
“I just hope I never see it again!”
I approached them. “Excuse me? Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. Did you get a look at the killer?”
The first one said, “Uhh…. No.”
The other added, “I didn't either.”
“I heard you say something about not wanting to see it again. What were you talking about?”
Officer #2 replied, “The Voice.”
I repeated, “The Voice?”
“Yeah, man. They have some terrible singers on that show!”
And they walked away. The Blue Wall of Silence was up.
Friday, June 15th, 1:00 a.m. Corazon Bautista sat on the doctor's table as he bandaged her bleeding calf. He was one of those doctors who worked for cash and asked no questions. A friend of her agent's had put Corazon in touch with the doctor.
“You were lucky,” he told her in Tagalog. “The bullet only grazed you.”
“I don't feel very lucky. It stings like hell.”
“I've got a pill for that.”
“OK, good.”
The doctor worked fast. That was also good because Corazon had another stop to make before sunrise.
63rd Street, Woodside, Queens, 3:15 a.m. It took Umpeylia quite some time to get to sleep. She desperately needed someone to believe her before more pregnant women died; but even her own grandson wouldn't take her seriously. Not that she blamed him; he had never seen a Manananggal.But she had. It was sixty years ago and the old woman still had nightmares.
She awoke to breaking glass. Umpeylia sat up in bed and saw the winged figure hovering at her window. She felt the same mortal terror that had gripped her as a fifteen-year-old. Umpeylia screamed and reached for the pendant beneath her nightgown. As the intruder flew toward the bed, she saw the pendant and stopped. Her face a mask of malevolence, the killer glared at the medal and snarled in frustration. She turned around, flapped her wings furiously, and flew out the window.
Mauricio burst into the room and flicked on the light. He saw his terrified grandmother sitting up in bed, shaking violently and clutching her pendant. She pointed at the broken window and screamed, “Manananggal!” Mauricio ran to the window and saw a winged figure in the distance, silhouetted against the moon. He was too stunned to react.
When I got to the office that morning, the receptionist handed me a phone message. “He's already called three times. He really wants to talk to you.”
It was Mauricio Balinton. Sounding both frightened and exhausted, he asked if we could talk. I made a beeline for Little Manila.
A policeman stood guard outside the Balintons' apartment building. I recognized him from the murder scenes.
He sighed. “You again?”
“Me again.” I walked past him and took the elevator to the fourth and top floor. In the small apartment, Mauricio thanked me for coming while Umeyplia sat on the couch, wide-eyed and hyper-vigilant as she clutched her pendant. When I asked what was wrong, Mauricio replied, “Someone tried to kill my grandmother.”
“Why?”
“She knows who's killing those pregnant women. I called you as soon as the police left.”
“Did she tell them what she knows?”
“We tried, but they wouldn't listen. You might not either; it's an incredible story. I didn't believe it myself until I saw the killer in grandmother's bedroom.” He showed me the room and and its now boarded-up window. “She broke the window to get in.”
“But we're on the fourth floor. How did she get up here?”
A wary-looking Mauricio replied, “She flew.”
“Flew?”
“Yes; the killer had wings.”
My mouth dropped open. “So, that's what I saw last night.”
“It was a Manananggal.”
The word Umpeylia kept saying.
We returned to the living room. Mauricio sat on the couch with Umpeylia while I took an armchair. I placed my hand-held cassette deck on the coffee table in front of them, hit “record,” and listened as Mauricio translated for his grandmother.
“I was born in a small remote village in the Philippines. (She pronounced it “Peel-a-peens.”) My parents, my sister Rosamie and I lived in a wooden hut that daddy built himself. Our village had no electricity, no indoor plumbing, and no running water. We were very poor and very religious.
“When I was little, my mother gave me this.” She held up her pendant. “It's called a Miracle Medal; it was blessed by Pope Pius XII. Mama told me it warded off evil spirits. Rosamie had one too, but she rarely wore it. If only she had….
“At nineteen, my sister got married and became pregnant a few months later. I was fifteen at the time. One night, the village was awakened by a piercing scream from Rosamie's hut. I saw my sister murdered by a Mananangaal.”
I cut in. “What is a Mananangaal?”
Umpeylia's reply: “A monster. It eats the fetuses of pregnant women.”
Charming.
“During the day, a Manaanggal is a normal woman. But at night, she transforms. Her upper half separates from her legs and torso, her skin becomes red and scaly, she sprouts black wings, her eyes turn yellow, and her tongue becomes long, thin, hollow, and sharp. This allows her to pierce a pregnant victim and suck out the fetus.”
I hoped I didn't look as grossed out as I felt. “There must be plenty of pregnant women in the Philippines. Why would a Manananggal come to New York?”
“Her alter ego likely has business here. As to what business, I wouldn't know.”
“So, you don't know her human identity?”
Umpeylia looked apologetic. “I'm afraid not.”
“What happened to the Manaanggal that killed your sister?”
“The villagers destroyed her. We found her lower half and covered it with salt. That kept the Manananggal from reuniting with it and returning to human form. With our Miracle Medals, we held her at bay until the sun rose and the light killed her.
“Several years later, I married Mauricio's grandfather. We moved to Manila and started a family. Eventually, we came to New York. I've tried to put my encounter with the Manananggal behind me, but now….”
“There's one right here in your neighborhood.” Pausing, I asked, “So, how does one become a Manananggal? Are they born that way?”
