Angin ng Gutom

Jack and Rose had always joked about the old farmhouse at the edge of Briar Hollow.

Locals said it wasn’t haunted—it was hungry. The kind of place that didn’t creak with age but breathed.

On a late October evening, with the sky the color of dried blood, Rose convinced Jack

to explore the house. “Just for a minute," she said. “We’ll leave before dark.”

But the sun seemed to drop faster the closer they got. When they stepped onto the rotting

porch, every forest noise behind them stopped at once. Inside,

the air smelled like wet soil and something much worse—something metallic and warm. The door slammed

behind them. Jack yanked the knob. It didn’t move. “Old houses shift,