Don’t Go Near the Mango Tree

Belle Tan

Igo outside my house and feel the summer heat on my face. My face drips with sweat as I stare at my friends playing Patintero. “Maria! Go! Maria! Go!” They say as Gina moves left and right, trying to block her. “Hindi mo kaya!” Gina teases. From the corner of my eye, I see someone sitting on the bench under the mango tree beside my house. There’s a girl wearing a bright yellow sundress with white polka dots, taking a bite of the sweet ripe mango as she reads a Geronimo Stilton book. I hear the little angel on my shoulder say: Don’t. Don’t. I walk towards her. “Do you want to play with us?” She looks at me with this blank expression, moves to the left side of the bench, and pats the right side of it. “No,” I say and repeat the question. She shakes her

head.

“I haven’t seen you before. Are you from the village? How long have you been here?” “Yes. For a long time. I live at the end of the street.” I look to my right and see the yellow house beside the cluster of mango trees.

“Lay, come and play with us,” I hear Maria call out. “Are you sure?” She nods her head and continues to read her book. I run towards the middle of the street and my friends surround me. Gina says, “What were you doing?” I point to the bench. “I was talking to the girl.” They laugh.

The skies turn dark and we say our goodbyes. I go back inside the house, where Hallie is in her pink pajamas telling mama and papa I didn’t take out the trash. They look at me, scowling. “Ay naku, Laila. Wala dito si Yaya Tati. You’re in-charge.” Mama takes a deep breath. “Go, now. No excuses.” I enter the kitchen and pick up the black plastic bag sitting beside the small rectangular garbage can. As I walk out the front door, Hallie sticks her tongue out. I roll my eyes. It is her turn, not mine.

I put the plastic bag inside the big blue trash bin, swatting the flies that are flying towards my face. I hear a loud groan and see the little girl. I walk towards her. “Hey, are you okay, umm.. What’s your name again?” She looks at me and drops her book while trying to grab a mango. “Momu.” I sit on the ground and move through the pile of leaves, throwing the leaves in the air as I look for her book. “What does it look like?” “It’s yellow and has a picture of a mouse with glasses.” Someone squeezes me from behind and lifts me into the

air. I bite their arm and flail my hands and arms. They put me on their back and all I see is blinding greyish-white light and long jet black hair. “Let me go.” The person cackles and carries me off into the darkness, past the mango trees. Momu waves her hand and smiles at me. Her eyes turn bright crimson red. She’s gone. The woman drops me to the ground. My hands are shaking. I scream. She crouches down. Her hair covers her face. All I see is her red lipstick. She puts her index finger to my mouth. She comes closer, puts her hands on my eyes and stretches it. She murmurs something and her hair raises in the air. Her white eyes turn to a neon red glow. I fall flat on the ground. I yell and hear my voice echo throughout the entire village. My eyes are still open. I can feel it, but I can’t see anything. I know I am not dead. She digs her sharp teeth into my skin, piece by piece. I hear her slurping my blood like it’s a bowl of delicious ramen. The smell of iron wafts the air. My head starts to spin. I can’t feel anything. All I hear is Yaya Tati’s voice whispering: Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t go near the mango trees. Five years ago, I remember Yaya Tati telling a seven year old Laila, “Don’t go near the mango trees, ha. If you see someone, don’t talk to them. Don’t even look. Baka may mangyari sa’yo.” I rolled my eyes, “Whatever yaya.” She pointed her index finger towards the mango trees, “There are very bad spirits. They know everyone, pero, they only

show themselves to their prey. Remember Kaya, yung daughter ng neighbor natin, she wasn’t kidnapped. One of the demons took her, lured her to the nearby pond and tried to drown her.” Kaya survived. I didn’t.

I can see my parents, waking down the foggy, dark streets, the yellow and white lights illuminating from the lamppost guiding their way, while blaring sirens from police cars zoom all over the village looking for me, but with no luck. There are no remains. My body is gone, my bones grinded and sprinkled all over the soil like powdered sugar dusted on a cake. My parents would have no body to mourn, nothing, as if my existence had been wiped out from history. It wasn’t a story meant to scare me like I had always believed. It was true. But only those who fall victim to this tragedy know it is true. No one wants to believe demons are everywhere. I wish I believed. I wish I listened. Don’t go near the mango trees.