Shadows Of Doubt

Since I was young, the dream has haunted me. It always begins the same way—a world on the brink of destruction. The skies, once vibrant and alive, are swallowed by swirling, malevolent clouds, their dark tendrils reaching down like grasping claws. Thunder roars, each crash echoing through my bones, and lightning splits the heavens, leaving behind the acrid smell of ozone. Beneath me, the ground shudders and cracks, the very bones of the Earth groaning in a symphony of pain.

I stand frozen, heart hammering against my ribs, watching as chaos consumes the world. Storms rage, unleashing torrential rain that stings my skin like icy needles. Volcanoes erupt, spewing rivers of molten fire that illuminate the encroaching darkness. Earthquakes reduce entire cities to rubble, the screams of the dying echoing in my ears even though I know it's only a dream. I want to run, to scream, to do anything but witness this destruction, but my feet are rooted to the spot.

Then, the dream shifts. The Earth isn't the only victim of this apocalypse—it's the universe itself. Planets, drawn by some unseen force, begin to collide and merge in a cosmic ballet of destruction. I watch in horror as a billion worlds become one, their gravitational pull creating a monstrous super-planet. And at the heart of this celestial fusion lies Earth, crushed and encased within an unyielding cavern of stone and rock.

The familiar sky vanishes, replaced by towering stone pillars that stretch endlessly into the suffocating void. These jagged formations, fragments of other worlds, pulse with a faint, eerie light, casting long, distorted shadows across the ravaged landscape. The air is thick with the pungent scent of brimstone and the distant, grinding groan of shifting rock. I can taste the dust on my tongue, feel the weight of the cavern pressing down on me, a silent reminder that escape is impossible.

As I struggle to comprehend this twisted reality, the land beneath my feet begins to shift and buckle. Continents collide with a deafening roar, grinding together to form a single, vast supercontinent—Pangea reborn. Familiar landmarks disappear, swallowed by gaping chasms and replaced by jagged peaks that pierce the oppressive darkness. Cities crumble into dust, and rivers, once flowing with life, now course in unnatural directions, their waters thick with sediment. The Earth becomes a stranger, its surface alien and unrecognizable.

And yet, humanity clings to life. In the dream, I see people scavenging among the ruins, their faces gaunt and hollow, etched with despair and desperation. They huddle around flickering fires, their eyes reflecting the flames and the fear that consumes them. They fight to survive in this new cave-like world, where the sun is a distant memory and the rules of nature have been rewritten. But it's not the physical challenges that terrify me most—it's the look in their eyes, a hollow reflection of the hopelessness that threatens to extinguish their spirits.

Each time, the dream ends the same way. As I stand amidst the ruins of this dark new world, a crushing silence falls, broken only by the rasp of my own breath. Then, the ground beneath me cracks open, and I'm falling, plunging into an abyss that stretches endlessly into the void. The sensation of falling, of weightlessness, is so real that I often wake up with a jolt, convinced I'm still plummeting into oblivion.

That's when I wake, gasping for breath, my sheets twisted around my legs, drenched in sweat. My heart races as my eyes dart around the room, struggling to remind myself that it's just a dream. The soft glow of dawn filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the familiar walls. But no matter how many times I wake, the dream lingers, its images burned into my mind like a brand.

It feels too real—too vivid to dismiss as mere imagination. I can't shake the sense that it's more than just a nightmare. It's a warning. A glimpse of a fragile reality on the edge of collapse. And every time I close my eyes, I know it will come for me again, pulling me back into that suffocating darkness.

I glance at the bracelet on my nightstand, its dull silver glinting in the morning light. It was given to me by an albularyo—a traditional healer skilled in both magic and herbal remedies—who helped me when I was a child. Even back then, I knew I was different. I could see things that ordinary humans couldn't—spirits of the dead, their forms flickering at the edges of my vision, and other supernatural beings, lurking in the shadows. My dreams were equally strange, often foretelling events that would come to pass or revealing moments from the past as though I had witnessed them myself.

The albularyo, with his weathered face and knowing eyes, was the only one who could help me. He temporarily halted my ability to see spiritual creatures, as these entities had plagued me during my childhood. They haunted my nights, their presence bringing sickness and torment to my young body. The bracelet he gave me became a shield—a protective charm that not only prevented me from seeing spirits but also kept them from approaching me.

I am forever grateful for the albularyo's help, yet his words of caution weigh heavily on my mind. He warned me about three grave concerns.

First, the dreams that keep repeating—the visions of an impending catastrophe—grow more vivid with each passing night, filling me with a dread that seeps into my waking hours. Second, the bracelet itself is fragile. The albularyo told me that if it ever breaks, it would signal great danger. He explained that as I grow older, my abilities will strengthen, making me a beacon for malevolent spirits seeking to possess my body. And lastly, the most troubling revelation of all: I am not just someone gifted with the so-called sixth sense or third eye. I was born to be a babaylan, a shaman destined to serve as a bridge between the mortal world and the divine.

