It is not a bluff. It is a real place called Pulong Diyablo (place of devil).

“Salvage area kasi daw ’yan dati,” people explained—because it was once believed to be a place where dead bodies were dumped.

Ironically, the word "salvage", which literally means “rescue,” carries a terrifying meaning for the locals, signifying the exact opposite.

Whether the stories are true or not, no one there truly knows.

What is certain is that the place was eventually renovated, repurposed, and given a new name. It became Southville 8A, located in Barangay San Isidro, Rodriguez, Rizal—a relocation site for victims of Typhoon Ondoy in 2009.

Built as a place of hope, the horror tied to its former name lingered among homeowners for years.

I witnessed this firsthand as I joined my mother every Sunday, who facilitates church services in one of the houses. She was among the founding mothers of the first church in the area, holding Bible studies in bare homes with no ceilings or furniture, and organizing feeding programs where lines of children stretched across entire blocks.

Eventually, we moved there in April 2011, and I experienced provincial life myself.

The first Christmas

Countless crime stories and tales of the supernatural circulated within the community.

People had almost nothing—just unsafe shelters without fences. Families were starting from scratch, with no stable jobs, giving rise to stories of rampant robbery and crime, whether true or exaggerated.

The place was a blank canvas—no grand Christmas decorations, no loud music. At night, the only lights that came were from fireflies, which elders believed were signs that bad spirits were nearby.

Stories of tiktik and aswang roaming at night were common.

There was no electricity to watch cartoons or television. We slept before sunset, around 5:00 or 5:30 p.m. There was no running water; we had to fetch it from the poso.

Families lived one day at a time, with no extra money for a traditional Noche Buena. Spaghetti was already enough. Children taught me that even one-peso junk food from the store could be an ulam.

Our house was filled daily with dozens of children whose names we did not even know, playing endlessly with my brother’s toys.

I cherished the simplicity of that childhood, but I also came to understand the pain of the parents, watching their lives change because of calamity. The real horror of Pulong Diyablo went beyond myths and ghost stories; it lay in the harsh reality people faced every day after the devastation.

This community’s story is not just history. It is an ongoing reality across the country, where many families continue to face Christmas amid loss, displacement, and the aftermath of typhoons that strike during the ber months.