The Coffin House on Apalit Street

My friends had always whispered about the ‘thrills and chills’ of Baguio, but I was never a true believer. I preferred the quiet company of mountains and pine-scented air. It was a spontaneous getaway, a last-minute decision to escape the city’s relentless noise. I packed a small bag, turned off my smartphone—only keeping a basic burner for emergencies—and drove north.

I found a transient house on Apalit Street, tucked away behind a wrought-iron gate that groaned like a dying animal. The structure was ancient, its wooden beams warped and stained, its windows like pale, unblinking eyes. I chose it for its age, for the stories etched into its peeling paint. The landlady, a frail woman with skin like old parchment, handed me a brass key and a warning: ‘Lock the door at night. Don’t open it for anyone.’ I nodded, dismissing her as an eccentric old woman.

The first night was serene. I sat on the porch, sipping coffee, listening to the wind rustle through the tall pines. The house creaked and settled, but it felt comforting, like an old friend. I retired to my room, the one at the end of the hall, and fell asleep to the patter of rain on the tin roof.

I woke to a rhythmic scratching, like fingernails dragging across wood. It came from inside the walls. I sat up, heart thumping, and the sound abruptly stopped. I dismissed it as rats. But then a low, mournful humming began, drifting from the hallway. It was a woman’s voice, singing a lullaby I didn’t recognize. The melody was haunting, beautiful, and utterly wrong. I reached for my phone, but the screen was dead. The lantern beside my bed flickered, casting dancing shadows.

I decided to investigate, pulling on my boots and stepping into the hallway. The humming grew louder, drawing me toward the living room. In the dim moonlight filtering through dusty windows, I saw a rocking chair moving gently, as if someone had just risen from it. On the seat lay a small, tarnished locket. I picked it up. It bore a faded photograph of a young woman with sorrowful eyes, and beneath it, the name ‘Elisa’ was engraved.

I pocketed the locket and returned to my room, but sleep would not come. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt a presence in the corner, watching me. I lay rigid, listening to the house’s whispers. Then I heard a knock on my door—three soft raps. I froze, remembering the landlady’s warning. I stayed silent. The knocking grew more insistent, then turned into a desperate pounding. A voice, hoarse and pleading, called out, ‘Let me in! Please!’

I covered my ears, but the voice penetrated. It was my own voice, but distorted, as if from the bottom of a well. I shouted, ‘Who are you?’ The pounding stopped. A chilling silence fell. Then, from the other side of the door, came a whisper so close it seemed to breathe against the wood: ‘You have my locket. I want it back.’

I looked at the locket in my hand. The photograph had changed. The woman’s eyes were now open, bleeding, and her mouth was twisted into a vicious grin. I hurled the locket across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor, but when I looked again, it was gone. The door burst open, and a shadow, tall and shapeless, filled the frame. Cold air rushed in, and I couldn’t move.

I don’t remember what happened next. I woke at dawn, lying on the cold wooden floor, the locket clutched in my fist. The house was silent, but I knew I had to leave. I ran to the gate, but it was locked. The landlady stood on the porch, watching me with a strange smile. ‘You found her,’ she said. ‘Elisa. She was my sister.’

I babbled, trying to explain, but she just shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t have taken her locket. Now you have to stay, until she gets what she wants.’ Desperation clawed at me. I dug into my pocket for the burner phone, but the screen greeted me with a single message: ‘I want it back.’

I realized then that the locket was not the only thing I had taken. I had taken Elisa’s place. The house on Apalit Street does not let go easily. I am still here, writing this in a notebook I found in the attic, while the humming goes on and on. And in the corner of my eye, I see a woman with bleeding eyes, waiting. She will not stop until I give her what is hers—my breath, my life, my soul.