Lola Iya sat by the doorway as she spoke about the silence lurking in the woods. She said the land is listening when no one else does. She told us that silence is the price of safety. Yet for Lola Iya, true safety means more than silence— to resurrect those old stories—the ones that teach the people why the land listens and why obedience is paramount. To not forget.
So, we listened.
In Bicol, the world is not divided cleanly between the living and the unseen. The myths remain stitched into its landscape. They survive in a region where the mountains erupt without warning, and the sea opens itself to every disaster imaginable.
In places shaped by disaster, people make sense of the tremors through stories. They tell themselves that the Earth moves because the Gods are restless. That creatures stalk the dark because there’s life in darkness. They observe rituals because they believe rituals keep the world in place.
Don’t panic, we’re traveling to Bicol. Not just distances measured in kilometers, but in the threshold of stories that linger.
Land of memory
The first thing a traveler notices when the bus pulls toward Albay is the perfect cone of Mayon rising beyond the rice fields.
The volcano looks harmless when seen from the road. One couldn’t help but admire the clouds clinging to its waist. The ridges catch the morning light. Even then, almost every village within sight of its slopes holds a story of someone buried in ash, of harvests carved out of lahar, of nights spent listening to stones crack in the heat.
The volcano is a clock that sets its own hour.
Locals say Mayon has a temper because she is still searching for her lover. They speak the name Daragang Magayon in a tone carried with pride.
Magayon was the beautiful daughter of the chieftain Makusog and was promised to the warrior Panganuron. The rival suitor, however, who is Pagtuga, waged war to claim her. In the chaos that followed, Panganuron died. Soon after, Magayon was accidentally killed by a machete that hit her back. Makusog decided to bury their bodies together. After some days, a mountain shaped like a cone started to rise over their grave. When mist softens the peak, the elders say the lovers are meeting again.
This is the myth seared into childhood in Albay.
Bicol’s mythology often draws from the violence of geography. A place of volcanoes and typhoons becomes a place where Gods have sharp edges. It is no coincidence that many Bicolano legends are cautionary, like oral sirens warning children not to wander, not to take the sea for granted, not to trust the mountain’s silence.
Creatures who keep the night
If you travel deeper into the provinces, the stories grow stranger. There are more names to memorize. More shapeshifters to avoid. More rules whispered by grandparents who believe that sunlight does not cancel danger.
The aswang is the most famous myth in the region, but Bicol’s version has its own anatomy. Here, people speak of wakwak or kikik, a winged creature whose flapping sounds louder when it flies away and softer when it approaches. The sound tricks the ear.
Old fishermen swear the wakwak targets pregnant women because it smells the unborn child. With this in mind, mothers drape windows with garlic and salt on full-moon nights.
I remember when my favorite uncle’s wife was pregnant, and she was told to rub a kalamansi on her belly before six o’clock in the evening so the wakwak couldn’t smell it.
Whether the scent wards off monsters or mosquitoes, no one argues. Belief is its own kind of protection.
When I was still young, my lolo warned me not to look directly at the balete trees after sunset. Those trees are homes to kapre, the giant men who smoke cigars the size of rolling pins. You can walk by them safely if you say tabi-tabi po, which is a polite signal that you are passing through and mean no harm.
A traveler who forgets to say this can end up disoriented, circling the same path for hours. Elders explained that someone unseen is leading you astray.
Then there are the duwende or nuno sa punso, the dwarves who guard ant hills and mounds of soil.
The duwende are moody. They punish disrespect with swollen feet and weeks of fever. People leave bowls of water under fruit trees so the small ones can wash after play. Medical science may diagnose it as an infection or allergy, and yet, the families still leave offerings.
Stories that cut through the screen
The Bicol region is now changing. Some roads are already widened, some take forever to be fixed. Malls rise on former coconut fields. Young people carry smartphones that glow with cosmic videos and AI-generated stories. Regardless, the myths adjust and don’t fade.
Each time I start to work, I always listen to the Philippine Campfire Stories podcast on Spotify to accompany me. This is where people share séances of sorts—tales of things encountered in the periphery of sleep, the spooky feeling in a place where people think unseen beings live with us, or anything that makes them feel scared.
I always get invested in every encounter they share, but there’s a different feeling—like a needle tracing the arch of your back when the sender is a Bicolano. Myths are alive in the way these types of stories are also being fed and kept alive by continued, contemporary encounters. This is proof that the thin veil has not thickened.
Apparently, this relentless preservation of the supernatural experience comes at a cost. The narratives, once intended as maps or warnings, now primarily produce a singular, overwhelming emotion. People feel fear. They feel fear instead of the necessary reverence, instead of the quiet respect for the boundaries they are meant to observe.
The unseen
Traveling through Bicol can sometimes become passive sightseeing. Even so, the traveler becomes part of the narrative. Every guide, tricycle driver, sari-sari store owner, and coconut farmer is a vessel of mythology. They could arrive as warnings, confessions, or jokes.
A motorcycle driver in Donsol tells of a woman who appeared by the road, alongside Marthavana Resort in Pinarik at midnight. She stretches her hand, asking for a ride. Her dress was soaked. The driver blinked, and she was gone. He laughs when he retells it. The laugh lands somewhere between bravado and bewilderment.
My grandfather warns me that whistling at night can invite spirits, and up until this day, I obey.
These encounters reveal a culture where myth is not simply entertainment. A traveler who listens becomes a welcome guest.
You may start to ask, how a digital-savvy adventurer can experience Bicol’s mythic landscapes without romanticizing poverty or exoticizing belief. The answer is simple: move with respect.
Respect the landscapes that birthed the stories, the communities that keep them alive, and the truths behind the superstition.
Hike the woods of Mt. Masaraga knowing that every rustle might have a tale attached. Visit the ruins of Cagsawa and remember that beneath the postcard view lie thousands of bones. These experiences reveal more than any tourist brochure you’ve seen before.
Those who keep moving carry the stories
Bicol’s supernatural myths stay alive even as the world around them keeps changing. They move among the people, they evolve, and they remain stubbornly alive.
Travelers arrive in Bicol in search of adventure, but they soon discover something deeper waiting in the landscape. The people have endured by holding on to the story, and the region is not ashamed of its ghosts.
The myths persist because the land demands narrative. The volcano breathes, the sea churns, the forests hum, and nature is relentless. Humans answer by naming what they cannot control.
And the people continue to tell their stories.