“No. It lies dormant in the hostess until her 20th birthday.”
I shut off my tape recorder. We sat quietly until Mauricio broke the silence. “Mr. Kolchak, I can't help wondering why you're so quick to believe in theManananggal. Because of what you saw last night?”
I grinned humorlessly. “Among other reasons. One more question: does the Manananggal have superhuman strength? Is she impervious to, say, bullets or knives?”
Umpeylia said, “No. She has the same strength in both forms. A Manananggal can be shot, stabbed, burned, drowned…. She can be killed any way a human would. Your biggest danger is her tongue. She'll use it like a bayonet.”
The Philippines prides itself on being the only Christian country in all of Asia. Its predominant faith is Roman Catholicism. Unsurprisingly, the faith is well-represented in Little Manila. I took a short walk from the Balintons' building to a small store that sold religious items. The proprietor was a small, chubby, gray-haired man in his 50s. When I asked if he stocked Miracle Medals, the man chuckled and immediately produced one.
As I paid for it, I asked, “Do you sell many of these?”
He said, “They move briskly enough, especially in the last few days.”
“Because of the murders?”
“Exactly. It's terrible, what happened to those poor young women, but it's been great for business.”
Since I couldn't fly to Rome and ask the Pope to bless my pendant, I did the next best thing—I walked to the nearby Corpus Christi Church and had a priest do so. Father Khun Santos advised me that I was the 18th person this week whose Miracle Medal he had blessed.
My next stop: the Queens P.D. and the office of Detective Sheila Roberts.
“Before you say a word, Kolchak, I don't have anything new on the case.”
“Well, I do.”
“What do you mean, you do?”
“What if I told you, your serial killer was a flying monster from the Philippines?”
She gave me an “Aw, hell no” face. “Excuse me?”
“No, really! It all makes sense if you look at it the right way.” I somehow got Captiain Roberts to listen as I related the legend of the Manananggal. “So all you have to do is find the torso, cover it in salt, and let the sunrise kill her. You do that, and no more pregnant murder victims! What do you think?”
She shook her head. “Kolchak, I've heard some weird stories about you, but goddamn!”
I persisted, “Why have so many pregnant women bought Miracle Medals and had them blessed by a priest?”
“It's called superstition, Kolchak. Stevie Wonder sang about it when I was still in diapers. Now take your damned story about this monocle or monaural, or whatever the hell it's called, and get your crazy ass out of my office!”
As usual, it was up to me to allay a threat while the cops chased their tails. Back at the I.N.S., I wrote my story and walked it to Vincenzo's office.
“You know, Carl, we have e-mail. You don't always have to deliver your stories personally.”
“Oh, come on, Tony. How do you crumple up an e-mail? Go on, read it.”
It didn't take long for him to groan. “Another Kolchak special, huh? Winged monster, separates from its torso, kills pregnant women, eats their fetus…. Oh, this is good: cover the torso with salt so the two halves can't reunite. We are a news organization, Kolchak, not a publishing house for Stephen King wannabes!”
“I saw it, Tony! It was flying over the murder scene.”
He crumpled up the story. “Well, you're right about one thing: I couldn't do this to an e-mail. Now take this bat-woman story and put it in your belfry, where it belongs!”
As I stormed back to my desk, I passed by Sandy, our fashion editor.
“Hey, Carl: something bothering you?”
“Just the usual: an editor who can't see past the end of his nose.”
She smiled sympathetically. “What did Tony do now?”
I told her about the Little Manila story, though I left out the part about the Manananggal. Rather, I said, “There's reason to believe the killer is from the Philippines, but that's all I have to go on. Of course, Vincenzo told me that's not enough to print the story.”
“You know, Carl, there is somebody in town from Manila: Corazon Bautista.”
“Who's that?”
“Big-time fashion model in Southeast Asia. She's in New York for some photo shoots. I did a feature on her. But you're looking for a serial killer. There's no way it's Corey!”
“Do you know where she's staying?”
“With her uncle in Woodside.”
“Really?” I exclaimed. “Geez, you'd think a big-time fashion model would be at the Ritz Carlton or somewhere fancy.”
“Corey doesn't know English and feels more comfortable with people who speak her language. Plus, there's the cultural familiarity.”
I muttered, “Not to mention the snacks.”
“What?”
“Uh…. Nothing. Thanks for the information.”
At my desk, I typed Ms. Bautista's name into Google. She was twenty-seven years old, six feet fall, and quite easy on the eyes. Her lustrous black hair hung down to her 24-inch waist. Her eyes were disturbingly dark, her cheeks warm, her nose Grecian, her lips alluring, her body svelte. She had picked the right career.
I logged on to the journalists' database to which I.N.S. had a subscription. A quick search of Southeast Asian news sources produced many instances of murdered pregnant women whose fetuses were removed. They were mostly in Manila, but there were other occurrences all over the region. A deeper search revealed the deaths had coincided with Ms. Bautista's travels.
The killings went back as far as seven years. What had Umpeylia Balinton told me? That a Manananggal lay dormant inside its hostess until her 20th birthday. And Corazon Bautista was twenty-seven.
The Queens White Pages taught me that Bautista was a common Filipino surname; there were many listed in Woodside. Rather than work the phones, I thought it best to pound the pavement. After all, Corazon was a celebrity in Southeast Asia. Surely her fame had spread to New York's Filipino enclave.
