The Creak of the Divider

My sister Mira and I grew up in a cramped apartment above our grandmother’s sari-sari store in the bustling heart of Manila. One humid night, when I was seven and Mira was nine, our parents were in the kitchen arguing about bills while Lola dozed on the sofa, her snoring a low rumble. Mira and I lay on the thin mats in our shared room, separated from the kitchen only by a flimsy plywood wall that had a gap near the floor.

‘Let’s watch that new horror movie online,’ Mira whispered, holding up her tablet. She was obsessed with ghost stories, but I was a scaredy-cat. I covered my ears, but she turned up the volume. The film was about a drowned bride who crawled out of a well. I watched through my fingers, heart pounding. When the bride’s face filled the screen, I screamed and shut my eyes.

Mira laughed and paused the movie. ‘You’re such a baby. Go to sleep.’ She said it kindly, but I was already trembling. I buried my face in my pillow, trying to drown out the sound of the well’s creak from the tablet. As I drifted off, I felt a cold draft from under the wall, and I pulled my blanket tighter.

I woke in the middle of the night to a strange sound: a rhythmic creak, like a rusty hinge. I assumed it was the store’s front gate, but Lola had locked it hours ago. The creak came again, closer this time. It seemed to be coming from the gap under the wall. I reached for Mira, but her side of the mat was empty. ‘Mira?’ I called, but no answer.

Panic rose in me. I scrambled to my feet and stumbled into the kitchen, where the light was dim. Mom and Dad were still arguing, their voices low and tense. ‘Where’s Mira?’ I asked. Dad looked up, annoyed. ‘She’s in your room, sleeping. Go back to bed.’ But I knew she wasn’t. I went back, and my heart nearly stopped.

There, in the gap under the wall, was a hand. It was pale, with long nails, and it was slowly pulling something through. I watched, paralyzed, as a woman’s head emerged, her hair matted and dripping as if from the well in the movie. Her eyes were black, and she smiled with too many teeth. ‘Come play,’ she whispered, reaching for me.

I screamed, and in a flash, the apartment was awake. Mom and Dad rushed in, Lola hobbling behind. They saw me, but they also saw the woman now fully in the room, standing over Mira’s sleeping form. Mira was still asleep, unaware. Dad grabbed a broom and swung, but the woman vanished with a hiss, leaving only a puddle of water on the floor.

They found nothing else. They thought I was hallucinating. But the next morning, under the wall, we discovered a small wooden doll, its face cracked and missing an eye. It was not ours. And that night, when I lay down to sleep, I heard the creak again, but this time it was under my mattress. I didn’t sleep. I sat up, watching the door, until dawn. And in the morning, I found scratches on the inside of my bedroom door, as if someone had tried to get out, not in.

Years later, I still hear that creak, echoing in my mind. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I press my ear to the wall in my new apartment, and I swear I hear children crying on the other side. But there is no other side. There is only the memory of a hand reaching through a gap, and the knowledge that some things, once invited in, never leave.