The Cold of the Meat Drawer

I was eight that summer, and our apartment in Quezon City was a box of heat and tin. The whole building seemed to bake under the sun, the walls sweating with humidity. Our unit was on the third floor, one of those walk-up jobs where every step creaked as if it were apologizing. Inside, it was a single room divided by cheap partitions: the bed against one wall, the kitchenette in the corner, and the bathroom, a closet-sized thing with a shower head that spat rust-colored water.

I was terrified of that bathroom. Not because of the spiders or the drip that never stopped, but because of the stories my cousins told—of a woman who lurked in the pipes, her hair clogging the drains, her fingers curling around ankles. So I never closed the door all the way. I left it ajar, the light spilling in, and I kept the shower curtain pulled back so I could see the whole room. I was a fool, thinking that seeing everything meant I was safe.

One Tuesday, my mother was in the bedroom, folding clothes. The water was lukewarm, tepid, and I was soaping my arms when I saw it. Through the crack in the door, down the narrow hallway, the refrigerator stood—a bulky, avocado-green thing with a freezer on top. And on its side, pressed against the metal, was a figure. A woman. She was white, stark white, like bone, and her dress was the color of old sheets. Her hair hung long, hiding her face, but I could see it was dripping. Not water—something darker, thicker. She seemed to be leaning into the fridge, one hand on the handle, as if she were about to pull it open.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. I just grabbed the towel, wet and cold, and fled to the bedroom. My mother looked up, her hands still on a folded shirt, and saw my face. ‘What is it?’ she asked, and I choked out the words: ‘There’s a lady. White. By the fridge.’

My mother frowned. She set the shirt down and walked to the doorway. I hid behind her, gripping the hem of her blouse. She peered down the hallway, squinting. ‘There’s nothing there, anak,’ she said. But I wouldn’t look. I buried my face in her back. ‘Please, Mom, open the freezer. I think she’s in there.’

My mother sighed—the kind of sigh that said I was being silly—but she walked to the kitchen, her slippers slapping the linoleum. I followed, peeking through my fingers. She grabbed the metal handle of the freezer compartment and pulled. A blast of cold air hit us, and the light clicked on. Inside: a bag of ice, some frozen fish, a box of orange juice. No woman. ‘See?’ my mother said. ‘Nothing.’ But as she closed the door, I saw it again—a flicker in the reflection of the chrome trim, a pale shape that vanished before I could focus. My mother returned to the bedroom, but I wouldn’t go near that fridge again. I made her get me water from the tap, and I refused to open the freezer for months.

Years passed. We moved, I grew up, but that image stayed. Sometimes, in the dead heat of a summer night, I’d dream of that kitchen, the hum of the fridge, and the woman pressing her face against the metal, her lipstick like a smear of blood. I never told anyone the whole truth—that as I ran, I heard a click. The freezer door unlocking. And in the years since, every refrigerator I’ve opened feels too cold, too bright, and I always look over my shoulder, expecting to see her standing there, waiting for me to make the mistake of looking away.