I assumed the guise of a reporter who had an interview scheduled with the model but lost her address. It wasn't long before I was knocking on the door of her uncle, Gian Bautista, who owned a brownstone on 66th Street. He was a short but tough-looking man with steely gray hair atop a stern, wrinkled face. I also noticed a Marine Corps tattoo on his upper right arm.
He eyed me suspiciously. “Yes?”
“Hi! Is Corazon here?”
“Who are you?”
I showed him my press credentials. “Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. I have an interview scheduled with her.”
“She's in Manhattan.”
“Oh! Do you know when she'll be back?”
“No. And Corey said nothing to me about an interview.”
“Well, it was last-minute. I didn't schedule it. I was told to be here at, um….” I looked at my watch. “...four o'clock.”
He folded his taut, muscular arms over his barrel chest. “I think you're just another pervert trying to seduce my niece.”
“No sir, you've got me all wrong!” I made a sweeping motion up and down my torso. “Would I dress like this to seduce a woman?”
“I see your point, but Corey's not here.”
At least I knew where to find her.
8:30 p.m. I parked across the street from the brownstone. It was nearly sunset—time for Corazon Bautista to leave her torso and fly to dinner.
10:20 p.m. A ground-floor window opened and out flew a winged figure. My digital camera at the ready, I snapped some pictures. To my frustration, the Manananggal's image did not register. All I had was photos of the brownstone.
I knocked on Gian Bautista's door. He answered in a bathrobe.
“You again? You know, when I mentioned you to Corey, she said she never heard of you.”
“Well, you see….”
“Now you listen good: I have a gun, and I know how to use it. You come near my house again, you'll have a buttful of lead. Understand?”
Before I could answer, he closed the door in my face.
Friday, June 15th, 11:30 p.m. The Manananggal soared above the rooftops of Little Manila, seeking her latest victim. It came in the form of Mahalia Valderrama, a 25-year-old mother-to-be. She swept the popcorn-laden floor of the Filipino American Cultural Center, where she volunteered, after its monthly movie night. She heard a tapping on the window, whose blinds were drawn.
“We're closed,” she called from across the room.
The tapping persisted. Sighing, Mahalia propped the broom against a couch and opened the blinds. What she saw made her scream. She turned to run as the window shattered and the Manananggal flew in. Moments later, the victim was sprawled on the floor as the monster removed her tongue from the dead woman's womb, her appetite slaked.
I had moved the Yellow Submarine down the street from Gian Bautista's brownstone, where I hoped he wouldn't see me. I staked the place out until he shut the lights off just before midnight. I waited a half-hour to give him time to fall asleep. Then I parked in front of the house. I touched the Miracle Medal around my neck for reassurance, grabbed the sizable container of salt on my passenger's seat, and approached the brownstone.
The window from which Corazon had flown was unlocked. I climbed into her bedroom and tried not to yelp at the sight greeting me: the lower half of a woman lying on the bed. It was naked and ended at the waistline. I won't attempt to convey the smell. Let's just say, I was sorry I hadn't worn a gas mask. I popped the lid off my container and poured the salt onto the naked torso. I could do no more to stop the Manananggal. With any luck, I had done enough.
My plan was to be far away from Little Manila when Corazon returned. Unfortunately, that wasn't HER plan. As I neared the window, I distinctly heard the flapping of large wings. Panicked, I ducked into Corazon's private bathroom. I stood in the tub and closed the shower curtain.
Moments later, there was a hair-raising shriek. Corazon must have seen her salt-covered torso on the bed. There were thuds as she bounced off the walls and ceiling, followed by an eerie silence. I stood in the bathtub, clutching the Miracle Medal in my right hand and trying not to breathe. I sweated profusely and had to wipe it from my eyes.
I yelled in fright as the bathroom door flew open, followed by the shower curtain. TheManananggal was directly in front of me! Even in the dark, I could see the gleaming yellow of her eyes And I felt the diabolical heat of her foul breath. She snarled and was about to lunge at me when I held up the Miracle Medal. She stopped in mid-air.
Flashing back to my showdown with Janos Skorzeny, I stepped cautiously out of the tub, holding the medal at eye-level. The Manananggal slowly retreated from the bathroom in reverse as I took one careful step after another. I couldn't afford to trip and fall as I was wont to do in situations like this one.
We were back in the bedroom now, circling each other. I made my way to the window to keep the monster from escaping and taking more victims before the sunrise killed her.
“It's all over, Corazon,” I said. “You can't reunite with your torso. You are one dead Manananggal!”
Though she didn't speak English, the monster seemed to know what I was saying. I hoped I could keep her at bay until sunrise, but that was hours from now.
The bedroom door burst open. Gian Bautista entered, clad in pajamas and clutching a pistol in his right hand. He gasped loudly at the spectacle before him. The Manananggal, not caring that this man was her loving uncle, lunged at him. He aimed the gun and fired three times. Each bullet caught her squarely in the chest. She hit the floor with a nauseating splat, blood spraying from her wounds. Corazon flopped around like a dying fish, her black wings slapping the floor with ebbing intensity.
Gian flicked on the lights. We both stared, mortified, at this abomination of his beautiful niece. She gaped up at him, her reptilian eyes appearing to beg for death. He knelt down next to her head, placed the gun against her right temple, and fired. The monster's head exploded. What remained of her upper half twitched for several moments before it finally ceased to move.
