The Cold Corner of the Room

Before we moved to Toronto in 1997, I was four years old, living with my parents in a small, humid apartment in Cebu City. My mother, Lita, often told me the story of the summer when I started talking to someone she couldn’t see.

Our apartment was on the third floor of a building that buzzed with the noise of the city below. The windows were always open, but the air was thick and still, like a held breath. The only reprieve came from the old electric fan that whirred in the corner, its blades stirring the heavy heat into a soup. But even with that fan, there was one corner of the living room that stayed cold, inexplicably so. My mother blamed it on the draft from the window, but no window was near it. She used to put a potted plant there, but it always wilted, no matter how much she watered it. She thought it was the lack of sun.

It started with me turning to that corner and babbling. My mother would be in the kitchen, washing dishes or preparing lunch, and she’d hear me giggle, a sound that was pure childhood joy. She’d come out and see me sitting on the floor, talking to the air, my tiny hands gesturing as if I were having a full conversation.

At first, she didn’t think much of it. Children have imaginary friends, don’t they? But it was the name that chilled her. I kept saying, ‘Manong,’ which was a respectful term for an older man, but I never used it for anyone in the family. When she asked who I was talking to, I would point to that cold corner and say, ‘Manong is there. He is a very nice man. He tells me stories about the sea.’

My mother, being a practical woman, assumed I was just making it up. She’d smile, ruffle my hair, and go back to her chores. But as the weeks went by, I started talking to ‘Manong’ more and more. Sometimes, I would fall silent, my eyes fixed on the corner, and my mother would feel a chill run down her spine, even though the room was sweltering. She’d call my name, and I’d turn to her with a puzzled look, as if she’d interrupted something important.

One afternoon, a particularly hot day, my mother was sitting on the floor next to me, trying to keep cool by spreading a rattan mat on the tiles. I was playing with my toy blocks, but then I stopped and looked at the corner. My mother felt the temperature drop, a sudden coldness that made the hair on her arms stand up. I pointed to the corner and said, ‘Manong is sad today. He says he misses his boat.’

My mother tried to keep her voice steady. ‘His boat? What boat, anak?’

I shrugged. ‘He used to have a boat, but it sank. Now he swims. He says the water is cold and dark.’

That night, my mother had trouble sleeping. She attributed it to the heat, but she couldn’t shake the image of that cold corner. The next day, she called a local priest to bless the apartment. The priest came, sprinkled holy water, and recited a prayer. He left, saying it was just a draft, but my mother noticed that the corner stayed cold.

The visits from Manong continued. I would wake up in the middle of the night, crying, saying that Manong was crying too because he couldn’t go back to his boat. My father, who was skeptical, grew tired of my ‘imaginary friend.’ He took me to a pediatrician, who said I had a vivid imagination, nothing else. But my mother knew better. She had seen the way I would go quiet, my eyes unfocused, and then smile at nothing. She had felt the cold air that seemed to emanate from that corner like a curse.

One day, I told my mother that Manong wanted to play a game. He would hide in the corner and I would find him. But every time I looked, he was already there. My mother, trying to humor me, asked, ‘What does Manong look like?’

I described him: ‘He is old, with a white beard, and he wears a wet coat. He has no shoes, and his feet are blue. He says he is a fisherman.’

My mother’s blood ran cold. She remembered a story from the local news about a fisherman who had drowned in the nearby sea, his body never recovered. This happened years ago, long before we moved to the building. She never mentioned it to me, but I somehow knew about it. When she asked how I knew, I simply said, ‘Manong told me.’

The next day, my mother decided to take me to the market, hoping a change of scenery would break the spell. But as we were leaving, I turned back to the corner and waved. ‘Bye, Manong. I’ll come back.’

At the market, I was a normal child, laughing at the fish in the tanks, begging for a popsicle. My mother felt a wave of relief. Maybe it was just a phase. But then, as we were walking home, I grew quiet, holding my mother’s hand tightly. She asked, ‘What’s wrong, anak?’

I looked up at her, my eyes wide. ‘Manong is following us. He says he wants to come home with us because he doesn’t want to be alone.’

My mother looked around, but the streets were crowded with people, vendors calling out, jeepneys honking. She felt a cold breeze pass by, despite the heat, and she pulled me closer. When we got back to the apartment, the cold corner seemed even colder, and I pointed to it. ‘He’s here now. He’s happy.’

From that day on, the atmosphere in the apartment changed. The air was always oppressive, and the cold corner seemed to seep into the rest of the room, making the whole place feel damp and clammy. My father started to believe something was wrong when he felt the cold spot himself, and I would often wake up in the middle of the night, standing in the living room, facing the corner, talking in a low, serious tone. When my father asked what I was doing, I said, ‘Manong is telling me about the deep, dark sea where he sleeps.’

My parents decided they had to do something. They consulted an elder, a grandmother who had knowledge of old superstitions. She told them that a child’s innocent gaze could see those who are lost, trapped between worlds. She said that the dead might attach themselves to the living, especially children, for the warmth they once had. She gave them a ritual to perform, involving salt and candles, to guide the spirit away. My mother performed it one night while I slept. She placed a circle of salt in the corner, lit a candle, and said a prayer for the dead fisherman, asking him to find peace and cross to the other side.

That night, I slept soundly, without any visits. The next morning, the cold corner felt warm, for the first time in months. My mother was relieved, thinking it was over. But later that day, as I played with my toys, I suddenly looked up and said, ‘Mommy, Manong said thank you. He is going now. He will miss me.’

I smiled, and then went back to my toys, as if nothing had happened. From then on, the cold was gone, and I never spoke of Manong again. But sometimes, to this day, when I feel a sudden chill, I think of him, and I wonder if there are other corners in other rooms, where children see things we can’t.

My mother never liked to talk about it, but she always cautioned me when I became a parent: ‘Be careful what you let your children play with, and if they ever tell you about a friend you can’t see, don’t dismiss it. There are things in this world older than we are, and they can be persistent.’