The Curse of the Mudfish

In a sleepy riverside town in Pangasinan, where fish vendors lined the streets and morning air always smelled of sun-dried bangus, lived a hardworking woman named Nana Marta.

Every morning, Nana Marta woke before dawn to catch dalag, the strong, slippery mudfish, from the nearby creek. She cleaned them, packed them in woven baskets, and brought them to market.

One hot morning, as she was laying out her catch, a strange woman approached her stall.

She was dressed in black, with a hood over her head, even though the sun was high. Her eyes were dull, and her skin was dry like tree bark. She pointed at one of the largest dalag (mudfish).

“That one. I’ll take it,” the woman said, placing a few coins on the table.

Nana Marta frowned. The price was too low.

“I’m sorry, but that won’t even cover what I paid to catch it,” she said kindly.

The woman’s lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer. “You’ll regret saying no.”

Then she turned and walked away—without another word, without looking back.

That night, Nana Marta felt a strange twisting in her stomach.

At first, she thought it was something she had eaten. But as the days passed, the pain grew worse—sharper, deeper, stranger. Her belly felt full, but not with food. Something inside moved.

She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t eat. When she looked at her reflection, her face was pale, her eyes dark.

“It feels like something’s swimming inside me,” she whispered to her sister one night, shivering.

Finally, she went to the town hospital. The doctors examined her, puzzled by the way her stomach pulsed unnaturally.

They decided to operate.

What they found inside made them step back in shock.

A live mudfish.

It squirmed in the surgical tray, wet and very much alive, as though it had just been pulled from a river.

No one spoke for a long time.

One nurse fainted. The others could only stare.

Word spread fast.

People whispered in corners, old women crossed themselves, and children were told not to play near the river at dusk.

“It was the work of a manananem,” said Nana Marta’s neighbor. “A sorceress of black magic. The one she refused to sell the fish to!”

They said manananem could curse with their breath or eyes, and plant living things into people’s bodies out of spite or revenge.

Nana Marta, now weak but healing, visited the old herbolaryo (witch doctor specializing in herbs as medicine for the victims of manananem) in the mountainous part of the town. He lit incense, chanted words older than memory, and gave her an amulet to wear.

“You are free now,” he said. “But be careful. The world has dark corners. Not all who smile at you mean you well.”

From that day on, Nana Marta returned to the market—but never again did she argue with strangers. If someone offered too low a price, she simply said, “May God bless you,” and let them walk away.

And on rainy nights, when the wind howled through the nipa roofs, villagers would sometimes hear a voice whispering along the river:

“You’ll regret saying no…”

The End. Or perhaps… just a warning.

Reference:

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