Kakabakabakaba?

It’s amazing what we believe as kids, childhood being that fertile phase where our fears germinate. Perhaps that explains the enduring appeal of the Shake, Rattle & Roll series among my generation. I used to think that no one took such crap seriously, until that day at Bohol Bee Farm almost a decade ago when I entered a friend’s room and found a black candle ablaze on the dresser.

Now I’ve seen it all, I had wanted to say. But what came out was, “Oh, you Tagalogs” — Tagalogs being a terribly superstitious lot, whether up in Mt. Banahaw or a penthouse unit in the heart of the metropolis. Not that we Bisaya are immune to such hokum, but we are supposed to be hicks, for crying out loud, convenient foils to the urbanites’ disconnect with Mother Nature or some such shit, until they figure said shit for themselves. Do you hear us complaining? Last I noticed, we were laughing along with the rest as Mother Lily made another killing at the box-office.

Of course I’m generalizing. Everyone’s afraid of something. Whether the fear is rational hardly matters: fear’s fear. The fear of the unknown makes all things possible, from murderous refrigerators to flesh-eating Christmas trees. Yesterday Eva barged into my room, crying. “Is your husband texting another woman again?” I said. If only. She had just had her blood taken for another round of lab tests. “It’s that damned needle,” she said. “Scares the soul out of me.”

And I complain that she worries about being attacked by a wakwak while alone in the kitchen. According to her, shiny surfaces are anathema to such creatures (I bet the Regal horror pool has yet to hear of that chink in their armor). Our kitchen tiles are matte, same as the refrigerator coating. Who am I to discount her fears? Yes, they’re ridiculous. And they drive me nuts. “Let’s say there is such a thing as wakwak,” I tell her, “and you’ve got your kid with you. What do you do, feed him first?” Her laugh tells me she’s not taking it seriously. Whoever heard of these creatures attacking unless you were alone?

Of all the horror conventions, nothing is as pervasive as the idea that bad things are likelier to happen when you are alone. It’s a very cinematic view of one’s life. Fact is, you have as much chance getting killed crossing a road while texting, or going with that “sweet” guy or girl you have known for all of an inebriated hour. Alas, no human-inflicted misfortune is as morbidly fascinating as that we inflict on ourselves in our imaginations.

What exactly is a wakwak, anyway? Is it a purely supernatural being? No, friends aver. It’s as human as you or I — although by “it” they really mean “she,” and make of that what you will. Fine, but how do you become one? Well get this: it’s passed on, and not like a virus, either. The recipient has to receive the legacy willingly. Every now and then, there is talk about how a reputed wakwak is still alive, if barely, because no one is as yet willing to take on the family tradition. “Great,” I say. “Saves a lot on medical bills. Just keep saying no and mayhaps we’ll eventually get someone on the Guinness oldest list.”

What, then, does a wakwak do? This is where answers diverge. Does it fly? Turn into vapor, or an animal, or Lilia friggin’ Cuntapay? “Basta,” Eva says, “it’s scary.”

“You mean you don’t have an idea?”

Believe it or not — no one does. Everyone is so caught up with what he or she thinks a wakwak accomplishes (a horrible death), the only thing they agree on is they’re afraid of it. Has anyone ever seen one, the mechanics of the kill, or even, in this day and age, wondered how come nobody has ever caught one (or a manananggal, kapre, or any other dili-ingon nato), even if only on camera? Perfectly sane question, right?

Sanity (or logic) has nothing to do with it. It won’t get you anywhere with such people. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about your diabetes?” I ask Eva. Last month she was admitted back into the hospital. The lab results — now those were scary. None of that French toast for her, obviously. Boo.