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When I joined a pool of writers last year, I was tasked to write about haunted houses. The meeting was held a few days before Holy Week. I remember most of it because when I got home, I got a reply from Mario, a friend, whom I have asked if he knows any ghost house. His family stays in Bulacan, Bulacan.
Mario texted me that his neighbor’s house would be the perfect place. Researchers had ceaselessly asked for an appointment with the owners (this was when the two giant TV networks filled our Saturday afternoons with paranormal stories) so they can cover it on their show. The owners had always declined, Mario said. Later on, I realized why the owners had kept a considerable distance with the TV people. Two words: medical ethics.
Mario and I met up on a Holy Tuesday. I was nonchalant at that time because I saw it as one of those writing projects that I would enjoy. But when we alighted from the tricycle, I saw locals flagellating themselves. That was the first time I saw that kind of atonement first-hand and it had clearly set up the mood. I dugged up my mobile phone right away and took pictures of their swolen backs which they slashed with razor blades early dawn so more blood would ooze out when they flog them. Seeing those Catholic devotees soaked in their own blood and their faces veiled with black wool, I felt I was watching a film about fighter dogs by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu.
We arrived at the house and I was welcomed by the caretaker. The owner, a doctor, and his family migrated to the States a year ago. Mario told me that the doctor’s son was his childhood friend. He said they played in their backyard. When they were still in highschool, the father gained notoriety not because he was good at practicing medicine but because he was also an abortionist.
The location was already known for eerie occurrences even before that. Neighbors had confirmed seeing a black lady in the doctor’s compound. One evening, a tricycle driver passed by their house and saw the black lady standing in front of the gate as if she was waiting for a ride. The tricycle driver had fallen ill and had decided to move with his family to another province because of the incident. The doctor’s nearest neighbor had also reported seeing the black lady when she went out of her house to buy something from the sari-sari store nearby. She was walking towards their front gate when she curiously looked at the trees beside the doctor’s house. There she saw it, the black lady, staring at her with raven-like eyes. She was so frightened she went back to her house and had also fallen ill for a week.
The caretaker assisted us to the backyard. We passed by an abandoned bungalow. I took a glance at the window and saw the darkness that had enveloped the insides of the house like an empty hall at midnight. I was expecting to see a ghost there. But none showed up. The caretaker told me that the doctor’s family stayed there. I was waiting for the creeps: the usual goosebumps or a faint image that will manifest on my peripheral vision. But still, none came.
When we had set foot at the backyard, the caretaker showed me an abandoned pigpen. F*ck! I hushed. I thought I had swallowed my own tongue! There were white crosses painted on the walls of the pigpen. I took pictures of it.
I immediately showed my mobile phone to Mario. “Tingnan mo ‘to,” I nudged him, “di ‘ba-“
“…mukhang sementeryo,” Mario finished my sentence.
“Alam mo,” I revealed, “napanaginipan ‘ko itong eksenang ‘to.”
It wasn’t just a déjà vu. Maybe, Mario told me, the black lady called me in my dreams. Maybe the black lady was expecting me. “Tumatayo balahibo ko,” Mario joked around and showed me his arms.
His goosebumps were real, that I can tell.
The caretaker went away for awhile to get our merienda. Mario pointed out the wooden white crosses that were nailed to all the trees in that backyard. What a shock! The place really looked like a cemetery.
When the caretaker came back, Mario showed him the picture of the pigpen on my mobile phone. “Why the crosses?” I asked him.
“Marami na kaming naramdaman dito,” the caretaker narrated. They’ve tried a couple of houseblessings. They even consulted people to exorcise the ghosts manifesting in the place. “D’yan sa babuyan,” he said, “marami kaming naririnig na mga tawa ng bata.”
Mario pointed at a depressed spot surrounded by the trees. He said it was a swamp before. Apparently, the doctor buried the fetuses he aborted near the swamp. There were at most twenty unborn babies in that grave, he presumed.
“Siguro kaya po umalis ang may-ari,” I told them.
One time, the caretaker related, his 5 year old son was left alone one night in their room at the 2nd floor. Their house was built beside the backyard. His son screamed in tears and called her mother. “Tinanong siya ng nanay niya, kasi kumuha lang ng tubig sa ibaba. May nakita raw siyang kamay ng tao na nakakapit sa bintana.”
I saw the window and there’s no way anyone can climb up that wall. “Nagkalagnat nga ang anak ko,” he added. Another time it was he who saw a woman’s face staring at him outside the window. Sabug-sabog ang buhok ‘tas mapula ang mata, he told us. It was just a head, just a head floating outside his 2nd floor window. He didn’t tell his wife about it but his family moved to Manila because of what happened to the kid.
The family converted to El Shaddai and that’s when, he claimed, the eerie occurrences had stopped. A local leader asked him to put those wooden crosses on the tree trunks to wade off evil spirits.
I lost Mario’s number when my mobile phone had to be reformatted. We never came back to that place. Truth be told I really had a dream about that backyard. I am showing the pictures to you as proof. If the black lady called upon me to visit her dwelling, that I cannot substantiate. I wasn’t planning to write this story but weird things started happening to me, and I think this experience is pivotal.
