Friday, November 1, 2013

The hand on the wall

Image stolen from the scary pages of

WHEN I was a small kid, I often see, hear and feel the presence of other beings in a room which are not visible to anyone else, and I was not silent about it. My sister and two brothers were scared to sleep with me in the same room because I keep pointing at the walls and the door and telling them what I saw.
My mother thought I had worms and had me de-wormed several times hoping to put a stop to “my over-active imagination”, but no matter how many deworming sessions she conducted, things did not change. I keep seeing them all especially at night when I try to go to sleep.
I see midgets and giants and can hear them talking and calling me to join them, and I remember getting so scared I wish nighttime would never come. When the images started coming out, I would wake up my father and ask him to accompany me to the restroom to pee but that was just an alibi so I won’t have to close my eyes again. It never worked. As soon as I close my eyes, and sometimes even if my eyes are open in the dark I can see so many people in the room.
We moved to several houses but it was always the same. One time, my parents had to spend the night away and we were left with Inday Tita, a cousin from my father’s side.

We all decided to sleep in one room—me and my brothers on the floor, and my sis and cousin on the bed. Only I and my sister who was doing her homework was awake. I was lying on my side facing the bed trying to force myself to fall asleep and was on the brink of it when something compelled me to turn to the wall. I did, and what I saw stopped me cold. 

A huge hairy hand was on the wall, outside the mosquito net and trying to get in. I blinked several times and rubbed my eyes hoping it was gone but it was still there, as big and as alive as ever. I was so scared that I shook everyone awake while pointing to the hand on the wall. They did not see anything.
I was already white as a sheet and I sat and cowered trembling as far away from the wall as I can, but the hand was still there. By this time, everyone was already awake and getting scared. My youngest brother who was about four years old that time and who did not understand what was going on brushed his hand on the wall that I was pointing to and I grabbed him. He felt nothing on the wall.

I moved to the bed and slept beside my cousin, scared to close my eyes but more scared to keep it open.
The next day, my cousin mentioned about what happened the night before to our neighbors, and some started talking. We learned that the previous owner of that house died on the very same room that we slept in.

When my parents arrived the next day, my mom started another de-worming session for me, but even I knew she did not believe it was worms anymore and even if she deworms me every second of the day, things will not change and I can still feel and see them.  My hair still stands on end every time I remember that night when I saw a hand on the wall.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Love letters under the Pillow

WHEN my uncle Gorio, my mother’s elder brother was a young man many, many suns and moons ago, he had a girlfriend that we’re just going to name Sandy whom he wanted to marry but who broke up with him instead. My uncle was broken-hearted and tried to give her some space at first, hoping that she just needed it but the weeks passed and she became cold and aloof until she would barely talk to my Uncle. 

My Uncle, who told this story to us one rainy night during a power outage when we were kids, said did not give up easily though. He was always there and tried his best to win Sandy back.

One day, Sandy got sick from a disease that no one could determine. During those times, the barrio folk rely more on albularyos or faith healers, but when none of the rituals the albularyo performed on her worked, her family was forced to take her to the doctor. She was admitted to the hospital but none of the doctors just could tell what was wrong with her.

Sandy was taken back home where she got weaker each day. One night, she got so worse and just stopped breathing that they all rushed to her bed calling her name. Suddenly, from under her pillow, a white envelope tumbled out. They grabbed the envelope and opened the sheet of paper inside. Sandy’s name was written on it but it was the only thing they can read in the whole page letter.

They were alarmed when a similar envelop tumbled out of her bed the next night, with the same indecipherable penmanship except for Sandy’s name. Yet another letter arrived the next night, and the next, and with each letter she grew weaker and weaker.

On the seventh night since the letters started coming, Sandy just stopped breathing. The albularyo was called and started to perform more rituals at her bedside but there was no more response from her. As was the custom in those days, they buried her the following day. My Uncle Gorio was inconsolable. With the help of family and friends, he tried to move on with his life.

One day a couple of months later, a woman from the same barrio who already moved to Zamboanga City, several hours bus ride away went back to the barrio for a visit. She saw my Uncle and told him that she saw Sandy in Zamboanga City with a man who looked like a foreigner. She told my Uncle that she slapped Sandy in the arm but acted like she did not recognize her. When she chased Sandy, the later told her they were in a hurry and had to go. She also noticed that Sandy avoided looking into her eyes. The two girls grew up together, and if there was one person outside Sandy’s family who knew her so well, it was that woman.

My Uncle said his jaw dropped, while everyone’s eyes went round as saucers. Total silence engulfed the gathering of barrio folks who were there. That woman did not know that Sandy was already dead, and when they told her, it was her turn. Her jaw just did not drop, she collapsed.  
The albularyo explained that there have been already so many instances when people die but they were actually claimed and taken to the other world.