"e;The night comes for the unborn, and only drunkards stand guard."e;A child turns the Fadriquela House into a shrine and a target. Melda is eight months along when a pale face blooms in the hedge and the floorboards begin to breathe. The rules the town whispers at dusk suddenly matter: salt must stay dry, familiar faces lie after nightfall, fear fattens the dark. The trouble is, her sentries are Harold's childhood buddies, a fraternity held together by thinning hair and bad liquor. They call themselves the Alpha Kappanots. The joke stops when the first claw tests the window.Aswangs know doors, gaps, and human weakness. They wear whatever shape fits the space. A bird that breathes through its ribs. A slick black pig that learns the fence by touch. A tongue that hunts like a rope with a mind. They crowd the yard, then the walls, then the hall. The house groans, the lamp thins, and every spill or smudge becomes a mouth.Help arrives in the hardest form. Harold's retired teacher marches in with a purse and a plan, drilling grown men like nervous schoolboys and turning a kitchen into a keep. Dry lines first. Brace the frame. Count your breath. Laugh on purpose when terror bites, because steady breath blunts their reach. Under her orders, the Alpha Kappanots scrape paste from sills, lift furniture with trembling pride, and learn that discipline can be funnier, and far meaner, than a punchline.Folk Ritual Horror meets Dark Comedy as siege turns to ritual and ritual turns to survival. The fights are ugly and close. A frying pan becomes a reliquary. A busted chair leg becomes a spear. A flimsy net becomes a flag and a farce. Laughter buys a beat, then another, while the hedge listens for the slip that lets hunger in. Melda keeps one hand on her belly and one on the knife the teacher shoves into her palm, and the house itself starts keeping score.The Siege at Fadriquela House is a night-long gauntlet of shape-shifters and human blunders, set where Filipino folklore still speaks in kitchens and on stoops. Its terror lives in seams, hinges, and breath. Its humor lives in botched salutes, heroic stumbles, and the way a scolding can feel like a blessing. The unborn is the prize. The porch is the front line. The men who never graduated from mischief get a crash course in courage.Alpha Kappanot Tales, Book One, opens a series about old debts and new families, about houses that remember, and about rules that keep you alive if you keep them sharp. If you want folklore with teeth, siege fiction with heart, and gallows laughter that refuses to die, step onto the porch and hold the line. Morning will come. The hunger will wait. The tale will not forget who stood watch.

"e;The night comes for the unborn, and only drunkards stand guard."e;A child turns the Fadriquela House into a shrine and a target. Melda is eight months along when a pale face blooms in the hedge and the floorboards begin to breathe. The rules the town whispers at dusk suddenly matter: salt must stay dry, familiar faces lie after nightfall, fear fattens the dark. The trouble is, her sentries are Harold's childhood buddies, a fraternity held together by thinning hair and bad liquor. They call themselves the Alpha Kappanots. The joke stops when the first claw tests the window.Aswangs know doors, gaps, and human weakness. They wear whatever shape fits the space. A bird that breathes through its ribs. A slick black pig that learns the fence by touch. A tongue that hunts like a rope with a mind. They crowd the yard, then the walls, then the hall. The house groans, the lamp thins, and every spill or smudge becomes a mouth.Help arrives in the hardest form. Harold's retired teacher marches in with a purse and a plan, drilling grown men like nervous schoolboys and turning a kitchen into a keep. Dry lines first. Brace the frame. Count your breath. Laugh on purpose when terror bites, because steady breath blunts their reach. Under her orders, the Alpha Kappanots scrape paste from sills, lift furniture with trembling pride, and learn that discipline can be funnier, and far meaner, than a punchline.Folk Ritual Horror meets Dark Comedy as siege turns to ritual and ritual turns to survival. The fights are ugly and close. A frying pan becomes a reliquary. A busted chair leg becomes a spear. A flimsy net becomes a flag and a farce. Laughter buys a beat, then another, while the hedge listens for the slip that lets hunger in. Melda keeps one hand on her belly and one on the knife the teacher shoves into her palm, and the house itself starts keeping score.The Siege at Fadriquela House is a night-long gauntlet of shape-shifters and human blunders, set where Filipino folklore still speaks in kitchens and on stoops. Its terror lives in seams, hinges, and breath. Its humor lives in botched salutes, heroic stumbles, and the way a scolding can feel like a blessing. The unborn is the prize. The porch is the front line. The men who never graduated from mischief get a crash course in courage.Alpha Kappanot Tales, Book One, opens a series about old debts and new families, about houses that remember, and about rules that keep you alive if you keep them sharp. If you want folklore with teeth, siege fiction with heart, and gallows laughter that refuses to die, step onto the porch and hold the line. Morning will come. The hunger will wait. The tale will not forget who stood watch.

"e;The night comes for the unborn, and only drunkards stand guard."e;A child turns the Fadriquela House into a shrine and a target. Melda is eight months along when a pale face blooms in the hedge and the floorboards begin to breathe. The rules the town whispers at dusk suddenly matter: salt must stay dry, familiar faces lie after nightfall, fear fattens the dark. The trouble is, her sentries are Harold's childhood buddies, a fraternity held together by thinning hair and bad liquor. They call themselves the Alpha Kappanots. The joke stops when the first claw tests the window.Aswangs know doors, gaps, and human weakness. They wear whatever shape fits the space. A bird that breathes through its ribs. A slick black pig that learns the fence by touch. A tongue that hunts like a rope with a mind. They crowd the yard, then the walls, then the hall. The house groans, the lamp thins, and every spill or smudge becomes a mouth.Help arrives in the hardest form. Harold's retired teacher marches in with a purse and a plan, drilling grown men like nervous schoolboys and turning a kitchen into a keep. Dry lines first. Brace the frame. Count your breath. Laugh on purpose when terror bites, because steady breath blunts their reach. Under her orders, the Alpha Kappanots scrape paste from sills, lift furniture with trembling pride, and learn that discipline can be funnier, and far meaner, than a punchline.Folk Ritual Horror meets Dark Comedy as siege turns to ritual and ritual turns to survival. The fights are ugly and close. A frying pan becomes a reliquary. A busted chair leg becomes a spear. A flimsy net becomes a flag and a farce. Laughter buys a beat, then another, while the hedge listens for the slip that lets hunger in. Melda keeps one hand on her belly and one on the knife the teacher shoves into her palm, and the house itself starts keeping score.The Siege at Fadriquela House is a night-long gauntlet of shape-shifters and human blunders, set where Filipino folklore still speaks in kitchens and on stoops. Its terror lives in seams, hinges, and breath. Its humor lives in botched salutes, heroic stumbles, and the way a scolding can feel like a blessing. The unborn is the prize. The porch is the front line. The men who never graduated from mischief get a crash course in courage.Alpha Kappanot Tales, Book One, opens a series about old debts and new families, about houses that remember, and about rules that keep you alive if you keep them sharp. If you want folklore with teeth, siege fiction with heart, and gallows laughter that refuses to die, step onto the porch and hold the line. Morning will come. The hunger will wait. The tale will not forget who stood watch.