The authorities quickly concocted an alternate version of events regarding the death of Corazon Bautista: seems the poor thing was drug-addicted and died of an overdose. Just another casualty of the opioid epidemic.
I returned to Little Manila one last time—to personally deliver the news to the Balintons that the Manananggal was no longer a threat. Though I've years of writing experience, I cannot find the words to properly describe the relief on their faces.
Corzaon was mourned in both Southeast Asia and Little Manila, but only by those who did not know the facts. We who did were just glad that the pregnant women of Woodside, Queens, were again safe to carry their babies to term.
If you're in New York City and looking for anything of Filipino origin, your best bet is Little Manila. Located in Woodside, Queens, the nine-block neighborhood is home to some 13,000 Filipinos. It was also home to the recent wholesale slaughter of pregnant women.
John F. Kennedy International Airport, Tuesday, June 13th, 6:00 p.m. Corazon Bautista, 27, was a top fashion model in Southeast Asia. Her agent, deciding it was time his client broke through in the States, booked her several gigs in New York. Corzaon flew from Manila to Tokyo and on to JFK. By the time her connector flight set down, she was famished. Corazon knew exactly what to eat and where to find it. She needed only to get there before nightfall.
Roosevelt Avenue, Queens, 9:30 p.m. Dalisay Parungao, 23, was walking home from her fast-food job at Jollibee. She was four months pregnant with her first child and about to marry the baby's father. Dalisay thought herself the happiest woman alive. Minutes later, she wasn't alive at all.
I was at home watching a DVD when the call came in on my police-band radio. I should have turned the damned thing off and watched my movie in blessed ignorance. But my newsman's instinct had kicked in, so off I went to Queens.
I parked the Yellow Submarine next to a police car. EMTs were tending to the body as police questioned people and kept rubberneckers at bay. A plainclothes African-American woman dealt with a minuscule lady of about 75. She stood with a Filipino man in his 20s and screamed hysterically. She kept repeating the same thing: “Manananggal! Manananggal!” The young man held her arm and spoke soothingly in a foreign tongue.
I approached the plainclothes, a middle-aged woman with a badge hanging around her neck. “Excuse me? Captain?”
“Who are you?”
“Carl Kolchak. I'm a reporter.” I showed her my press credentials.
Her eyes narrowed. “I've heard of you.”
“Oh, that doesn't sound good.”
“You're right; it doesn't.”
I returned to the subject at hand. “So what happened here, Captain, um...?”
“Roberts. Sheila Roberts. A young lady was killed.”
“How?”
The old woman repeated, “Manananggal!”
“What is she saying?” I asked.
“I don't speak her language,” said the captain. “I don't even know what language it is.”
The young man said, “It's Tagalog. My grandmother doesn't speak English.”
I asked him, “What's that word she keeps saying?”
“It's nothing; she's hysterical. The dead girl was her granddaughter. And my cousin.”
“Oh! I'm terribly sorry. But your grandmother sounds awfully sure of herself. And you sure it's nothing?”
Captain Roberts said, “Yeah, he's sure. Now I need you to leave these folks alone. They just suffered a tragedy.” To the young man, “Why don't you take your grandmother home?”
He said something to the old woman in Tagalog and they left.
The captain told me, “Kolchak, I know you got a job to do, so go ahead and do it. But you impede my investigation and you're outta here.”
I walked to the alley where the dead woman lay. EMTs were lifting her onto a stretcher. I asked to get some pictures.
One EMT said, “I don't think you're going to want to print this.”
I saw what he meant. The victim's stomach had a hole maybe a quarter-inch wide. Blood covered, and had congealed, on her abdomen. I pulled out my camera and snapped away.
I asked the EMT, “What happened to her?”
“The fetus was taken from the womb.”
“Whaaat? How can that be? Look at the hole; it's too small.”
“I know, but that's still what happened. It's like the killer sucked the baby out with a straw.”
That was a mental image I did not need. “So, where's the fetus?”
“It's not here.”
“The killer took the fetus?”
“I don't know, sir. You'll have to ask the police.”
A fat lot of good that would do.
Wednesday morning, June 14th. I stopped in at the city morgue to see my old pal, Gordon Spangler, A/K/A Gordy the Ghoul. He stood near the wall of drawers with his supervisor, Dr. Carol Huizenga, a stern-looking heavyset woman of 60 whose humorless face was topped with a tight gray bun.
I said, “Oh, sorry. Didn't know you were busy.”
Dr. Huizenga said, “Are you Kolchak?”
“Um, yes.”
“Come in.”
I didn't like the sound of that.
“I was telling Mr. Spangler that it's both illegal and unethical to sell information on our decedents for personal gain.”
Gordy said, “And I was telling Dr. Huizenga, I couldn't agree more.”
“Well,” I said, “I wouldn't want to intrude on your meeting, so I'll just be on my way.”
Dr. Huizenga said, “Not so fast!”
I gulped.
“I was going to further advise Mr. Spangler that the law can be quite flexible, and that my personal ethics are on a sliding scale.”
My eyebrows raised. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning,” she said, “that if you cut me in, I'm willing to look the other way.”
Gordy and I each broke out in smiles. I said, “Dr. Huizenga, I think we'll get along just fine!”
“Very good,” she said. “I'll leave the two of you alone to discuss business. But remember: I expect an envelope every Friday. And, Mr. Spangler? If you get caught, it's your ass, not mine.”
