For a Western concoction that has little to do with my country, Halloween always makes a big impact on me. It could be because of the stories I used to read in dusty books in my grade school library. It could also be because of the noontime folktales I heard from the maids in the neighborhood when I was a little girl. Or, it could also be that I grew up in Manila during the power crisis of the Aquino years and spent many a moonlit, brownout night with friends out in the streets, where it was cooler, telling stories of ghosts and other creatures that feel at home in the dark.
I’m still not sold on trick or treating—which, at least where I live, actually happens only in malls and exclusive villages with high expatriate ratios—but I love Halloween because for an entire month, it’s okay to bring up ghosts and ghouls in everyday conversations and I don’t have to curb my fascination for the macabre, because it would be on everyone’s top of mind.
I’ve heard plenty of scary stories in the last weeks. An officemate told me about how her third eye was open when she was a young girl—it was a gift she’d prayed would disappear, and which actually did when she became a Christian. One time, she said, when they were living in Malate, one of the old areas of Manila, she was fighting with her cousin in their living room. She was shouting her angry heart out when she happened to look out the window and saw… something that looked like Star Wars’ Darth Maul, minus the red make up, grinning and prodding her on. As if that wasn’t bad enough, here’s the kicker: like many old houses in the area, their “first floor” was actually the second floor!
Another eerie tale came from one of my best friends, Emily. They’d been having house help problems since time immemorial. For as long as I can remember, their house help would just up and leave without advance notice. I can’t count on my fingers and toes how many times they’d come home to discover that their new maid (or maids) had left. Recently, they’d hired somebody new: a woman in her mid-thirties—let’s call her Vicky—who swore she wasn’t the type who would scare easily. Last week, this woman requested they hire another maid because she didn’t like being alone. She was scared.
Apparently, Vicky has been having trouble sleeping. She would wake up at three in the morning, with the feeling that someone was watching. One time, she said, she actually woke up because there was a dark man outside her bedroom door, calling her name. Emily suggested for her to try sleeping in the sala, but Vicky said it didn’t make any difference: someone, or something, would still wake her up.
What’s even scarier is that Emily and her mother have been having strange experiences too. Emily, for one, has been waking up at three in the morning as well because of nightmares. Her most recent nightmare was of an angry man who had half of his face bashed in. He was screaming at her in Tagalog, saying, “You smashed my face in! You smashed my face in! And because of that, I will smash your face in!” And he was doing just that when Emily bolted awake.
What’s scariest is that Emily’s mom has been having otherworldly experiences as well. We don’t know the entire story behind it—she wouldn’t tell, even when prodded—but one day, my friend just came home and saw rosaries on their bedroom windows. She has been waking up at three in the morning too.
Of course, what I love best about scary stories is that after they’re told you get to comfort yourself from a position of heightened fear with good thoughts like, “Thank God that didn’t happen to me!” or “I’m glad that’s being told in the past tense!” or “Good always triumphs in the end.” For all the stories I mentioned, prayer helped or is still helping.
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