The Last Plate

In the summer of 2010, I agreed to house-sit for my Aunt Lita while she and her husband vacationed in Thailand. Their home, a sleek modern structure on the outskirts of Davao City, was a stark contrast to my cramped apartment. Inside, the decor was an odd blend of minimalist lines and antique furniture, as if a mid-century collector had collided with a Scandinavian designer. I loved it. She handed me a wad of cash, told me to enjoy the router, and left with a kiss on my cheek.

For days, I did nothing but download Tagalog horror films. The house was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of settling wood. I’d pile snacks on the glass coffee table, pull the curtains shut, and lose myself in stories of aswangs and engkantos. The afternoon sun would filter through the slats, casting long shadows that danced across the polished floor.

One evening, as I was scrolling through a list of titles, the maid, a quiet woman named Nena, appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘What are you watching all day?’ she asked, her eyes darting to the glowing screen. I explained my obsession with horror films. She hesitated, then said, ‘Can I watch with you after dinner? Once I finish the dishes?’ I nodded, pleased to have company.

After the kitchen was spotless and the trash taken out, Nena settled onto the far end of the sofa, keeping a polite distance. We watched ‘Kulam’ with Judy Ann Santos. I’d seen it before, but Nena was riveted, gasping at the jump scares and muttering prayers under her breath. As the credits rolled, she turned to me, her face pale. ‘That was… intense. Do you have more?’ I grinned and selected another film.

The film was a forgotten gem about a cursed mirror. As the protagonist uncovered the oddities in her inherited house, I noticed Nena’s eyes kept drifting to the antique mirror in the hallway, visible through the open door. She seemed uneasy. I asked if she was okay. She whispered, ‘That mirror… it’s been here for ages. I’ve always felt something wrong with it.’ I dismissed it as superstition.

Later that night, after Nena had gone to her quarters, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Flipping on the light, I saw a single plate sitting on the counter, clean and dry, as if just placed there. Odd, I thought, since Nena had packed everything away. I shrugged and went back to the living room, thinking it was just my imagination.

The next day, the heat was oppressive. I decided to swim in the pool, but first, I stopped by the kitchen. The plate was still there, now slightly dusty. I picked it up, intending to put it away, but a chill ran down my spine. The plate was heavy, unlike the fine china I’d seen. It had a pattern of blue flowers, like the ones I’d seen in an old photo of Aunt Lita’s grandmother. I placed it back, unsure why I felt unsettled.

That evening, as Nena and I watched another horror film, I told her about the plate. Her face went ashen. ‘I’ve been leaving that plate out for weeks,’ she said slowly. ‘Every night, after I clean up, I put it there, but it’s always there again in the morning, no matter what I do with it. I thought it was just my forgetfulness.’ We stared at each other, the film forgotten.

After Nena went to bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I returned to the kitchen, and the plate was exactly where I’d left it. I moved it to a high cabinet, locked the cabinet, and went to sleep. But at 3 AM, I woke to a faint clatter. I crept to the kitchen. The cabinet door was open, and the plate sat on the counter, clean and dry, as if untouched.

My heart hammered. I took a deep breath and touched the plate. It was cold, colder than the metal counter. I turned it over, and on the underside, I saw faint scratches, like fingernail marks. I dropped it, but it didn’t shatter. It landed with a dull thud, and for a moment, I felt a presence behind me. I spun, but there was nothing.

I called Aunt Lita, panicked. She laughed. ‘Oh, that’s just the old plate from my grandmother. She used it every day. I told you the house has good vibes, not bad.’ But her voice had a tremor. She admitted she’d had the same experience as a child, waking up to find the plate in different places, always clean, as if someone were about to eat. ‘It’s just a quirk, dear. Don’t mind it.’

I tried to ignore it, but the plate began to appear in my bedroom, on my nightstand, sometimes with a bit of food residue, as if someone had taken a bite. Nena confessed she’d seen it too, floating in the hallway. We decided to dispose of it. We drove to a river, wrapped it in a cloth, and threw it in. I felt a pang of guilt, but we left quickly.

The next morning, Nena screamed. I ran to the kitchen. The plate was back, completely dry, on the counter. Scratches had multiplied, forming a crude word: ‘HUNGRY’.

We both decided to leave. I called Aunt Lita, but she didn’t answer. We packed our bags, but as we reached the front door, it was locked, and the key turned in the lock by itself. The lights flickered. Nena began to sob. I turned to see the plate now on the dining table, and in the center, a mouthful of chewed food, like a half-eaten morsel.

We hid in the pantry, huddled together. Through the crack in the door, I saw the plate move, sliding across the table, then float to the stove, where an empty pot sat. The pot began to fill with water, and the stove lit itself. The plate hovered, and a voice, dry as dust, whispered, ‘Sit down.’

We ran, throwing chairs, but the doors were locked, windows sealed. The plate appeared before us, and the voice grew louder. ‘Sit. Eat.’ We were forced into chairs, our hands moving on their own, lifting forks, reaching for food that wasn’t there. Nena’s eyes rolled back, and she began to chew empty air.

In desperation, I grabbed the plate and hurled it at the wall. It shattered into a hundred pieces, and the voice fell silent. The lights returned, the doors unlocked. We fled, not stopping until we reached the city.

I never returned to that house. Aunt Lita called weeks later, her voice shaky. ‘The house has been fine,’ she said, but I heard a clatter in the background, metallic and sharp. She lowered her voice. ‘But I keep finding this plate on the counter. It has scratches, and there’s something written… ‘HUNGRY’. I think you need to come back.’

I haven’t. And I’ve learned to never leave a plate empty.