The Keeper of the Undergrowth

The house sat at the edge of the Dhawis, a vast tract of dense forest that locals spoke of in hushed tones. To a child, it was a wonderland of towering trees and strange sounds, but to the adults, it was a place of unspoken rules and lingering dread. I was only four when we moved in with Lola Ima, my grandmother, her nipa hut creaking like an old ship adrift in a sea of green.

My parents, like most in the barrio, worked in the city, leaving before sunrise and returning after dusk. My yaya, Aling Rosa, would stay with me until noon, then hurry off to her own family. Before she left, she would lock the heavy wooden door, slide the iron bolt across, and test the windows. ‘Remember, Nica,’ she’d say, her voice a tired whisper, ‘if you need anything, use the bathroom window. The chair is there. Climb out, and run to Mang Tino’s hut down the path. Don’t go into the forest, no matter what you hear.’

I would nod, my small fingers clutching the edge of the window sill, watching her disappear down the dirt track. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a monkey. I had my toys, my crayons, and a stack of old magazines, but the house always felt too big, too quiet. Sometimes, I would sit by the bathroom window, staring into the green gloom, and I would see things move—not just branches swaying, but shapes that seemed to dart between the trunks, always just out of sight.

One afternoon, the silence was louder than usual. I was in the living room, drawing circles on a piece of paper, when I heard it: a soft, rhythmic scratching from the bathroom. It was like nails dragging across the wooden floor, slow and deliberate. I froze, my crayon hovering. The sound stopped. Then it started again, closer this time, as if something were circling just beyond the door.

I tiptoed to the bathroom, my heart pounding. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. The room was empty, but the window was open, not wide, but just a crack, and the curtain billowed inward as if someone had just let go. On the floor, in the dust near the window, were footprints. They were small, smaller than my own, and they were wet, leaving dark impressions on the wood. The smell hit me then—a mix of damp earth and rotten leaves, like the forest after a storm.

I should have been scared, but I was too young to understand the weight of what I was seeing. I knelt down and touched one of the prints. It was cold and slick. I called out, ‘Hello?’ My voice echoed in the empty room.

A whisper came back, not from the window, but from the corner near the toilet. ‘Hello.’

I spun around. There, between the porcelain bowl and the wall, stood a child. It was a boy, about my age, but his skin was the color of moss, and his eyes were black, like polished stones. He wore nothing but a tattered cloth around his waist, and leaves were tangled in his matted hair. He smiled, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too many.

I laughed, delighted. A friend! I had never had a playmate. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

He tilted his head, as if he didn’t understand. Then he said, ‘I’m the Keeper of the Undergrowth.’ His voice was not his own; it was like the sound of branches scraping together.

I didn’t know what that meant, but I liked the sound of it. ‘Do you want to play?’ I asked.

He nodded and pointed to the window. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We can play in the forest.’

I looked at the window, then back at him. My yaya’s words echoed in my head: ‘Don’t go into the forest, no matter what you hear.’ But this wasn’t a sound—it was a friend. And I was tired of being alone.

‘Okay,’ I said, and I climbed onto the plastic chair, pushing the window open wider.

The boy’s smile widened, and he slipped out first, vanishing into the green. I followed, feeling the thrill of the forbidden. The moment my feet hit the soft earth, the forest closed around me like a living thing. The air was thick with the smell of decay and flowers, and the canopy above blocked out most of the sun, casting everything in a dim, green light.

The boy was waiting for me, his hand outstretched. ‘This way,’ he said, and we ran deeper into the trees, my small legs struggling to keep up. We chased fireflies that glowed with an eerie blue light, and he showed me a stream where the water ran black and silent. He taught me the names of plants that I later learned didn’t exist in any book. And all the while, the forest seemed to hum around us, a low frequency that vibrated in my bones.

I lost track of time. The sun dipped lower, and the shadows grew long. I knew my parents would be home soon, and I didn’t want to be in trouble. ‘I have to go,’ I said.

The boy stopped, his black eyes fixing on me. ‘You don’t have to. Stay with me. We can play forever.’

A shiver ran down my spine, the first hint of fear. ‘No, I can’t. They’ll worry.’

He stepped closer, and the air grew cold. ‘They won’t miss you. They never even look at you. You’re just a burden here.’

His words stung, even through my innocence. But somewhere deep down, I knew they weren’t true. My parents loved me. They worked hard for me.’I have to go,’ I repeated, my voice quivering.

He sighed, a sound like wind through dead leaves. ‘If you go, you’ll forget me. You’ll forget this place.’ He reached out and touched my chest, just above my heart. A cold seeped into me, and I felt something shift, like the ground beneath my feet was moving.

‘Remember me,’ he said, his voice now a whisper that seemed to come from inside my own head. ‘Remember the Keeper of the Undergrowth.’

Then he turned and melted into the trees.

I ran. I crashed through the undergrowth, branches scratching my arms, my lungs burning. I found the bathroom window, climbed in, and slammed it shut. I stood there, trembling, my breath fogging the glass. The room was as I had left it, but the footprints were gone, and the smell had faded.

When my parents came home, I told them about the boy. They exchanged worried glances, and my mother felt my forehead, thinking I had a fever. They searched the house and the yard, but found nothing. They told me it was just my imagination, a lonely child’s fantasy. And soon, I began to believe them.

As the years passed, the memory faded, became a half-remembered dream. I grew up, left the barrio, and moved to the city. I never spoke of the Keeper again, and I convinced myself it was nothing.

But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still feel the cold touch on my chest. And on quiet nights, when the world is still, I can almost hear a whisper at the edge of my hearing, calling my name. Last week, I received a letter from my grandmother. She wrote that my old room had been boarded up, because they found strange markings on the walls, drawings of a child with black eyes, and a message scratched into the wood: ‘She promised to return.’

I am afraid, not of the forest, but of what I might have left behind. And I am more afraid of the part of me that wants to go back, to finish the game, to remember. Because the Keeper is patient, and the forest is always waiting.