The Lamp Post’s Guest

My cousin and I were spending the summer at our great-uncle’s farmhouse in the rolling hills of Batangas, far from the buzzing streets of Manila but close enough for the occasional weekend escape. The house was an old Spanish-style structure with thick adobe walls and capiz shell windows that rattled in the wind. It sat at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by overgrown lanzones trees and a field of tall, swaying cogon grass. Across the narrow road was a derelict mansion, abandoned for decades, its roof half-collapsed and its windows like vacant eyes. A single lamppost stood between our property and that haunted place, casting a sickly yellow glow over the asphalt. Beside the lamppost, an ancient balete tree, its roots spilling over the ground like gnarled fingers, loomed over the empty yard.

Our room was on the second floor, with a wide window that faced the road. At night, when the lights were off, the lamppost would project the shadows of anyone passing by onto the ceiling and walls. My cousin, a year older than me, claimed he saw the shadow of a woman in a long dress walking past the lamppost at midnight, but we never saw her in person. I thought it was his imagination, a story to scare me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something about that lamppost was off.

One night, I woke up with a start. My cousin was fast asleep, his breathing steady. I had finished the comic book I’d been reading under the covers with a small flashlight, and the room was pitch black except for the glow from the lamppost seeping through the window. Feeling restless, I tiptoed to the window and peered outside. The road was empty, the abandoned house was dark, but the balete tree’s shadow swayed slightly despite there being no wind. I was about to turn back to bed when I noticed a figure standing under the lamppost—not a person, but a shadow, cast by nothing. It was the silhouette of a man, tall and thin, with arms that hung too long and fingers that seemed to stretch beyond the normal. The shadow didn’t move, but I felt it was staring up at our window.

I froze. The shadow’s head tilted, as if it had seen me. Then it raised a hand and waved—slowly, deliberately. My blood ran cold. I ducked below the window sill, my heart pounding. After a moment, I peeked again. The shadow was gone. But on the wall behind our bed, a new shadow appeared—that same gaunt figure, but now it was in our room, cast by nothing. It grew larger and larger until it enveloped the entire wall, and then it began to crawl across the ceiling toward the bed where my cousin lay sleeping.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The shadow reached down, and my cousin’s body stiffened. He didn’t wake up, but his face contorted as if in a nightmare. The shadow’s hand hovered over his chest, and I could see it pressing down, as if trying to crush something. Panic seized me. I grabbed the flashlight and shone it at the shadow. The beam cut through it, but it didn’t dissolve. Instead, the shadow turned its head—if it had one—and looked at me. In the light, I could see it was not just a shadow but a dark stain, like an oil spill, with eyes that were small, hollow, and hungry.

I threw the flashlight at it, and it hit the wall with a clatter. The shadow retreated, shrinking back to the corner of the room. My cousin woke up, gasping for air. ‘What happened?’ he asked, his voice shaky. I told him everything, but he thought it was a dream. ‘You’re just scared of that old house,’ he said, turning over to sleep again.

But I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up, watching the shadow in the corner. It didn’t move, but I felt its gaze on me. The next morning, I told our great-uncle about what I saw. He grew pale and whispered, ‘You saw the lamp post’s guest. That shadow has been there since I was a boy. It only appears to those who come from the city. It feeds on their fear. You must not look at it directly, or it will follow you.’

I didn’t believe him fully, but that night, as I lay in bed, I felt a cold pressure on my chest, like a weight pressing down. I couldn’t move. I could only stare at the ceiling as the shadow crawled over me, whispering things I couldn’t understand. I fought to stay awake, but my eyelids grew heavy. When I woke up, it was morning. I felt exhausted, and there was a dark bruise on my chest, in the shape of a handprint.

For the rest of the summer, the shadow visited me every night, pressing down until I couldn’t breathe, filling my dreams with images of the abandoned house, where I saw myself inside, wandering through dusty rooms, searching for something I couldn’t find. On the last night before we left, I woke up to find the shadow standing at the foot of the bed. It pointed a long, dark finger at the window. Outside, the lamppost flickered, and I saw a figure—a real person this time—standing under it, a woman in a ragged dress, her face hidden. She pointed at me, and then the shadow disappeared.

We never returned to our great-uncle’s farmhouse. But sometimes, when I’m in the city late at night, I’ll see a lamppost on a dark street, and the shadow of a tall, thin man cast against the pavement, even when there’s no one there. And I know it’s followed me, waiting for the moment I look back.