When we were young, and the transistor radio was practically our only source of entertainment, our evenings followed a simple but unforgettable routine.
After spending the late afternoon playing with neighborhood kids from 5 to 7 p.m., my brothers and I would return home, eat dinner, and gather around the radio for our nightly dose of mystery, suspense, and fear. There was one program we rarely missed: Mundo Mistiko.
Its opening spiel remains etched in my memory: “It’s 8 o’clock once again, and the world is full of mystery. So raise your feet to the level of the seat, brace yourselves for what’s coming, put off the lights, and be prepared for the possible presence of the dark forces around you.”
Those words alone were enough to transform our familiar home into a place of mystery.
Then came the eerie music.
The moment it started, chills would run down our spines. My brother, trembling and sometimes stuttering, would whisper, “Tani wala lang a las ocho!” — as though wishing that 8 o’clock would simply disappear.
Yet, despite his fear, he never left his seat. None of us did. We were frightened, but we were also fascinated.
The stories introduced us to a supernatural world populated by tamawo, murto, santermo, white ladies, tayhó, and aswang. Each story seemed to make the invisible world around us more real.
A dark road was no longer just a dark road. An old tree was no longer merely a tree. A strange sound in the night could suddenly become evidence that something unseen was nearby.
And when the drama finally ended, nobody wanted to walk outside alone.
Our imagination, strengthened by the stories we had just heard, was often more powerful than the darkness itself.
We knew where the balagatan were — places believed to be inhabited by unseen spirits — and we avoided going anywhere near them.
Even ordinary activities acquired a supernatural dimension. Whenever nature called and we had to relieve ourselves outdoors, we would politely apologize to whatever spirits might be nearby. And there was one rule we never violated: never, ever urinate on a termite mound.
One story told of a man who carelessly stepped on one and later suffered from a swollen foot. We were convinced that if we offended the spirits associated with the mound, we might discover exactly which part of our body would swell!
But were these mysterious beings real? Perhaps an even more important question is: Why did our elders tell us these stories?
If witches, spirits, and supernatural beings truly possessed all the powers attributed to them, one might jokingly ask: Why did the Filipinos lose the war to the Japanese?
Perhaps our ancestors’ stories were never intended to explain history — or even to prove the existence of supernatural beings. They served a much more practical purpose: protecting children.
“Don’t go too far,” our elders would warn. “Something might get you.”
A misbehaving child might be told that the murto would take him away. Such stories kept children close to home and away from rivers, forests, cliffs, abandoned houses, deep wells and other dangerous places.
When my brothers and I slept together on a mat, we stayed close to one another because we feared that some creature hiding on the roof might suddenly stretch its tongue downward and carry one of us away. Fear became an invisible fence around us.
Yet folklore sometimes contains traces of real human practices. Consider the stories surrounding Teniente Gimo.
Historical accounts from parts of Southeast Asia describe communities that practiced ritual cannibalism or consumed parts of enemies, sometimes believing that the strength or power of the victim could be transferred to the person who consumed them.
Such practices, where they existed, may have contributed to frightening legends about people who supposedly craved human blood or organs.
Even today, old folklore can suddenly return to public conversation.
Recently, rumors circulated about a supposed witch allegedly terrorizing people in Sitio Lapak, La Castellana. The story reportedly quieted after the alleged witch supposedly transferred to a province in a nearby island. Whether this actually happened, however, cannot be established from rumor alone.
Stories of this kind can spread quickly when unexplained illnesses, strange noises, unusual behavior, nighttime sightings, accidents or other unsettling events are interpreted through familiar cultural beliefs.
How, then, do we bring such stories to an end?
Not by mocking those who believe them.
Instead, we listen. We investigate concrete incidents. We check facts. We look for medical, environmental, social, or other explanations. We reassure the community without humiliating anyone.
Local leaders, health workers, elders, educators and responsible communicators can help distinguish genuine problems from supernatural interpretations.
Perhaps the witches and spirits of our childhood were never meant to be proven real. They were guardians of boundaries, warnings against danger and products of an imagination nourished by the transistor radio.
And perhaps that is why, decades later, whenever 8 o’clock comes around, a small part of me can still hear that eerie music.
And somewhere in the darkness, I can still hear my brother’s trembling voice:
“Tani wala lang a las ocho!” | NWI
