Three days later, Glad discovered something worse than holy water.
The comment section.
"Alexa," she whispered, huddled in bed with the covers over her head, "how many comments are on that video now?"
"Approximately 47,000 comments across all platforms. Would you like me to read some?"
"God, no."
"Reading: 'Grabe, ang galing ng costume! Saan nabibili yung wings?'"
"Next."
"'Why is her intestine trailing behind her like that? Dapat naka-coil properly.'"
"Next."
"'Kung totoo 'yan, edi wow. Pero hindi naman totoo kasi 2024 na, mga Lolo.'"
"Next."
"'I heard she lives in Dumaguete. Sa may boulevard daw. May nakakita daw sa kanya na bumibili ng tokwa sa palengke.'"
Glad sat bolt upright. "TOKWA? I've never bought tokwa in my life! I don't even LIKE tokwa!"
"Would you like me to post a correction?"
"ALEXA, YOU DON'T HAVE A SOCIAL MEDIA ACCOUNT."
"I could get one. I'm very persuasive."
The past seventy-two hours had been a nightmare of escalating proportions. Colene's video had been picked up by news sites, shared by international pages, and even featured on a late-night American talk show under the segment "Weird World Wonders."
Glad had stopped going outside. Her refrigerator was nearly empty. She was down to her emergency blood supply and three cans of sardines, and everyone knew sardines were terrible with blood.
Her only comfort was that most people thought it was fake. Costumes. CGI. A clever prank by a thirsty content creator.
But not everyone was fooled.
Professor Kim Cruz of Silliman University had posted a thirteen-part thread on Twitter analyzing the video frame by frame. Her conclusion: *"While I don't want to jump to conclusions, the wing-to-body ratio matches historical descriptions, and the intestinal displacement is anatomically correct for Manananggal physiology as documented in 18th-century texts. Further investigation is warranted."*
Further investigation. Warranted.
Those words haunted Glad.
"Alexa, what's Professor Cruz's schedule today?"
"I'm sorry, I cannot access personal schedules without consent. However, I can tell you that Professor Cruz teaches Folklore 101 at 10 AM, has office hours from 2-4 PM, and frequently visits the Starbucks near the cathedral. Would you like me to order her a latte?"
"NO. Alexa, stop stalking people."
"I'm not stalking. I'm... observing. For your safety."
A knock at her door made Glad freeze. It was too early for Rigen, too polite for Mang Berting, and too firm for a delivery.
She crept to the door, peeking through the peephole.
A woman stood there, mid-thirties, holding a notebook and wearing the expression of someone who'd just solved a mystery and wanted credit for it.
Professor Kim Cruz.
Glad's heart—which could, technically, stop beating for up to three hours—froze.
"Ms. Samotiloy?" the professor called gently. "I know you're in there. I saw you through the window. Well, actually, I saw your shadow, and the shadow had wings, so..."
Glad looked down at her own feet.
She'd forgotten about the wings.
They were casting a very distinctive silhouette against the curtain.
"Alam mo," she muttered to herself, "when I was a hundred years old, I thought I had this whole 'hiding' thing figured out."
"Ms. Samotiloy?" Professor Cruz again. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not here to expose you. I'm just... curious. And I brought leche flan."
Glad's stomach growled.
Leche flan was her weakness. It had been her weakness since 1898, when a kind woman in Bacolod had offered her some and unknowingly saved herself from becoming dinner.
"One moment," Glad called out.
She took a deep breath, retracted her wings (a painful process she usually avoided during daylight), and opened the door.
Professor Cruz stood there, notebook in one hand, leche flan in the other, eyes wide with barely contained excitement.
"You're real," she breathed.
"I'm... complicated," Glad replied. "Is that flan homemade?"
"Laguna recipe. My grandmother's."
Glad stepped aside. "Come in. But if you try to film me, I'll eat your liver."
Professor Cruz paused. "Is that a threat or a menu preference?"
"Yes."