They say if you find yourself walking in circles in the jungle—even though you're sure you're going straight—it's because something's watching you.
Something tall.
Something with hooves.
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Rico, a Manila-based travel vlogger, was trying to boost his declining channel with a haunted jungle series. He brought his cousin Lani along as a local guide, plus Miguel, a cameraman who didn't believe in anything except low battery warnings.
They were in the Cordillera region, deep in the lush, humid trails near Sagada.
Locals warned them: "Don't mock the trees. Don't talk about the Tikbalang."
So Rico made a joke in his intro.
The jungle didn't laugh.
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The first sign came fast. The GPS went berserk. The trail markers vanished. Trees seemed to move. Lani started murmuring prayers she hadn't said in years.
Then came the horseshoe prints. Deep ones. Leading in circles.
And that night, something moved outside their tent.
Heavy. Hooved. Breathing.
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Lani found Miguel the next morning sitting in a tree, nose bleeding, camera in hand. He was humming. His face was blank.
The footage showed him following a tall shadow through the brush, whispering in Ilocano, a language he didn't speak.
They tried to leave.
The jungle didn't let them.
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The same trees. The same moss. The same tree with a cross carved in it.
Again. And again. And again.
Until Rico screamed at the forest, calling the Tikbalang a myth.
The wind stopped.
And it appeared.
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It was over eight feet tall, a horse skull with burning eyes, a twisted human torso, long limbs with hooves for feet, and hair that dragged like vines. It didn't walk. It glided.
It placed a hand on Rico's forehead.
He collapsed, whispering, "I see the path now. I hear the hooves."
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Lani left the jungle three days later.
Alone.
She never spoke of what she saw. Only left the camera at the local police station, shaking.
The footage was scrambled—except for the last frame:
A long path through the forest… and the silhouette of something standing on two legs, smiling.