While babaylan are often associated with women, it's important to note that men could also fulfill this role in traditional Philippine societies. Though less common, male babaylan possessed powerful spirit gifts and played a vital role in their communities.

I am a babaylan without a guardian spirit, leaving me vulnerable to possession by a powerful demon or even an evil god. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a cold fear that clings to me even in the warmth of the morning light.

I've tried to dismiss these fears, telling myself they're nothing but superstition. Yet deep down, I know the albularyo's words are true. Still, I force myself to push these thoughts aside. I have responsibilities to attend to. Work awaits me later in the day.

It's only 3 a.m., yet sleep eludes me. The vivid nightmare that woke me has left me wide awake, my heart pounding and my mind racing. I toss and turn, the rough texture of the sheets grating against my skin. No matter how much I try, I know I won't be able to sleep again tonight.

By the time the alarm clock buzzes at 6 a.m., the images of my dream have faded, leaving only a dull ache in my chest and a lingering sense of unease. I drag myself out of bed, the muscles in my legs protesting with every movement. The morning light filters through the curtains, but it does little to dispel the shadows that linger in the corners of my mind. I prepare for another grueling day at work, each movement mechanical as I try to shake off the weight of the night's visions.

My life as an accounting assistant wasn't glamorous. It was a far cry from the world of dreams and visions, rooted instead in endless spreadsheets, invoices, and looming deadlines. I trudge to the kitchen, the bitter aroma of burnt coffee filling the air. I grimace as I take a sip, the metallic tang clinging to my tongue. The sight of the bracelet on my wrist catches my attention, its smooth surface a stark contrast to the anxiety churning within me. I quickly dismiss it. There was no time to dwell on omens when reality demanded my focus.

By 7:30 a.m., I'm crammed onto the packed commuter bus, the cacophony of noise and the press of bodies suffocating me. The smell of sweat and exhaust fumes fills the air, making my stomach churn. I try to focus on the tasks awaiting me at the office, but the dream lingers, its images flashing before my eyes.

The office, a small accounting firm that mostly handled bookkeeping for local businesses, greets me with the sterile hum of fluorescent lights and the relentless tapping of keyboards. My desk is a chaotic sea of papers, receipts, and files—the work of three people, all piled onto one small, overworked assistant.

"Finally, you're here Mr. Misham Lakan," barks my boss, Mr. Reyes, from across the room. His sharp tone cuts through the morning quiet like a whip.

He's a stout, balding man with a perpetual scowl etched onto his face, his eyes narrowed as he glares at me. "Do you have any idea how much work is waiting for you? Those reports for Rivera

Enterprises should've been done yesterday. And don't forget the reconciliation for the Gomez account—I need that by noon."

"Yes, sir," I mutter, sinking into my chair, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a physical burden.

"And for god's sake," he adds, his voice dripping with disdain, "try not to mess up this time. You've already proven that your academic background is barely worth mentioning. A 3.0 GWA? Really? It's a miracle you even got hired here."

His words sting, a flush creeping up my neck, but I don't respond. I'd learned long ago that arguing with Mr. Reyes only made things worse. Instead, I bury myself in the work, the glow of my computer screen blurring as I sift through the never-ending data.

The hours drag by in a haze of numbers and deadlines. Mr. Reyes looms over me occasionally, barking orders and pointing out minor mistakes with exaggerated derision. "Do you even know how to do your job? It's not rocket science, you know." His words are like daggers, each one piercing my already fragile confidence.

By the time 5 p.m. rolls around, most of my coworkers are packing up to leave. But not me. Mr. Reyes, his face etched with fatigue, drops another stack of files on my desk.

"You're staying late tonight," he says flatly. "These need to be done before tomorrow's meeting."

"But sir," I begin, knowing it's futile. "I've already been working on—"

"No excuses," he snaps, his voice tight with frustration. He runs a hand through his thinning hair, a gesture I've come to recognize as a sign of mounting stress. "Unless you want to lose this job, you'll do as you're told. Or maybe you think someone with your stellar academic record can just waltz into another firm?"

I swallow my frustration, nodding silently as he walks away. My back aches, my eyes burn, and the weight of the day presses heavily on my shoulders. I glance at the clock, its ticking a constant reminder of the hours stretching ahead.

By the time I finally leave the office, it's nearly midnight. The streets are eerily quiet, the city's usual buzz replaced by the distant hum of streetlights and the occasional rumble of a passing car. My body screams for rest, but my mind is restless, haunted by the dreams that await me in the dark. The shadows seem deeper tonight, the silence more oppressive.

