Moonlight

By: Jayson Patalinghug

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I remember the weight first.

It pinned my hand to the mattress, heavy and cold as stone. My body would not obey me; every breath I took felt stolen, as if invisible fingers were pressing against my lungs. My mind, however, was fully awake—painfully awake.

From beyond my room, I heard the sounds of chaos: the sharp shatter of plates, the piercing cries of someone breaking apart, the furious pounding of fists against doors. Walls trembled. Shadows roared.

I fought to open my eyes, to move even a finger, but the unseen weight grew heavier, as though an iron hand was holding me down. Panic welled up, and I whispered hoarsely, my words tripping over one another:

“Please… let me go.”

Nothing.

Then I remembered Him.

“I rebuke you, demon,” I gasped, “in the name of Jesus—my Lord, my Savior—leave me!”

The words cracked in the silence. And just like that—the force loosened its grip. My eyes flew open. I lay drenched in sweat, my chest heaving, my throat parched as though I had been drowning in a dream.

I stumbled out of bed, my legs trembling. The hallway stretched before me, dim and hollow. The front door hung open, swaying slightly, as if someone had just stepped out. I glanced at the clock—3:00 a.m. The hour when night feels older than death.

The moonlight spilled through the cracked window, silvering the veranda. It was strangely beautiful, almost tender, softening the brokenness around me. For a moment, it soothed me. Perhaps, I thought, the moon is God’s lantern, reminding me not all darkness is merciless.

But then—

Huhuhu…

A cry. Soft, mournful, and distant, yet so near it seemed to seep into my very bones.

I froze. My breath hitched. The sound grew clearer as I stepped through the sala, where only the pale glow of the moon lit my way. I reached for the switch but stumbled over something unseen.

That’s when I saw her.

She sat at the dining table, shoulders trembling, her head buried in her arms. Long strands of hair veiled her face. A white gown clung to her figure and shimmered faintly in the moonlight, as though it had been stitched from the light itself.

“Who… who are you?” I whispered, though my throat felt sealed shut.

Her sobbing slowed. She lifted her head just enough for her voice to escape, fragile and broken:

“Why did he leave us?”

The sound pierced me. My knees weakened. My sweat ran like rain down my face.

She stood then, slowly, her gown trailing like mist. Step by step, she moved toward me. My body screamed to run, but I could not. She knelt in front of me, her face finally revealed.

Her eyes—oh God, her eyes—were oceans of grief. They pulled me in, drowning me in her sorrow.

“My son,” she whispered, “your father has left us. He broke me when he went to her last night.”

Her words struck like lightning, illuminating everything I feared but dared not name. Tears blurred my sight.

“Mother?” I choked out, though I was not sure if it was truly her or a specter conjured by the moonlight.

She touched my cheek, her fingers cold but tender.

“Be strong,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must be strong, even when the world falls apart.”

And then—she was gone. The room stood empty, the moonlight cold and silent once more.

I remained there, tears dripping freely, unsure if I had dreamed her into being or if the moon itself had given her back to me for just one fleeting moment.