The Backward Man

In the humid, mango-scented air of our new home in Lakambini Street, I thought we had found paradise. The house was a two-story structure with a sprawling garden, a rusty swing set under a thatched roof, and windows that rattled like loose teeth. My parents, excited about the fresh start, had hired a local helper named Aling Rosa, a woman with kind eyes and a deep suspicion of the dark. It was Aling Rosa who first mentioned ‘the backward man.’

It wasn’t long before I saw him myself. One evening, as the sky bled orange into twilight, I stepped into the backyard to retrieve a forgotten toy. The swing, with its two metal benches facing each other, sat motionless for a moment, then began to sway gently. A figure materialized on the bench farthest from me—a man, tall and impossibly slim, dressed in black. His back faced me, his head bowed as if in deep thought. A chill, like a finger tracing my spine, ran down my neck. I blinked, and he was gone, leaving only the quiet creak of the chains.

I tried to rationalize it, of course. Shadows, a trick of the light, my overactive imagination after a childhood of horror stories. But Aling Rosa refused to step into the backyard after dusk, muttering prayers under her breath. Her fear was tangible, and it infected me. The next night, I saw him again, this time on our veranda, his back to the sliding glass door. His presence felt like a weight, a silent accusation. I pressed my face to the glass, and in the reflection, I saw something that made my blood freeze—his face, but it wasn’t a face. It was a smooth, featureless void, the same black as his clothes.

Our family dinners became hushed affairs. My younger brother, Miguel, started sleeping with the lights on. My mother, always the pragmatist, dismissed it as ‘nightmares,’ but I caught her staring at the swing set for long minutes, her face pale. The entity, if that’s what it was, never moved, never spoke, but its presence grew heavier, like a humid blanket smothering the house. Aling Rosa quit one morning, her eyes bloodshot, sputtering about ‘the backward man watching me in my sleep.’ She left without her last pay, and I’ve never seen her since.

Desperate, I began researching our house’s history. A visit to the local archives revealed the truth. The land was once a mango plantation owned by a reclusive Spanish mestizo named Don Enrique, who was rumored to have a twisted spine and a face so hideous he wore a hood. He was found dead on the swing, his body contorted, facing backwards. The neighbors whispered he was cursed, and no one dared to sit there. We, in our ignorance, had built our backyard oasis over his resting place.

One night, unable to sleep, I decided to confront him. I crept into the backyard, the swing creaking in the wind. He was there, as expected, his back to me.

‘Why are you here?’ I whispered, my voice trembling.

He slowly turned his head, revealing that void, and a sound like a hollow laugh echoed in my skull. He didn’t speak; he simply pointed a long, black finger at the house, and then back at the ground beneath the swing. In that moment, I understood. He wasn’t a haunt—he was a guardian, pinned to this earth to watch over something. But what?

My heart pounded as I knelt and, with bare hands, began to dig. The ground was soft, yielding to my frantic efforts. After a foot, my fingers hit something hard and metallic. I unearthed a rusty iron box. The man’s presence grew more intense, a cold pressure on my shoulders. I opened the box, and inside lay a bundle of yellowed letters, tied with a red ribbon. They were love letters—written by Don Enrique to a woman named Lourdes. The last letter, dated the day of his death, stopped me cold: ‘My dearest Lourdes, I cannot live without your face to see. I am condemned to turn away from all, but I shall wait, forever, for the one who can bear to look upon me and still love.’

I looked up, and the man was standing right before me, closer than ever. This time, his back was not turned, but his face was now that of a handsome, grief-stricken man, eyes hollow. He reached out a hand, not to harm, but to touch my cheek. I felt a wave of sorrow, so profound it stole my breath. And then he vanished, leaving me kneeling in the dirt, the letters clutched to my chest.

The hauntings stopped after that night. But some things linger. The swing still creaks, even on windless nights, and I swear I see a silhouette there sometimes. I’ve kept the letters, tied with that red ribbon, hidden in my closet. I can’t bring myself to destroy them. Sometimes, I catch a whiff of something like burning incense, and I know he’s still here. But I no longer fear him. He finally has his face, and he’s no longer backward. He’s watching over us, a lonely guardian, waiting for the love he never had.

A year later, my family sold the house and moved away. I never told my parents about the box or the letters. But the memory lingers, and part of me is still in that backyard, wondering if I’ll ever see him again. Maybe I will. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me, just as I left him. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t be afraid when I do.