The Lights That Lie

Long ago, in the sleepy town of Binalonan, where sugarcane fields stretched far into the dusk and the trees whispered to each other in ancient tongues, people were careful never to walk the backroads after dark.

It wasn’t thieves or beasts they feared.

It was the Mangyaw-awan.

Spirits of the trees and streams, the Mangyaw-awan—or Manangibalang, as the elders of Pangasinan called them—were neither fully evil nor fully good. They were mischievous, wild as the wind, and always watching. Travelers said they took the shape of flickering lights—like lanterns swaying gently in the distance.

But those lights lied.

It was said that if you followed them, they would lead you away from the path, deep into the rice paddies or forests, where the air grew cold and your own footsteps no longer sounded like your own.

One harvest season, a young man named Pablo was walking home late from a neighboring barangay after helping repair a neighbor’s cart. He was tired but happy—the moon was high, and the wind smelled of ripe crops and river mist.

As he passed near a clump of old trees—ones the elders always avoided—he saw a light in the distance. It flickered like the warm glow of a lamp inside a nipa hut.

“Ah,” he muttered, “someone lives nearby now?” He'd never seen a house in that part of the fields before.

Still, he was curious. He thought of asking for water—just a sip before the long walk home.

So he followed the light.

But with every step he took, the light seemed to move farther, just a little, bobbing gently like someone carrying it. He walked faster. It bobbed faster. He ran. It vanished.

And when Pablo stopped, panting and sweating, he looked around—no house. No light. No path.

Only sugarcane rustling all around him and the eerie silence that comes when even crickets dare not sing.

He turned in every direction, trying to retrace his steps. But the path was gone. The fields now all looked the same, and the wind seemed to laugh at him.

“Tulongan yo ak man!” he shouted—the local call for help. “Ayan na diay ayan mi? Ay apo, pakawanenak…” (Where is the village? Oh Lord, forgive me…)

That’s when he saw another light, this one redder, lower—like the tip of a cigar.

He followed.

It led him to a shallow stream, and there, across the water, was a figure—tall, unmoving. Its skin shimmered like leaves in firelight, and its eyes were hollow, glowing slightly.

The figure raised a hand.

And suddenly, Pablo forgot why he was there. His thoughts became foggy. He began mumbling, wandering in circles, laughing at shadows. It wasn’t until dawn, when an old woman gathering herbs by the river found him, that he was brought back.

She took one look at him and muttered, “Mangyaw-awan.” They played with this one’s mind.”

Pablo was lucky.

Some who followed those lights never returned, or were found days later with cracked lips and distant stares, unable to remember even their names.

From that day on, Pablo never walked home alone after dark. He carried with him a pouch of dried ginger and salt, a charm his grandmother had sewn for protection. And he always

warned the children:

“If you see a light where no house should be, do not follow.

If the path seems unfamiliar, turn back.

And if you hear laughter in the fields when no one is there—

It’s not your friend calling.

It’s the Mangyaw-awan… and they want to play.”

And in Binalonan, to this day, old folk will tell you:

“Not all lights are stars. Not all roads lead home.”

Reference:

Stoic-Aswang (Updated February 2025). “Monsters and Supernatural Beings from Filipino Folklore and Myths.”  https://stoicaswang.wordpress.com/2015/12/23/supernatural-beings-and-creatures-of-philippine-folklore-and-mythology/