A Ghostly Encounter with Bambanig, Pugot and Baras

A long time ago, in the province of Pangasinan, there was a quiet village surrounded by forests, rivers, and rolling hills. The villagers knew that while the forests were full of life, they were also home to mystical beings that not everyone could see.

The elders always warned the children:

“Respect the trees, close your windows at night, and never walk alone in the woods after sunset.”

They were speaking of creatures like the Aniani, the ghosts of those who had passed away but still lingered in the land of the living.

There were also Bambanig and Pugot, tree spirits as tall as houses with eyes that glowed like fireflies. They were the protectors of the trees, much like the Kapre in other stories. They puffed on pipes made of rolled leaves and watched from the branches of ancient trees. They didn’t like noisy people or those who cut trees without permission.

But the most feared of all was the Baras, a demon of the deep forest. He was tall and dark and could move without making a sound. He crept out on stormy nights, especially when there was no moon, and stole young women, never to be seen again.

In that village lived a girl named Marita, brave and kind, and full of questions. Her mother was expecting a baby, so every night, Marita would help her father close the windows and light a candle to keep the spirits away.

One night, the rain fell softly, and the moon was new—completely hidden in the sky. That night, something strange happened.

Marita saw a giant white rooster walking in circles beneath a big tree. It glowed slightly in the dark and seemed to grow smaller, then bigger, then smaller again.

She whispered to her grandmother, “Bai, Is that the Bantay?”

Her grandmother nodded. “Yes. He is the guardian of the old tree, a spirit who watches over the forest. He brings warnings when danger is near.”

That same night, the wind howled. Shadows moved quickly across the fields. In the distance, Marita heard a faint sound like a woman crying.

Suddenly, her mother groaned in pain. The baby inside her kicked wildly, and the candle by the window blew out. The window creaked open on its own.

“Baras!” cried her grandmother. “Close the window! He is here!”

Marita rushed to the window, but before she could close it, a cold hand reached through. She screamed, and the whole house shook.

Then, from the forest came a loud CRACK—like a tree breaking in half. There stood Bambanig and Pugot, their giant arms swinging like branches. Behind them, the Bantay had turned into a full-grown man with feathers still on his shoulders.

“Leave this child alone!” roared Bambanig.

Pugot picked up a burning stick and threw it into the trees, sending the dark figure of Baras running into the shadows.

The forest grew quiet.

The candle flickered back to life. The window slammed shut. And inside, Marita’s mother let out a peaceful sigh.

The next morning, her baby brother was born—healthy and strong.

From that day on, the villagers never forgot the protectors of the forest, nor the dangers that hid in the dark.

They taught their children never to forget to close the windows at night.  And to treat every tree with kindness.  And lastly, if they see a great white rooster under the new moon, it means the forest is watching—and protecting them.

Base Reference:

Clark, Jordan (August 3, 2021).  “Deities, Myths and Sorcery of the Pangasinense.”  https://www.aswangproject.com/deities-myths-pangasinense/