As I trudge home, the events of the day mingle with the lingering images of my dream. The weight of reality and the terror of the unknown feel like twin anchors, pulling me deeper into exhaustion. I clutch the bracelet on my wrist, its cool metal a small comfort in the encroaching darkness.

When I finally collapse onto my bed, I whisper a silent prayer—to whom, I don't know—that I would make it through another day.

And as sleep begins to claim me, a chilling thought creeps into my mind: If my dreams are warnings, what would happen if I ignored them?

Sleep comes reluctantly, a fleeting reprieve from the grind of reality. The faint hum of the city outside my studio apartment is a distant lullaby, but even that isn't enough to drown out the heaviness of the day. I toss and turn, the thin mattress offering little comfort to my aching body.

The nightmare from last night still lingers in the back of my mind, its images swirling just beneath the surface of consciousness. Exhaustion finally pulls me into an uneasy slumber, but it's a fragile peace, easily shattered.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I jolt awake, my heart hammering in my chest.

Someone is knocking at my door—no, pounding on it with a ferocity that makes my blood run cold. My apartment is pitch-black, save for the faint red glow of the digital clock on my nightstand: 2:07 a.m.

For a moment, I freeze, listening intently. The knocking stops, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. My breath catches in my throat. Who could be visiting at this hour?

I slide out of bed cautiously, my feet brushing against the cold tiled floor. My hand instinctively goes to the kitchen counter, where I grab the only thing that offers a sense of security—a small kitchen knife. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

The pounding resumes, louder this time, the sound echoing through the tiny apartment, each blow vibrating through my bones.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Who's there?" I call out, my voice a hoarse whisper, barely audible above the pounding. No answer.

With trembling hands, I approach the door. The hallway outside is usually dimly lit, but through the peephole, I see nothing but an impenetrable darkness. Not a single light illuminates the corridor, and the silence is deafening, broken only by the frantic beating of my own heart.

I hesitate, gripping the knife tightly, my mind racing with possibilities. What if it was someone in trouble? Or worse, what if it was someone looking for me? A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I grip the doorframe for support. Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and yank it open.

The hallway is empty, the oppressive darkness stretching endlessly in both directions. Even the usual hum of city life seems to have vanished, replaced by an eerie, unnatural stillness. A cold breeze sweeps past me, carrying a faint, metallic scent that makes my stomach churn. It smells like… blood.

I slam the door shut and lock it, my heart racing. "Just my imagination," I mutter, trying to convince myself. But deep down, I know something isn't right. This feels like a manifestation of the fears I had been trying to ignore, a warning I couldn't afford to dismiss.

I crawl back into bed, clutching the knife under my pillow for reassurance. Just as I begin to relax, the pounding returns.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

It's louder, more insistent, as if whoever—or whatever—was on the other side wants to tear the door down. My blood runs cold. I press my ear against the door, trying to hear something, anything, besides the relentless pounding. But there's nothing—no footsteps, no breathing, just the terrifying rhythm of the blows.

"Who are you?" I shout, my voice cracking with fear. Silence.

I repeat the same ritual: grab the knife, approach the door, look through the peephole—darkness. This time, when I open the door, the air feels colder, heavier, as though the void itself had seeped into my apartment. The metallic scent is stronger now, making me gag.

Still, nothing.

I close the door again, my hands trembling uncontrollably. My mind races, trying to make sense of what is happening. Was it a prank? Or something worse? But who would do this? And why?

Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling, too afraid to close my eyes. Minutes pass, each one an eternity. Then hours. Each time I try to drift off, the pounding resumes—louder, angrier, more demanding.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

It becomes a horrifying loop. Open the door, find nothing, shut it again, and wait for the next assault. My nerves are frayed, my grip on reality slipping with each passing moment. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, a relentless reminder of the fear that grips me. The darkness seems to press in on me, suffocating me.

By the time my alarm blares at 6 a.m., signaling the start of another workday, I am a wreck. My face in the mirror is pale, my eyes bloodshot and sunken. The knocking has stopped at dawn, leaving an eerie stillness that feels almost worse. The silence screams in my ears, a constant reminder of the terror I endured.

As I get ready for work, I can't shake the feeling that whatever visited me in the night isn't done.

The dream, the knocking, the oppressive darkness—it all feels connected, like threads weaving a tapestry of dread. I stare at the bracelet on my wrist, its dull silver seeming to mock me. Is this the danger the albularyo warned me about?

With a deep breath, I force myself to move, to face the day. I whisper to myself, "Just get through the day. One thing at a time."

But as I step out into the morning light, a single thought gnaws at the edges of my mind: What if it comes back?

The morning feels heavier than usual, as though the strange events of the night have left an unseen weight pressing down on me. Every shadow seems to hold a hidden threat, every sound a potential danger. After a quick shower and throwing on my usual work attire, I move to the small kitchenette to grab a hurried breakfast.