“I understand fully,” said Gordy. Once she had left, “How about that?”
“Good news for us both. Now, about the young Filipino woman….”
“Just a moment.” Gordy held out his hand. “And now that I have a partner, I'll need to charge more.”
Instead of the usual $25, I pulled twice that much out of my wallet. I'd get it back from I.N.S. I just had to come up with something creative for my expense account.
Gordy pocketed the cash and opened the drawer with the decedent inside. As I got a closer look at the hole in her stomach, Gordy pulled Dalisay Parungao's file.
“The M.E. says she died of massive blood loss after a four-month-old fetus was taken from her womb. Judging from the size of the hole, it likely was done with a tube of some kind. And here's the best part: the wound contains traces of saliva, only half of which is human.”
“What's the other half?”
“He didn't know; couldn't match the DNA to any known database.”
Vincenzo would love that.
“Carl, this is not the assignment I gave you.”
I stood in front of Tony Vincenzo's desk.
“I know, but when I heard the call on my police radio, I just had to check it out.”
“Would you mind terribly if I decide who gets which stories around here? That's why my nameplate says Editor-in-Chief.”
“Tony, somebody—or something—killed that young woman and sucked out her unborn child!”
Vincenzo, taking a bite out of a danish, suddenly looked nauseous. “And what is this about the DNA being only half-human?”
“That's what the M.E.'s report said.”
“And where's the report, Carl? I haven't seen it.”
“That's because you're sitting on your butt, eating danishes, while I'm out gathering information!”
“How about gathering information on the story you're supposed to be writing? That is what we pay you for.” He crumpled up my story and put it in the trashcan.
“You know what, Vincenzo? You're not a newshound; you're a news mouse.”
“Out!”
65th Place, Queens, Wednesday, June 14th, 10:00 p.m. Tala Mendoza, 32, stood in the dimly-lit parking lot behind her building. She had just lit a cigarette. Pregnant with her fourth child, Tala had tried to cut back on her smoking, but without luck. She only hoped it would not affect her new baby any more than it had the first three. Mrs. Mendoza never got the chance to find out.
Though it still wasn't my assignment, I drove to Little Manila to cover the murder. I saw Captain Roberts, who rolled her eyes when she saw me approach her.
“Captain, who's the victim?”
“No comment.”
“Another pregnant woman?”
“No comment,” Roberts repeated.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
“I don't care how you take it. Just keep my name out of your damned paper.”
“It's a wire service, not a paper.”
“Like I give a shit.” She walked away.
I looked at Tala Mendoza's body. As with last night's victim, she had a quarter-inch hole in her stomach. I asked an EMT, “Is the fetus gone?”
“Looks that way.”
Whether or not Captain Roberts would admit it, Little Manila had a serial killer. This gave me a Herculean task: persuading a certain editor of that. But as fate would have it, I didn't need to.
69-10 Roosevelt Avenue, Queens, Thursday, June 15th, 11:00 p.m. Fritzie's Bake Shop specialized in traditional Filipino fare along with cakes, coffee and donuts. Once they had closed for the night, Jasmine Pilar, 19, stood out front and offered a service of her own--one she hoped would raise enough money to end her unplanned pregnancy. It ended a few minutes later, along with her young life.
Vincenzo called me himself. “You wanted to report on those dead pregnant women? The assignment is yours. Now get your ass to Woodside; there's another victim.”
“So, you finally admit it. I was right the whole time.”
“Just go!”
It was pure disarray. The dead woman lay on the sidewalk while police fired into the air and civilians ran for cover. I looked up and saw a winged figure soaring above the building. It looked like a huge bat but appeared to have human arms. The figure was gone before I could pull out my camera.
Captain Roberts ordered, “Cease firing! And get those civilians outta here.”
I noticed the old woman from two nights before. She stood with her grandson and screamed, “Manananggal! Manananggal!”
I approached them. “Hello. I believe we met the other night.”
“Yes,” the grandson replied. “You're the reporter.”
“Carl Kolchak. I never got your names.”
“Mauricio Balinton. My grandmother's name is Umpeylia.”
“Did you see what happened?”
The old woman grabbed my arm and repeated, “Manananggal!”
I asked Mauricio, “What is that word she keeps saying?”
Soothingly, he spoke Umpeylia in Tagalog, but the old woman was having none of it. “No!Manananggal!”
I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder: Captain Roberts.
“Kolchak, what have I told you about harassing my witnesses?”
“I'm not harassing! I'm asking questions. You know, like a reporter is supposed to do?”
“Yeah? Well, go ask your questions somewhere else. I need to talk to these people.”
I gave Mauricio a business card. “Call me when you get a chance?”
I made my way to the murder scene and overheard two officers talking.
“What the hell was that thing?”
“I just hope I never see it again!”
I approached them. “Excuse me? Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. Did you get a look at the killer?”
The first one said, “Uhh…. No.”
The other added, “I didn't either.”
“I heard you say something about not wanting to see it again. What were you talking about?”
Officer #2 replied, “The Voice.”
I repeated, “The Voice?”
“Yeah, man. They have some terrible singers on that show!”
And they walked away. The Blue Wall of Silence was up.
Friday, June 15th, 1:00 a.m. Corazon Bautista sat on the doctor's table as he bandaged her bleeding calf. He was one of those doctors who worked for cash and asked no questions. A friend of her agent's had put Corazon in touch with the doctor.
