Balete Drive
The clock on Maria’s laptop read 1:47 a.m. as she packed up her things in the small Quezon City café where she freelanced as a graphic designer. The film festival posters she’d been editing were done, but exhaustion weighed on her like a wet blanket. Her apartment was a 40-minute walk away, and with her phone dead, no cash for a cab, and the last jeepney long gone, she had no choice but to hoof it. The streets of Manila’s northern district were quiet, save for the occasional bark of a stray dog or the hum of a passing motorcycle.
Maria, 24, had grown up in the city, her skepticism honed by years of urban life. But her lola’s stories about the creatures of Philippine folklore—kapres, aswangs, and tikbalangs—still lingered in her mind. As a child, she’d listened wide-eyed to tales of the tikbalang, a horse-headed trickster with unnaturally long limbs, said to haunt forests and lead travelers astray. Her lola warned that tikbalangs could bend reality, trapping victims in endless mazes. Maria didn’t believe in monsters anymore, but when she reached the intersection leading to Balete Drive, a notorious haunted street, her pulse quickened.
Balete Drive was a shortcut that would shave 15 minutes off her walk. Its narrow road was flanked by ancient balete trees, their gnarled roots spilling onto the pavement like frozen rivers. Locals avoided it after midnight, whispering about ghostly apparitions and strange sounds. Maria hesitated, the humid air thick with the scent of impending rain, though the sky was clear. “It’s just a street,” she told herself, gripping her backpack straps. She stepped onto the drive, her sneakers scuffing against the asphalt.
The streetlights cast a sickly yellow glow, flickering as if struggling to stay alive. The balete trees loomed, their branches twisting into shapes that seemed to watch her. Maria’s breath hitched as a cool breeze rustled the leaves, carrying a faint sound—like hooves clopping on pavement. She stopped, heart pounding. The sound vanished. She glanced back, but the road was empty, shrouded in shadows. “You’re tired,” she muttered, quickening her pace.
The clopping returned, louder, closer. Maria’s stomach twisted. She turned, and her breath caught. A figure stood at the edge of the light, impossibly tall, its silhouette wrong—elongated limbs, a head too large and equine. Its eyes glowed red, unblinking. A tikbalang. Her lola’s voice echoed:
“It plays with your mind, makes you see paths that aren’t there.”
Maria’s skepticism crumbled. She ran.
Her sneakers pounded the pavement, her backpack bouncing. The clopping pursued her, deliberate, like a predator savoring the chase. The road stretched unnaturally, the city lights receding. Maria veered into an alley between two abandoned houses, hoping to lose it. The alley was narrow, cluttered with rusted cans and vines. She ducked behind a stack of crates, her breath ragged, listening. The clopping stopped. Silence pressed against her, broken only by the drip of a leaky pipe. She waited, heart hammering. Her dead phone offered no light, no help. The air felt thick, like she was underwater. She remembered her lola’s advice.
“Turn your shirt inside out to break its spell.”
It felt absurd, but desperation won. She slipped off her hoodie, turned it inside out, and pulled it back on, the fabric clammy against her skin. She peered over the crates. The alley was empty, but the shadows seemed to pulse.
Maria crept back to Balete Drive, but the street had changed. The trees were closer, their roots sprawling across the road like traps. The streetlights were gone, replaced by an eerie moonlight that sharpened every detail. The clopping echoed again, now from all directions. She realized the tikbalang was toying with her, bending reality to trap her in its maze. Her lola had mentioned another trick: Speak its name to weaken it.
“Tikbalang,”
Maria said, her voice trembling but firm. The air vibrated, and the clopping paused.
“I know you.”
The creature stepped into view, closer now, its horse head tilted, nostrils flaring. It was at least eight feet tall, its arms dangling past its knees, ending in clawed hands. Its mane was matted, but three silver hairs gleamed at its center—sacred, said to grant control if plucked. Maria’s mind raced. She wasn’t strong, but she was fast. The tikbalang snorted, steam curling from its snout. Maria took a step forward, heart in her throat.
“You don’t scare me,”
she lied, holding its gaze. Its form flickered, as if its illusion wavered. She saw her chance. Lunging forward, she grabbed for its mane, her fingers brushing the coarse hair. The tikbalang reared, hooves slashing the air, but she yanked the three silver hairs free. It screamed—a sound that was half-horse, half-human—and the world warped. Trees shrank, the road widened, and streetlights flickered back.
The tikbalang staggered, smaller now, less monstrous but still menacing. Maria clutched the hairs, her hands shaking.
“Let me go,”
She demanded. It lowered its head, eyes burning, but didn’t move. Her lola’s warning of never trust its surrender. Maria backed away, keeping it in sight, and walked toward the end of Balete Drive. The clopping followed, slower, testing her. The road seemed to stretch, the city lights tauntingly distant. Maria’s legs burned, but she pressed on. The tikbalang’s presence loomed, its breath hot on her neck. She remembered another tale: Believe you’re free, and its maze breaks. She closed her eyes, picturing her apartment—the creaky door, the hum of her fridge. She walked, refusing to look back, even as the clopping grew louder.
The air lightened. Maria opened her eyes. She stood on a busy street, cars honking, the balete trees gone. She glanced back. The tikbalang lingered at the edge of Balete Drive, its form fading into the shadows. It didn’t follow. Maria pocketed the silver hairs, unsure if they were real. She walked home, the city alive around her, and never took that shortcut again.
But sometimes, on quiet nights, she heard faint hooves outside her window.
TIKBALANG
A shapeshifting monster from the Pilippines, a Tikbalang is believed to be the the angry ghost of an aborted baby. Its natural form is that of a man with a horse's head, and legs so long that when it sits, its knees stick up above its ears. A Tikbalang will make itself appear to look like the friend or relative of a traveler, to lure them into the forest and devour them.
You can ward off Tikbalang attack by wearing your shirt inside-out when traveling alone. If you are attacked by one of these creatures, try to pluck the three golden hairs from its mane before it eats you, and it will be forced to serve you until you die. The Tikbalang is not prevented from helping your death occur that much sooner, however, so beware.
It is said in the Philippines that when it rains on a sunny
