She held in her wrinkled hand the document that proved the property was hers. Ten pesos. That was all she had paid for the land with a house included. Ten pesos—the entirety of her savings from three years working as a barangay flag bearer during town events. “She’s crazy, Aling Esperanza,” the neighbors had said when they heard.
No one sells a ranch for ten pesos if there’s nothing wrong. But Esperanza didn’t care. At 52, widowed for four years, with two grown children living in Manila, she only wanted a place of her own: a little piece of land where she wouldn’t have to pay rent, a roof that was hers and hers alone. The dirt road crunched under her worn tsinelas.
Behind her, the town grew smaller. Ahead, through the shrubs and wild coconut palms, appeared the silhouette of her new home. It was a simple adobe house with a rusted galvanized iron roof. The walls were cracked like the wrinkles of an old face but still stood firm. Two windows had no glass, only rotted wooden frames, and the door hung crooked on its hinges.
“Not much,” she murmured, wiping sweat from her brow with her shawl. “But it’s mine.” The land around it was spacious—enough room to plant kangkong, squash, maybe even raise a few chickens. Esperanza imagined waking to the crow of roosters, watering her small garden, living off what the land would provide.
Mang Mauricio, the elderly man who sold her the property, now lived with his daughter in Cebu. When Esperanza went to finalize the deal, the old man had sunken eyes and shaking hands. “Are you sure, ma’am?” he asked three times. Absolutely, Esperanza replied. Mang Mauricio sighed deeply, as if letting go of a weight he had carried for decades.
“Let me be honest. This ranch has been abandoned for more than 15 years. Since my wife passed, I haven’t returned. Memories, you know… sometimes memories weigh more than stones.” Esperanza nodded. She understood the burden of memories—she knew the ache of waking in the night searching for someone who was gone.
“I understand, Mang Mauricio, but old houses and other people’s memories don’t scare me. What scares me is paying rent when I can barely survive.” The old man looked at her with something like pity, but he signed the papers. He handed her a rusted key. “God bless you, Aling Esperanza,” he said.
Those words lingered like an ominous sign. Standing before her new house, Esperanza inserted the key into the lock. She had to wrestle with it a little, but finally the door creaked open, echoing through the valley. The smell hit her first—not unpleasant, just damp and earthy, like after a long dry season rains.
Sunlight streamed through broken windows, illuminating floating dust motes. A table sat in the middle of the room, covered in dirt and dry leaves blown in. Two old chairs leaned awkwardly, a wood stove sat in the corner with ashes so old they seemed fossilized. On the wall, a 2009 calendar featured a beach she would never visit.
“Well, here goes,” she said aloud, mostly to encourage herself. She placed her bag on the floor and pulled out what little she had brought: a broom, a mop, a bucket of water, some candles, and an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, her constant companion. She hung it on a protruding nail and crossed herself.
“Virgencita, I’ll be here. Please watch over me.” She began sweeping. Clouds of dust made her cough, but she pressed on, sweeping the living room, a small bedroom, and a tiny kitchen corner. Every nook revealed years of neglect—thick cobwebs like curtains, dried mouse droppings, and pieces of adobe fallen from the ceiling.
By noon, she was done. Esperanza sat on one of the chairs and ate tortillas with beans she had wrapped in a cloth. Silence filled the ranch—no birds, no wind, not even a distant dog bark. Strange, she thought, but she was too tired to dwell on it.
After eating, she continued: cleaning windows, removing cobwebs, mopping the compacted dirt floor. When the sun began to set, the house looked less ghostly. Much remained to be done, but it was a start. She laid her sleeping mat in the cleanest corner and rested. Her body ached, but she felt something she hadn’t in years. Esperanza.
Ironic, isn’t it? A woman named Esperanza regaining hope. “Tomorrow will be better,” she whispered and fell asleep.
What woke her was not a sound, but a feeling—something wrong, something out of place. She opened her eyes to the full moon, casting silver light across the room.
And then she saw it. Something moving on the wall. At first, she thought it was her imagination, but no—definitely moving. A dark line slid across the adobe. Esperanza squinted. Her heart leapt.
A snake—a thick viper the length of her arm—crawled the wall as if it belonged there. She froze, dared not breathe. The snake slid into a crack in the corner.
“Good heavens,” she whispered.
“It’s just a viper. Countryside snakes are normal,” she repeated to herself, over and over. She waited, senses alert. Nothing happened. Exhaustion overtook fear, and she slept again.
Next morning, the first sun rays woke her. She checked every corner—no animals. In daylight, everything seemed less menacing. “Ándale, Esperanza. You’re not afraid of a small snake in the field.” She went outside to inspect the land.