“You were lucky,” he told her in Tagalog. “The bullet only grazed you.”
“I don't feel very lucky. It stings like hell.”
“I've got a pill for that.”
“OK, good.”
The doctor worked fast. That was also good because Corazon had another stop to make before sunrise.
63rd Street, Woodside, Queens, 3:15 a.m. It took Umpeylia quite some time to get to sleep. She desperately needed someone to believe her before more pregnant women died; but even her own grandson wouldn't take her seriously. Not that she blamed him; he had never seen a Manananggal.But she had. It was sixty years ago and the old woman still had nightmares.
She awoke to breaking glass. Umpeylia sat up in bed and saw the winged figure hovering at her window. She felt the same mortal terror that had gripped her as a fifteen-year-old. Umpeylia screamed and reached for the pendant beneath her nightgown. As the intruder flew toward the bed, she saw the pendant and stopped. Her face a mask of malevolence, the killer glared at the medal and snarled in frustration. She turned around, flapped her wings furiously, and flew out the window.
Mauricio burst into the room and flicked on the light. He saw his terrified grandmother sitting up in bed, shaking violently and clutching her pendant. She pointed at the broken window and screamed, “Manananggal!” Mauricio ran to the window and saw a winged figure in the distance, silhouetted against the moon. He was too stunned to react.
When I got to the office that morning, the receptionist handed me a phone message. “He's already called three times. He really wants to talk to you.”
It was Mauricio Balinton. Sounding both frightened and exhausted, he asked if we could talk. I made a beeline for Little Manila.
A policeman stood guard outside the Balintons' apartment building. I recognized him from the murder scenes.
He sighed. “You again?”
“Me again.” I walked past him and took the elevator to the fourth and top floor. In the small apartment, Mauricio thanked me for coming while Umeyplia sat on the couch, wide-eyed and hyper-vigilant as she clutched her pendant. When I asked what was wrong, Mauricio replied, “Someone tried to kill my grandmother.”
“Why?”
“She knows who's killing those pregnant women. I called you as soon as the police left.”
“Did she tell them what she knows?”
“We tried, but they wouldn't listen. You might not either; it's an incredible story. I didn't believe it myself until I saw the killer in grandmother's bedroom.” He showed me the room and and its now boarded-up window. “She broke the window to get in.”
“But we're on the fourth floor. How did she get up here?”
A wary-looking Mauricio replied, “She flew.”
“Flew?”
“Yes; the killer had wings.”
My mouth dropped open. “So, that's what I saw last night.”
“It was a Manananggal.”
The word Umpeylia kept saying.
We returned to the living room. Mauricio sat on the couch with Umpeylia while I took an armchair. I placed my hand-held cassette deck on the coffee table in front of them, hit “record,” and listened as Mauricio translated for his grandmother.
“I was born in a small remote village in the Philippines. (She pronounced it “Peel-a-peens.”) My parents, my sister Rosamie and I lived in a wooden hut that daddy built himself. Our village had no electricity, no indoor plumbing, and no running water. We were very poor and very religious.
“When I was little, my mother gave me this.” She held up her pendant. “It's called a Miracle Medal; it was blessed by Pope Pius XII. Mama told me it warded off evil spirits. Rosamie had one too, but she rarely wore it. If only she had….
“At nineteen, my sister got married and became pregnant a few months later. I was fifteen at the time. One night, the village was awakened by a piercing scream from Rosamie's hut. I saw my sister murdered by a Mananangaal.”
I cut in. “What is a Mananangaal?”
Umpeylia's reply: “A monster. It eats the fetuses of pregnant women.”
Charming.
“During the day, a Manaanggal is a normal woman. But at night, she transforms. Her upper half separates from her legs and torso, her skin becomes red and scaly, she sprouts black wings, her eyes turn yellow, and her tongue becomes long, thin, hollow, and sharp. This allows her to pierce a pregnant victim and suck out the fetus.”
I hoped I didn't look as grossed out as I felt. “There must be plenty of pregnant women in the Philippines. Why would a Manananggal come to New York?”
“Her alter ego likely has business here. As to what business, I wouldn't know.”
“So, you don't know her human identity?”
Umpeylia looked apologetic. “I'm afraid not.”
“What happened to the Manaanggal that killed your sister?”
“The villagers destroyed her. We found her lower half and covered it with salt. That kept the Manananggal from reuniting with it and returning to human form. With our Miracle Medals, we held her at bay until the sun rose and the light killed her.
“Several years later, I married Mauricio's grandfather. We moved to Manila and started a family. Eventually, we came to New York. I've tried to put my encounter with the Manananggal behind me, but now….”
“There's one right here in your neighborhood.” Pausing, I asked, “So, how does one become a Manananggal? Are they born that way?”
“No. It lies dormant in the hostess until her 20th birthday.”
I shut off my tape recorder. We sat quietly until Mauricio broke the silence. “Mr. Kolchak, I can't help wondering why you're so quick to believe in theManananggal. Because of what you saw last night?”
I grinned humorlessly. “Among other reasons. One more question: does the Manananggal have superhuman strength? Is she impervious to, say, bullets or knives?”
Umpeylia said, “No. She has the same strength in both forms. A Manananggal can be shot, stabbed, burned, drowned…. She can be killed any way a human would. Your biggest danger is her tongue. She'll use it like a bayonet.”
