Shake Rattle and Roll: 1984

The Forest of Baguio

The sun hung high above Baguio City, casting a warm glow on the bustling market and vibrant parks filled with flowers proudly displaying their late-summer colors. Nojar, a dedicated teacher from Manila, had arrived in the city for a much-needed two-week vacation. The cool mountain air and breathtaking scenery drew him in, promising relaxation and a break from his demanding job. But as he wandered through the narrow, pine-scented streets, whispers of another kind began to reach his ears.

As fate would have it, Nojar stumbled upon an article in a local newspaper about the infamous Forest of Baguio—a marooned wilderness that had gained an eerie reputation since the 1970s. Tales of missing persons, like specters swallowed by the trees, echoed through the town. The unnerving history both intrigued and unnerved him, yet he longed to explore the very terrain dotted with legends of the past.

On a sunny Tuesday morning, he laced up his hiking boots, armed with nothing but a map and a sense of adventure. The rich scent of damp earth and pine needles met him as he stepped into the forest, an expanse of towering trees that reached toward the sky like ancient guardians. The further he ventured, the more the sounds of the city faded. Only the rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds remained, wrapping him in their solitude.

But there was an unsettling feeling that prickled the back of his neck—a sense that he was not alone. The forest seemed alive, the shadows shifting in ways that felt deliberate. As he followed a narrow path deeper into the woods, he came across an old, weathered sign reading "Beware: The Forest Takes What It Wants."

Dismissive of superstitions, Nojar pressed on, lost in his thoughts. Hours passed, though it felt like mere minutes, as he marveled at nature’s beauty. He took notes and sketched the vibrant flora, immersing himself in tranquility, yet each unsuspecting sound made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt trail, Nojar finally decided it was time to turn back. Retracing his steps, he thought he heard his name whispered on the gentle breeze, barely there yet distinctly beckoning. “Nojar,” it called.

His heart raced, a mixture of intrigue and fear flooding his senses. Surely it was a figment of his imagination, a trick of the wind. But as he continued, the path began to twist and turn. No longer were the towering pine trees friendly sentinels; they morphed into figures, closing in on him like a crowd standing in judgment.

Suddenly, he stumbled upon a clearing—a grotesque irony in its beauty. Fragments of a long-abandoned campsite lay scattered around, hinting at the lives of those who had once lingered here. Old photographs stained by grime and time lay tucked beneath a rock, their faces contorted in fear or anguish. He picked one up, its edges curling under his fingers. It was a picture of a lone man with striking features, smiling blissfully, yet his eyes held a haunting emptiness.

As he searched for any clues to the lost souls of the forest, a chilling realization gripped him—a rustling came closer, echoing from the shadows behind the trees. The whispers intensified, a cacophony of disembodied voices calling his name once again: “Nojar…”