The faint hum of the refrigerator is the only sound in the apartment—too quiet after a night filled with relentless pounding.

Hoping to shake off the unease, I switch on the TV for background noise while I pour myself a cup of instant coffee. The screen flickers to life, displaying the morning news.

What I see makes my blood run cold.

A grim-faced reporter stands in front of a nondescript suburban house, police tape stretched across the front yard, fluttering in the breeze like a macabre banner. Behind her, officers move methodically, their faces grim, their eyes scanning the ground for clues. The headline at the bottom of the screen reads:

"Local Businessman Brutally Murdered Outside His Home: Killer at Large"

I grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles white, as the reporter begins speaking.

"Authorities have identified the victim as Cesar Reyes, a well-known businessman and owner of Reyes Accounting Services. He was found dead early this morning in front of his home," the reporter's voice drones on, each word a hammer blow to my already fragile composure. "Sources confirm that he was shot multiple times at close range while knocking on the front door."

The image of Mr. Reyes, his face contorted in a silent scream, flashes before my eyes. I can almost hear the echo of gunshots, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. My legs weaken, and I slump onto a nearby chair, the world tilting around me.

"Reyes," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

"That's… my boss."

The reporter continues, her voice a detached monotone against the backdrop of flashing blue lights and yellow crime scene tape. "Police believe the suspect is an escaped inmate, convicted of multiple violent crimes, including armed robbery and murder. Witnesses claim the victim was attacked as he attempted to enter his residence.

The assailant fled the scene immediately after the crime. Authorities are urging the public to remain vigilant, as the suspect is considered armed and dangerous."

The screen cuts to a grainy image of the killer—a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a jagged scar running down his left cheek. His face is the embodiment of menace, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurks in the world. But it's not the image of the killer that haunts me, it's the chilling realization that Mr. Reyes was killed while knocking on his own door.

I can barely process what I've just heard. Mr. Reyes—my demanding, often cruel boss—is dead. Killed in front of his own home while knocking on the door. My mind races back to the relentless pounding from the night before, the sound that had echoed in my dreams and haunted my waking moments. The memory of the cold breeze, the metallic scent of blood, sends a shiver down my spine.

Was it a coincidence? Or was I meant to be the victim?

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought. There's no way the two events are connected. Mr. Reyes lived on the other side of the city, far from my tiny apartment. Still, I can't shake the gnawing feeling that something is wrong—something beyond logic. A sense of dread settles over me, heavy and suffocating.

"...The victim was last seen leaving his office late last night," the reporter adds, her voice pulling me back to the screen. "Colleagues describe him as a driven man, known for his demanding leadership style."

I turn off the TV, the sudden silence deafening. My hands tremble as I grab a towel to clean up the spilled coffee, my thoughts a chaotic mess.

He's really gone.

The weight of the news settles heavily on my chest, a suffocating reminder of the fragility of life. I feel as if the ground beneath me has shifted, leaving me unmoored in a world that suddenly feels darker and more dangerous.

Despite everything—his harsh words, his impossible expectations, the way he belittled me—I never imagined his life would end like this. A wave of guilt washes over me. Why hadn't I been nicer to him? Why hadn't I stood up for myself more?

I force myself to focus, knowing I can't afford to be late. The city doesn't stop for grief or fear, and neither can I. Slipping the bracelet securely onto my wrist, its cool touch a small comfort against the fear that threatens to consume me, I mutter a quick prayer for protection before stepping out into the bright, uncaring morning.

When I arrive at the office, the usual hum of activity is absent. The reception area is eerily quiet, the air thick with tension. My coworkers huddle in small groups, their whispered conversations punctuated by gasps and murmurs of disbelief. Their faces are pale, their eyes wide with shock and fear.

As I make my way to my desk, the weight of their stares follows me like a heavy cloak.

"Did you hear?" someone murmurs as I pass.

"Reyes was…"

"…Killed," another voice finishes, barely above a whisper.

I sit down, my hands trembling as I try to focus on my tasks. But the news keeps replaying in my mind, a gruesome loop of violence and death. The pounding at my door, the murder outside Mr. Reyes' house, the escaped killer still on the loose—it all feels like pieces of a puzzle I don't want to solve.

As I stare at the empty chair in Mr. Reyes' office, a single thought refuses to leave me:

What if I was supposed to be next?

The chilling notion settles in my gut, twisting like a knife. I can almost hear the echo of that relentless pounding, a sinister reminder that danger lurks just beyond the surface of my everyday life. I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought, but it clings to me like a shadow, darkening the already somber atmosphere. The office, once a place of mundane routine, now feels like a trap, a waiting room for the inevitable.