Mario texted me that his neighbor’s house would be the perfect place. Researchers had ceaselessly asked for an appointment with the owners (this was when the two giant TV networks filled our Saturday afternoons with paranormal stories) so they can cover it on their show. The owners had always declined, Mario said. Later on, I realized why the owners had kept a considerable distance with the TV people. Two words: medical ethics.
Mario and I met up on a Holy Tuesday. I was nonchalant at that time because I saw it as one of those writing projects that I would enjoy. But when we alighted from the tricycle, I saw locals flagellating themselves. That was the first time I saw that kind of atonement first-hand and it had clearly set up the mood. I dugged up my mobile phone right away and took pictures of their swolen backs which they slashed with razor blades early dawn so more blood would ooze out when they flog them. Seeing those Catholic devotees soaked in their own blood and their faces veiled with black wool, I felt I was watching a film about fighter dogs by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu.
We arrived at the house and I was welcomed by the caretaker. The owner, a doctor, and his family migrated to the States a year ago. Mario told me that the doctor’s son was his childhood friend. He said they played in their backyard. When they were still in highschool, the father gained notoriety not because he was good at practicing medicine but because he was also an abortionist.
The location was already known for eerie occurrences even before that. Neighbors had confirmed seeing a black lady in the doctor’s compound. One evening, a tricycle driver passed by their house and saw the black lady standing in front of the gate as if she was waiting for a ride. The tricycle driver had fallen ill and had decided to move with his family to another province because of the incident. The doctor’s nearest neighbor had also reported seeing the black lady when she went out of her house to buy something from the sari-sari store nearby. She was walking towards their front gate when she curiously looked at the trees beside the doctor’s house. There she saw it, the black lady, staring at her with raven-like eyes. She was so frightened she went back to her house and had also fallen ill for a week.
The caretaker assisted us to the backyard. We passed by an abandoned bungalow. I took a glance at the window and saw the darkness that had enveloped the insides of the house like an empty hall at midnight. I was expecting to see a ghost there. But none showed up. The caretaker told me that the doctor’s family stayed there. I was waiting for the creeps: the usual goosebumps or a faint image that will manifest on my peripheral vision. But still, none came.
When we had set foot at the backyard, the caretaker showed me an abandoned pigpen. F*ck! I hushed. I thought I had swallowed my own tongue! There were white crosses painted on the walls of the pigpen. I took pictures of it.
I immediately showed my mobile phone to Mario. “Tingnan mo ‘to,” I nudged him, “di ‘ba-“
“…mukhang sementeryo,” Mario finished my sentence.
“Alam mo,” I revealed, “napanaginipan ‘ko itong eksenang ‘to.”
It wasn’t just a déjà vu. Maybe, Mario told me, the black lady called me in my dreams. Maybe the black lady was expecting me. “Tumatayo balahibo ko,” Mario joked around and showed me his arms.
His goosebumps were real, that I can tell.
The caretaker went away for awhile to get our merienda. Mario pointed out the wooden white crosses that were nailed to all the trees in that backyard. What a shock! The place really looked like a cemetery.
When the caretaker came back, Mario showed him the picture of the pigpen on my mobile phone. “Why the crosses?” I asked him.
“Marami na kaming naramdaman dito,” the caretaker narrated. They’ve tried a couple of houseblessings. They even consulted people to exorcise the ghosts manifesting in the place. “D’yan sa babuyan,” he said, “marami kaming naririnig na mga tawa ng bata.”
Mario pointed at a depressed spot surrounded by the trees. He said it was a swamp before. Apparently, the doctor buried the fetuses he aborted near the swamp. There were at most twenty unborn babies in that grave, he presumed.
“Siguro kaya po umalis ang may-ari,” I told them.
One time, the caretaker related, his 5 year old son was left alone one night in their room at the 2nd floor. Their house was built beside the backyard. His son screamed in tears and called her mother. “Tinanong siya ng nanay niya, kasi kumuha lang ng tubig sa ibaba. May nakita raw siyang kamay ng tao na nakakapit sa bintana.”
I saw the window and there’s no way anyone can climb up that wall. “Nagkalagnat nga ang anak ko,” he added. Another time it was he who saw a woman’s face staring at him outside the window. Sabug-sabog ang buhok ‘tas mapula ang mata, he told us. It was just a head, just a head floating outside his 2nd floor window. He didn’t tell his wife about it but his family moved to Manila because of what happened to the kid.
The family converted to El Shaddai and that’s when, he claimed, the eerie occurrences had stopped. A local leader asked him to put those wooden crosses on the tree trunks to wade off evil spirits.
I lost Mario’s number when my mobile phone had to be reformatted. We never came back to that place. Truth be told I really had a dream about that backyard. I am showing the pictures to you as proof. If the black lady called upon me to visit her dwelling, that I cannot substantiate. I wasn’t planning to write this story but weird things started happening to me, and I think this experience is pivotal.
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