The soil was rich, reddish-brown and loose. Some wild acacia trees grew unchecked. At the back, she discovered an old mossy well. Water trickled deep inside. Good—it meant she could water a garden.
She spent the day clearing weeds and marking garden spots. The sun blazed, but she didn’t mind. Every stone, every inch of soil, every sunlight ray on this piece of land was hers.
Night fell. She lit a candle, ate beans with tortillas again, and planned a trip to town for seeds or maybe a chicken or two. Sleep didn’t come easily—the silence was too heavy, as if the house held its breath.
Then a faint rustle—cloth against cloth. Esperanza sat up. The candle burned low, the moon illuminated the room. Not one, two, or three—but five snakes slithered in and out of cracks as if they owned the place.
Her scream caught in her throat. Snakes everywhere. One large viper slid inches from her foot. Trembling, she ran to the door, barely opening the latch, and dashed outside. Heart pounding, under the stars, barefoot in her nightgown, she shivered in the night air.
“What is happening?” she whispered. She waited until daylight, too afraid to enter.
When the sun rose, she peeked inside—nothing. Empty walls. Clean floor. A nightmare, she thought. But deep down, she knew she hadn’t imagined it.
She walked back to town seeking answers. She found Mang Chuy, the oldest shopkeeper, arranging rice sacks.
“Good morning, Mang Chuy.”
“Ah, Aling Esperanza. Got tired of your ranch already?” Esperanza forced a smile.
“No, I need to ask. You’ve lived here all your life—what do you know about the ranch I bought from Mang Mauricio?”
Mang Chuy paused. “The Ciénaga ranch?”
“Yes, that one.” He sighed.
“Sit down, ma’am. That’s not a good sign.”
“When Mang Mauricio and his wife lived there, all was well—they farmed, raised animals, lived quietly. But after she passed, Mang Mauricio noticed strange things… snakes. One or two at first, then more. One night, so many he couldn’t walk without stepping on them. He fled, never returned. Moved in with his daughter.”
Esperanza’s legs went weak. “Why?”
“No one knows. Some say an old snake nest beneath the house. Others blame the well. Mang Mauricio wasn’t the first—three families before him left for the same reason.”
“And why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Mang Chuy shrugged. “Perhaps he just wanted rid of it. And you… you were desperate and didn’t ask the right questions.” Esperanza stayed silent. True—she had been blinded by wanting a place of her own.
“What do I do now?” she asked softly.
“Go back to town. Leave the ranch. But… you’re stubborn as an ox. Just be careful. Don’t stay out of pride if things get worse.”
Esperanza wandered aimlessly, weighing her options. Could she fight the snakes? Control them? That afternoon, she spent her last pesos on lime, pesticide, and a new bolo. She returned to the ranch, sprinkled lime in a circle around the house, poured pesticide in cracks, even the well.
Night fell. She fed a fire outside, determined to stay awake. Hours passed. Midnight. 1 a.m. 2 a.m. Then she heard it—scales scraping adobe. Dozens of snakes poured from cracks, sliding over walls, forming a living mass. Rattlesnakes, coral snakes, pythons—all in a macabre moonlit dance. The bolo fell from her hands.
A large rattlesnake, thick as her arm, stopped at the door and stared at her. Direct eye contact. In that moment, something changed.
Esperanza felt understanding, deeper than fear. The creature was not there to attack—it was in its home. Its place, she murmured. The snake slithered back inside.
Tears rolled down her cheeks—not of fear, but understanding. She had paid ten pesos for a ranch because no one wanted it. It had owners long before humans—snakes that would not leave. She watched them until dawn, moving naturally as water flows in a river.
When the sun rose, they were gone. She packed her belongings and returned to town. No anger. No regret. Only peace.
She wrote a letter to Mang Mauricio: “Keep the ranch. I won’t ask for my money. But next time, tell the truth about the place.”
Weeks later, she rented a small room in Aling Petra’s house—a widow like her. Simple, cozy, among people. No snakes.
One afternoon, men came to burn the ranch and kill snakes. Esperanza ran after them. “Stop! They’ve been there first! Killing them is wrong—they’re only living their lives.”
The men hesitated, then left. Mang Chuy, impressed, said: “Not everyone defends those who drove them out.”
“I defend what’s right,” she replied. “Even snakes deserve a home.”
Years later, her grandchildren asked, “Grandma, did you really buy a house full of snakes?”
“Yes, my children,” she said, rocking on her small porch. “And it was the best lesson I ever bought.”
The ranch remained in the outskirts, snakes and all—a silent reminder that land does not belong to us. We belong to the land. Esperanza had found her true home—in her heart, at peace with the world.