In the quiet fishing town of Cabalian, Leyte, nestled between the sea and the hills, stories flowed as freely as the tides. Elders in the village often warned kids not to wander near the cemetery late at night. They spoke in hushed voices about condemned spirits haunting the graves. For the children, it wasn’t hard to believe—who wouldn’t be scared of flickering lights and whispers in the dark?
But my grandfather, back when he was just a curious young man, wasn’t one to be easily frightened.
He’d heard those stories too many times and decided to find out for himself. For several nights, he kept watch by the cemetery, hoping to catch a glimpse of these so-called “spirits.” But night after night, nothing happened. No mysterious lights. No ghostly wails. Just silence, save for the rustle of leaves and chirping insects. All he heard were the cries of night birds and the creaking of bamboo swaying in the wind. No phantom voices, no glowing apparitions—just the calm of Cabalian at rest.
So, being the playful and mischievous soul he was, my grandpa came up with an idea.
One afternoon, he went to the nearby stream and gathered a bunch of turtles. That night, he carefully stuck candles onto their shells and released them atop the graves. Because the tombs were elevated, the turtles stayed on top, slowly crawling back and forth as the candles flickered in the wind, their flames dancing with each tiny movement..
From a distance, what people saw were eerie, glowing lights dancing from one grave to another.
Word spread quickly—“The spirits are real!” some cried. Others whispered that it was San Telmo himself, the spirit of fire, roaming the cemetery. The strange lights terrified everyone so thoroughly that no one dared pass by the cemetery at night again.
But the truth?
There were no ghosts. No cursed souls.
Only a young man, a dozen turtles, and one incredibly creative prank.
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