The Coffin That Floated Through Air

🕯️ The Coffin That Floated Through Air

Long ago, in the quiet town where my grandfather grew up, children weren’t scolded for misbehaving—they were haunted into obedience. Their parents spoke of ghosts and mysterious spirits, warning them never to wander after dark. But the one tale that struck deepest was of the coffin that floated in the air, drifting near the cemetery when the moon was hidden and the night hung thick with silence.

My grandfather, a mischievous soul even as a boy, wasn’t easily frightened. Despite years of hearing the legend, he had never once seen a floating coffin—or any ghost for that matter. Instead, he observed that even grown men roamed the night unafraid, unconvinced by tales of the supernatural.

And so, in a moment of playful rebellion, he hatched a plan—not to scare children, but to trick the adults themselves.

One moonless night, near the winding path by the cemetery, he tied a strong rope between two coconut trees. Then he carefully laid out a rolled-up mat made from romblon fibers and fastened it to the rope. At each end of the mat, he attached a string that allowed him to pull it back and forth between the trees.

But this wasn’t just any mat—it was a stage for illusion. He secured five glowing candles to its surface, ensuring they wouldn't tip or flicker. As midnight approached and footsteps echoed near the graveyard, my grandfather lit the candles and slowly began to reel the glowing mat across the darkened path.

From afar, the dim light revealed a silhouette—long, rectangular, flickering ominously as it moved between the trees. The travelers gasped, their whispers turning to screams.

"A coffin—it floats!" one cried.

Panic spread faster than the night wind. Doors flew open, neighbors rushed out, and chaos reigned near the cemetery. The legend had come alive.

But my grandfather, clever and quick, cut the ropes and hid the mat, vanishing into the shadows before anyone could trace the prank to its maker. When curious villagers returned to the site to confirm what they’d seen, there was no trace of the phantom coffin. And because of their fear, they believed it more deeply. Even the elders, once skeptical, began staying indoors after dusk.

From that night onward, the once lively roads near the cemetery grew quiet. What began as a story to keep children home had suddenly become real—because belief, once kindled, can outlive even the truth.

And as my grandfather liked to say:

"Don’t fear what cannot be seen. Fear those who walk with twisted minds—for they can make you believe in anything."

🌒 Lessons in the Shadows

• Perception can be more powerful than reality. People often fear the idea of something more than its truth.
• Stories shape behavior. Whether told with good intentions or mischief, tales can guide—or mislead—those who hear them.
• The real danger often lies in the living, not the dead. Sometimes, it's the minds behind the stories that hold the greatest mystery.
• Humor and mischief reveal creativity. My grandfather's prank was both unsettling and genius—a reminder that playful minds can reshape even the scariest stories.

Of Shadows and Whispers in the Valley – A Tale from My Grandfather

🌿In a remote area along the borders of Barangays Dumlan, Anibongan, and Libaylibay, my grandfather once shared a tale I’ll never forget. It was about duwende—those mysterious little folk whispered about in folklore. Many would dismiss it as old superstition, but I think there's a glimmer of truth hidden in it. Let me tell you why.

🏞️ The Land

My grandfather owned a 28-hectare farm nestled in that quiet region, a patchwork of lush bounty: towering coconut trees, rows of abaca and banana, groves of fruits like lanzones, durian, mangoes, guava, star apple, and even avocado and atis. Root crops thrived alongside rice paddies, cornfields, pineapple patches, and vegetable gardens. With over ten workers on rotation for maintenance, it was a place both cultivated and wild—blessed with hills, valleys, and flowing streams weaving like veins through the landscape.

In those streams, they once caught abundant fish, crabs, freshwater shrimp, and even local delicacies like paye—it was paradise.

👣 The Strange Discovery

It all began during one of my grandfather's casual walks. He reached a macopa tree near a stream, where a narra tree stood proudly across. The area was naturally shaded by fruit trees and foliage—yet something felt... off.

The place was suspiciously clean—no fallen leaves, no weeds, not a speck of mess. It was as if the earth itself was being swept. Then came the faint, acrid scent of urine in the air. He shrugged it off, thinking perhaps one of the workers had relieved himself nearby.

But the next day, while gathering shrimp and crustaceans for lunch, he noticed something stranger: the creatures darted away quicker than usual. The stream rippled with tiny disturbances—footsteps? splashes?—that seemed too small and scattered for humans.

He warned his workers, suspecting some had gone ahead and stirred up the water.

“Hey, I haven’t bothered you, so why mess with our lunch plans?”

Suddenly, the splashes stopped. What followed was laughter—tiny, high-pitched giggles echoing through the trees. Then, as if by magic, the shrimp and crabs gathered again ahead. From that moment on, my grandfather and these unseen beings shared a delicate truce—an invisible friendship rooted in mutual respect.

🐃 But Not All Friendships Stay Peaceful

One hot afternoon, my grandfather told a worker to let his toro (bull) rest in the stream after plowing. After lunch, he checked where it had been tethered—only to find the bull nearly drowning.

Shouting, he called the worker back. But when the man arrived, he was stunned: the bull had been tied underwater, its rope fastened not to a stake or post—but to a submerged narra root beneath the stream. It would take a swimmer’s breath to go down there. The worker swore he hadn’t done it.

“Why would I tie the rope down there? I was exhausted from plowing!”

Hurt and angry, my grandfather couldn’t let it go. That bull had helped cultivate his land for years—it wasn’t just an animal, but a partner. He scolded the tiny beings.

“We’ve lived in peace! And now you try to drown the very creature that helped shape this farm?”

