09/11/2025
๐ก๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐บ-๐๐ผ๐ผ ๐ฎ.๐ฌ | ๐๐๐๐ฎ ๐ฟ๐๐๐ฃโ๐ฉ ๐๐๐๐ฉ ๐๐ค๐ง ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐๐ง๐ช๐ฉ๐
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โI was just an average student. Not smart enough to be at the top, not rebellious enough to stand out. I had friends, but people still looked at me differently โ like there was something off about me that I couldnโt see. Over time, I got used to the stares. It was easier to smile and pretend it didnโt bother me.
โ
โOne afternoon, my stomach was growling so loud that my seatmate laughed. As soon as the bell rang, I rushed to the canteen.
โ
โThe smell of food hit me immediately โ warm, savory, comforting. But the man behind the counter always made people uneasy.
โ
โHe was tall and thin, with pale skin and hollow eyes that never seemed to blink. He wore a long white apron โ always stained with something red.
โ
โSome students said he used to work in a butcher shop. Others said he once got into a fight and never washed off the blood. Still, no one could deny one thing โ his food was good. Too good.
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โThat day, there were only a few students around. I walked up to the counter and ordered my usual โ fried siomai with rice. He didnโt speak much, just nodded and started cooking. The sound of oil crackling filled the air, mixed with the metallic scent of something burning.
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โI watched him work for a while, curiosity taking over my hunger. The meat he used didnโt look like the usual frozen packs from the supplier โ the texture was different. Too soft. Tooโฆ fresh.
โ
โSo, being the straightforward person I am, I asked him,
โโSir, asa ka palit og sahog sa imoha gi luto? Lami kaayo, mura kog nilupadโ
โ
โHe stopped mid-motion, spatula hovering over the pan. Then, slowly, he looked at me.
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โHis eyes were darker up close โ almost black, like something had drained the color from them. He smiled, but it wasnโt friendly. It was slow and deliberate, like he was studying me.
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โThen he handed me the plate.
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โThe rice was perfect. The siomai looked golden and crisp. The smell was delicious, but I couldnโt eat right away. Something about the sauce looked off โ too thick, too red.
โ
โStill, I was starving. I took a bite.
โ
โIt was incredible. Juicy, tender โ like nothing Iโd ever tasted before.
โI finished the whole thing before I realized the man was still watching me.
โ
โThe next day, the school is buzzing with rumors. Some students said a stray dog had been found behind the canteen โ chopped up, bones scattered in the trash bins. Others whispered that a student from another class had gone missing.
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โI didnโt believe itโฆ until I saw the news that night.
โ
โโLocal senior high school student reported missing โ last seen near the canteen around 5:30 p.m.โ
โ
โThe picture on the screen made my heart drop.
โ
โIt was the same girl who sat beside me during lunch.
โ
โThe same girl who bought food from the man in the white apron โ right before I did.
โ
โThe next morning, the canteen reopened. Everything looked normal. The man was there, wearing the same white apron โ clean this time. Too clean.
โ
โWhen he saw me, he grinned. โBack for your favorite?โ
โ
โI forced a smile, my hands trembling as I passed him the money.
โ
โSoon, the police came to investigate, along with a janitor named Mr. Cabajar. He was the one who told them everything โ that he had seen Hans carrying โbloodyโ bags late at night, that he heard strange noises from the canteen.
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โParents demanded justice. Students gathered after class, their anger louder than reason. They didnโt wait for the evidence.
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โWhen Hans came out, the shouting turned violent. One push became a punch. His apron disappeared in a blur of hands and rage.
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โHe didnโt fight back โ he just looked around, empty and silent โ until he stopped breathing.
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โThe canteen closed. Everyone thought it was over.
โ
โBut days later, another body was found โ near the gym.
โ
โThe real killer was still there.
โI couldnโt sleep for nights. Guilt clawed at my chest. I kept remembering his voice, that quiet resignation. So I started digging โ old files, teacher records, anything about him.
โ
โHis name was Hans Machacon.
โA widower. His daughter had been a student here โ she died in an accident two years ago behind the same canteen due to a heart atack.. Since then, heโd taken the job as a cook, โto stay close to her,โ one teacher wrote.
โ
โHe was never violent. Never had a record. But he โdidโ complain โ about the broken lights in the back hallway, the flickering fuse box, the smell of rot near the garbage bins.
โ
โNo one listened.
โ
โI couldnโt sleep. Guilt ate me alive. I searched the old canteen and found words scratched on the wall: โIt wasnโt me.โ
โ
โโTheyโre under the floor.โ
โ
โI lifted the floorboards. The smell hit first โ rotten and sharp. Inside were crates filled with bones.
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โThen I heard slow footsteps. I turned. It was Mr. Cabajar.
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โโYou shouldnโt be here,โ he whispered, smiling. His sleeve was wet with fresh blood.
When I woke up, the police were there. They found the missing students buried behind the canteen. Mr. Cabajar confessed. The cook was innocent โ killed because no one waited for the truth.
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โThey said Hans died of heart failure while in custody. They buried him quietly. No one came.
โ
โAnd for a moment, I realized the real horror wasnโt the killingsโit was how easily we let innocence die, and how often the real monsters are the people who create one.
โ
โWriter: Maria Daphne Lopez
โCreative Designer: Angelyka Braรฑanola