The Philippines prides itself on being the only Christian country in all of Asia. Its predominant faith is Roman Catholicism. Unsurprisingly, the faith is well-represented in Little Manila. I took a short walk from the Balintons' building to a small store that sold religious items. The proprietor was a small, chubby, gray-haired man in his 50s. When I asked if he stocked Miracle Medals, the man chuckled and immediately produced one.
As I paid for it, I asked, “Do you sell many of these?”
He said, “They move briskly enough, especially in the last few days.”
“Because of the murders?”
“Exactly. It's terrible, what happened to those poor young women, but it's been great for business.”
Since I couldn't fly to Rome and ask the Pope to bless my pendant, I did the next best thing—I walked to the nearby Corpus Christi Church and had a priest do so. Father Khun Santos advised me that I was the 18th person this week whose Miracle Medal he had blessed.
My next stop: the Queens P.D. and the office of Detective Sheila Roberts.
“Before you say a word, Kolchak, I don't have anything new on the case.”
“Well, I do.”
“What do you mean, you do?”
“What if I told you, your serial killer was a flying monster from the Philippines?”
She gave me an “Aw, hell no” face. “Excuse me?”
“No, really! It all makes sense if you look at it the right way.” I somehow got Captiain Roberts to listen as I related the legend of the Manananggal. “So all you have to do is find the torso, cover it in salt, and let the sunrise kill her. You do that, and no more pregnant murder victims! What do you think?”
She shook her head. “Kolchak, I've heard some weird stories about you, but goddamn!”
I persisted, “Why have so many pregnant women bought Miracle Medals and had them blessed by a priest?”
“It's called superstition, Kolchak. Stevie Wonder sang about it when I was still in diapers. Now take your damned story about this monocle or monaural, or whatever the hell it's called, and get your crazy ass out of my office!”
As usual, it was up to me to allay a threat while the cops chased their tails. Back at the I.N.S., I wrote my story and walked it to Vincenzo's office.
“You know, Carl, we have e-mail. You don't always have to deliver your stories personally.”
“Oh, come on, Tony. How do you crumple up an e-mail? Go on, read it.”
It didn't take long for him to groan. “Another Kolchak special, huh? Winged monster, separates from its torso, kills pregnant women, eats their fetus…. Oh, this is good: cover the torso with salt so the two halves can't reunite. We are a news organization, Kolchak, not a publishing house for Stephen King wannabes!”
“I saw it, Tony! It was flying over the murder scene.”
He crumpled up the story. “Well, you're right about one thing: I couldn't do this to an e-mail. Now take this bat-woman story and put it in your belfry, where it belongs!”
As I stormed back to my desk, I passed by Sandy, our fashion editor.
“Hey, Carl: something bothering you?”
“Just the usual: an editor who can't see past the end of his nose.”
She smiled sympathetically. “What did Tony do now?”
I told her about the Little Manila story, though I left out the part about the Manananggal. Rather, I said, “There's reason to believe the killer is from the Philippines, but that's all I have to go on. Of course, Vincenzo told me that's not enough to print the story.”
“You know, Carl, there is somebody in town from Manila: Corazon Bautista.”
“Who's that?”
“Big-time fashion model in Southeast Asia. She's in New York for some photo shoots. I did a feature on her. But you're looking for a serial killer. There's no way it's Corey!”
“Do you know where she's staying?”
“With her uncle in Woodside.”
“Really?” I exclaimed. “Geez, you'd think a big-time fashion model would be at the Ritz Carlton or somewhere fancy.”
“Corey doesn't know English and feels more comfortable with people who speak her language. Plus, there's the cultural familiarity.”
I muttered, “Not to mention the snacks.”
“What?”
“Uh…. Nothing. Thanks for the information.”
At my desk, I typed Ms. Bautista's name into Google. She was twenty-seven years old, six feet fall, and quite easy on the eyes. Her lustrous black hair hung down to her 24-inch waist. Her eyes were disturbingly dark, her cheeks warm, her nose Grecian, her lips alluring, her body svelte. She had picked the right career.
I logged on to the journalists' database to which I.N.S. had a subscription. A quick search of Southeast Asian news sources produced many instances of murdered pregnant women whose fetuses were removed. They were mostly in Manila, but there were other occurrences all over the region. A deeper search revealed the deaths had coincided with Ms. Bautista's travels.
The killings went back as far as seven years. What had Umpeylia Balinton told me? That a Manananggal lay dormant inside its hostess until her 20th birthday. And Corazon Bautista was twenty-seven.
The Queens White Pages taught me that Bautista was a common Filipino surname; there were many listed in Woodside. Rather than work the phones, I thought it best to pound the pavement. After all, Corazon was a celebrity in Southeast Asia. Surely her fame had spread to New York's Filipino enclave.
I assumed the guise of a reporter who had an interview scheduled with the model but lost her address. It wasn't long before I was knocking on the door of her uncle, Gian Bautista, who owned a brownstone on 66th Street. He was a short but tough-looking man with steely gray hair atop a stern, wrinkled face. I also noticed a Marine Corps tattoo on his upper right arm.
He eyed me suspiciously. “Yes?”
“Hi! Is Corazon here?”
“Who are you?”
I showed him my press credentials. “Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. I have an interview scheduled with her.”
“She's in Manhattan.”
“Oh! Do you know when she'll be back?”