After that confrontation, he kindly but firmly asked them to leave the area—to make a new home away from the workers’ paths. Since then, he no longer knew where they lived. But now and then, he’d notice their traces: the same spot unusually tidy, nature kept pristine, as if still visited by unseen caretakers.

🌬️ Belief and Memory

It may sound unbelievable, I know. But I believe him. Back when the land was still whole—before it was divided among the children—I used to wander those areas myself.

Even without seeing anything strange, I always noticed how clean one certain part of the stream was. As if swept. As if watched.

✨ Reflections

This isn’t just a story about duwende—it’s about our connection to nature, respect for the unseen, and how ancestral memory whispers through trees and soil. In a world that too often demands proof, it reminds us that not everything real must be visible.

Thank you for reading.

The Dancing Candle: A True Tale from My Grandpa (A Story from the Old Cemetery)

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.

🕯️ The Lesson:

Not everything we fear is real. Sometimes, fear grows from stories, from what we think we see—not what actually is. But there's another side to this: while curiosity and cleverness are wonderful traits, it's important to remember that our actions can shape others' beliefs and emotions. So let's use our creativity not just to play tricks—but to share light and understanding.

The Day of the "Sanggot nga Bali" Song

When I stepped into second grade at the age of eight, I already had my fair share of mischief. One particular day, I had no intention of going to school, but my mother insisted. Reluctantly, I rushed through my morning routine—quickly taking a bath, eating breakfast, and changing into my uniform.

After getting ready, I said goodbye to my mother and headed off to school.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back home. My mother was bewildered and immediately asked why I had returned so soon. She wondered if classes had been canceled, but she quickly noticed my soaked clothes.

“What happened? Why are you all wet?” she asked.

I responded with all the confidence in the world, “I tripped near the small creek and fell in.”

She sighed, then promptly made me take another bath and change into my old home clothes. Since I was already late, she declared that I wouldn’t be going to school anymore that day.

I was ecstatic!

But don’t ask me why I was so happy, because the real reason is quite something.

The day before, our teacher made an announcement—during our music class, everyone had to sing. And that, my friends, was the root of my troubles.

I had zero knowledge of any song, and even worse, my singing voice was so off-key that even the frogs would get startled if I tried to sing. My classmates were thrilled, teasing me about how they’d finally get to hear my “golden voice.”

Thankfully, I had managed to escape that day.

The next morning, I woke up early, feeling excited to go to school. Since our music lesson was over, I assumed I was safe.

When I arrived at school, we went through the usual flag ceremony and then entered the classroom. As soon as our teacher stepped in, my classmates started laughing and teasing, saying that Ma’am wouldn’t start the lesson until I sang.

Confidently, I told them, “Hey, music class was yesterday. We have a different subject today.”

But one of my classmates chimed in, “Ma’am said yesterday that we won’t start the lesson until Romel sings, since he was the only one absent during music class.”

Then Ma’am spoke. “Romel, your grade in music will be 75 if you don’t sing.”

The teasing continued, and my anxiety started building. My teacher stood her ground and refused to begin the class until I sang something. The pressure was unbearable—I was on the verge of tears!

“Romel, this will really affect your performance in my class. If you don’t sing, you might even fail music because I’ve already given you too many chances,” Ma’am warned.

At that moment, I realized I had no choice but to sing.

“But Ma’am, I don’t know any songs… I do know a poem, though,” I offered.

She shook her head. “That’s different. But you can try singing the poem if you want.”

That was when panic truly set in—I didn’t even have a poem memorized!

Left with no other option, I took a deep breath and sang the first thing that popped into my head. And guess what I sang?

I sang a traditional balitaw song called “Sanggot nga Bali”, inspired by the crooked sickle I had brought to school for our gardening activity.

The song ended. The day ended. But the teasing? That never ended—especially when the song reached my grandfather’s ears!

To this day, whenever my childhood friends bring up elementary school memories, someone always laughs out of nowhere because of the legendary “Sanggot nga Bali.”

And honestly? It’s the kind of embarrassment that’s too hilarious to regret!

The Clever Trick That Got Me Into School

When I was seven years old, excitement bubbled inside me—I was finally going to school! My parents had decided it was time, and so we went to the first-grade classroom to enroll.

The room was alive with the promise of learning. Notebooks filled the desks, pencils and papers were scattered about, and bright Crayola crayons sat neatly atop the tables. In the center of it all was Ma'am Maestra, our teacher, sitting at her desk with an air of authority and warmth.

She greeted my parents, and after a brief conversation, she asked a few simple questions.

“Does he know how to write his name yet? Can he recognize the letters of the alphabet? Can he count a little?”

Mama and Papa exchanged glances. “Just a little,” they admitted.

Ma'am Maestra smiled and nodded. “Alright, I’ll accept him—but first, he needs to pass a small test. He must be able to touch his ear by reaching over his head.”

I was confused. Touch my ear? Over my head? That seemed like such a silly requirement. But apparently, it was the way they checked if a child was physically ready to start school.

I took a deep breath, determined to prove I could do it. Carefully, I lifted my hand, stretched my arm over my head, and reached for my right ear—but it didn’t quite touch. My heart sank. I wasn’t tall enough! My fingers hovered, just short of making contact.

But I refused to let this stop me. I wanted to go to school—I had to go to school. So, I came up with a clever little trick. Without hesitation, I slid my hand subtly behind my head, angling it just right, and—there! I grabbed my ear.

Ma’am Maestra chuckled. Maybe she saw through my trick, but she didn’t say a word.

And just like that, I was officially enrolled.

Since I had enrolled late, the class had already begun. Without hesitation, I stepped inside, eager to start my journey as a student.