“No. And Corey said nothing to me about an interview.”
“Well, it was last-minute. I didn't schedule it. I was told to be here at, um….” I looked at my watch. “...four o'clock.”
He folded his taut, muscular arms over his barrel chest. “I think you're just another pervert trying to seduce my niece.”
“No sir, you've got me all wrong!” I made a sweeping motion up and down my torso. “Would I dress like this to seduce a woman?”
“I see your point, but Corey's not here.”
At least I knew where to find her.
8:30 p.m. I parked across the street from the brownstone. It was nearly sunset—time for Corazon Bautista to leave her torso and fly to dinner.
10:20 p.m. A ground-floor window opened and out flew a winged figure. My digital camera at the ready, I snapped some pictures. To my frustration, the Manananggal's image did not register. All I had was photos of the brownstone.
I knocked on Gian Bautista's door. He answered in a bathrobe.
“You again? You know, when I mentioned you to Corey, she said she never heard of you.”
“Well, you see….”
“Now you listen good: I have a gun, and I know how to use it. You come near my house again, you'll have a buttful of lead. Understand?”
Before I could answer, he closed the door in my face.
Friday, June 15th, 11:30 p.m. The Manananggal soared above the rooftops of Little Manila, seeking her latest victim. It came in the form of Mahalia Valderrama, a 25-year-old mother-to-be. She swept the popcorn-laden floor of the Filipino American Cultural Center, where she volunteered, after its monthly movie night. She heard a tapping on the window, whose blinds were drawn.
“We're closed,” she called from across the room.
The tapping persisted. Sighing, Mahalia propped the broom against a couch and opened the blinds. What she saw made her scream. She turned to run as the window shattered and the Manananggal flew in. Moments later, the victim was sprawled on the floor as the monster removed her tongue from the dead woman's womb, her appetite slaked.
I had moved the Yellow Submarine down the street from Gian Bautista's brownstone, where I hoped he wouldn't see me. I staked the place out until he shut the lights off just before midnight. I waited a half-hour to give him time to fall asleep. Then I parked in front of the house. I touched the Miracle Medal around my neck for reassurance, grabbed the sizable container of salt on my passenger's seat, and approached the brownstone.
The window from which Corazon had flown was unlocked. I climbed into her bedroom and tried not to yelp at the sight greeting me: the lower half of a woman lying on the bed. It was naked and ended at the waistline. I won't attempt to convey the smell. Let's just say, I was sorry I hadn't worn a gas mask. I popped the lid off my container and poured the salt onto the naked torso. I could do no more to stop the Manananggal. With any luck, I had done enough.
My plan was to be far away from Little Manila when Corazon returned. Unfortunately, that wasn't HER plan. As I neared the window, I distinctly heard the flapping of large wings. Panicked, I ducked into Corazon's private bathroom. I stood in the tub and closed the shower curtain.
Moments later, there was a hair-raising shriek. Corazon must have seen her salt-covered torso on the bed. There were thuds as she bounced off the walls and ceiling, followed by an eerie silence. I stood in the bathtub, clutching the Miracle Medal in my right hand and trying not to breathe. I sweated profusely and had to wipe it from my eyes.
I yelled in fright as the bathroom door flew open, followed by the shower curtain. TheManananggal was directly in front of me! Even in the dark, I could see the gleaming yellow of her eyes And I felt the diabolical heat of her foul breath. She snarled and was about to lunge at me when I held up the Miracle Medal. She stopped in mid-air.
Flashing back to my showdown with Janos Skorzeny, I stepped cautiously out of the tub, holding the medal at eye-level. The Manananggal slowly retreated from the bathroom in reverse as I took one careful step after another. I couldn't afford to trip and fall as I was wont to do in situations like this one.
We were back in the bedroom now, circling each other. I made my way to the window to keep the monster from escaping and taking more victims before the sunrise killed her.
“It's all over, Corazon,” I said. “You can't reunite with your torso. You are one dead Manananggal!”
Though she didn't speak English, the monster seemed to know what I was saying. I hoped I could keep her at bay until sunrise, but that was hours from now.
The bedroom door burst open. Gian Bautista entered, clad in pajamas and clutching a pistol in his right hand. He gasped loudly at the spectacle before him. The Manananggal, not caring that this man was her loving uncle, lunged at him. He aimed the gun and fired three times. Each bullet caught her squarely in the chest. She hit the floor with a nauseating splat, blood spraying from her wounds. Corazon flopped around like a dying fish, her black wings slapping the floor with ebbing intensity.
Gian flicked on the lights. We both stared, mortified, at this abomination of his beautiful niece. She gaped up at him, her reptilian eyes appearing to beg for death. He knelt down next to her head, placed the gun against her right temple, and fired. The monster's head exploded. What remained of her upper half twitched for several moments before it finally ceased to move.
The authorities quickly concocted an alternate version of events regarding the death of Corazon Bautista: seems the poor thing was drug-addicted and died of an overdose. Just another casualty of the opioid epidemic.
I returned to Little Manila one last time—to personally deliver the news to the Balintons that the Manananggal was no longer a threat. Though I've years of writing experience, I cannot find the words to properly describe the relief on their faces.
Corzaon was mourned in both Southeast Asia and Little Manila, but only by those who did not know the facts. We who did were just glad that the pregnant women of Woodside, Queens, were again safe to carry their babies to term.
