The Marble Garden of San Isidro

In the summer of 1980, when I was twelve, my family lived in Quezon City. My brother, Marco, a civil engineer, had been assigned to a project in the province of Iloilo. After three months, he rented a house in a small town called San Isidro, about twenty minutes by jeepney from the city center. The street was called Calle Luna, and the house was at the end of it, where the asphalt gave way to a dirt road that led to the river. Our parents, thinking it would broaden my horizons, sent me to stay with him for a week before my church’s youth camp in the nearby mountains. I was excited, not just for the camp, but for the chance to explore the historic churches and old stone houses of Iloilo.

Marco’s house was a two-storey structure of pale yellow concrete, with wooden shutters and a corrugated iron roof. It sat on a large lot surrounded by mango and acacia trees, and at the back, a garden of white and pink marble statues—saints, angels, and a large fountain with a cherub perched on top. The statues were old, their surfaces pitted and stained with moss, and Marco told me they came with the house, relics of a previous owner who was a devout Catholic. I thought the garden was beautiful, especially in the late afternoon when the light filtered through the leaves and the marble seemed to glow.

The house itself was cool and airy, with high ceilings and wide windows. My room faced the garden, and I would often fall asleep to the sound of the fountain’s trickle. On the third night, I woke to a strange noise—a faint, high-pitched humming, like a swarm of insects but more musical. I sat up and listened. The room was bathed in a pale blue glow, as if the moonlight had taken on a watery tint. I crept to the window and looked out.

The garden was not empty. Among the statues, there were shapes moving—dark, formless masses that slithered and undulated, weaving between the marble figures. They made no sound, but as they moved, the humming grew louder, almost a melody. I wanted to call out to Marco, but my throat tightened with fear. I watched as one of the shapes approached the statue of Saint Francis, and it seemed to wrap around it, melding with the stone. The statue’s face, which had been serene, now looked contorted, as if in torment. The humming reached a crescendo, then stopped abruptly. The garden fell silent, and the shapes vanished, leaving only the statues, now slightly crooked, as if shifted on their bases.

I didn’t sleep that night. In the morning, I told Marco, but he laughed, attributing it to nightmares or the heat. He said the house had a history—a previous tenant had claimed to see things, but he thought it was just superstition. To reassure me, he took me to the garden and showed me the statues. They seemed normal, but I noticed that the statue of Saint Francis had a crack running down its face, and the cherub in the fountain was now holding a tarnished silver coin that I hadn’t seen before.

Over the next days, the garden began to change. The statues seemed to shift positions slightly, always at night. I started keeping a journal, noting how each statue moved. The angel with the trumpet, which had faced the fountain, now turned toward the house. The Madonna, her arms outstretched, now had her hands folded in prayer. I also noticed that the garden’s soil, which had been dark and rich, was becoming pale and gritty, like crushed bone.

On the fifth night, I woke again, but this time the humming was different—it was a low, throbbing chant, and I could hear my brother’s voice among them. I ran to his room, but he was not there. I rushed downstairs and out to the garden. In the moonlight, I saw Marco standing in the center, his back to me, his arms raised. Around him, the shapes had taken form—they were pale, elongated humanoids with featureless faces, their heads tilted as if listening. They were surrounding Marco, and he was chanting in a language I did not know.

I screamed, and the creatures turned. Their faces, if they had any, became voids, and they flowed toward me. I stumbled backward, falling over a marble foot. I looked up and saw that the statue of the Virgin Mary was crying black tears. The creatures were almost upon me when Marco shouted something, and they retreated. He ran to me, his eyes wild, and pulled me into the house, locking the doors.

He told me that the garden was built on an old burial ground, and that the statues were not mere decorations—they were markers, holding something in check. But the previous owner had disturbed them, and now the spirits were awakening. He had been trying to placate them with a ritual he had learned from a local elder, but it was not enough. He said we had to leave, but the road was blocked by a fallen tree, and the phone lines were dead.

The next morning, we tried to leave anyway, but the jeepney broke down just before the main road. We were forced to return. That night, the creatures came in force. They filled the garden, their bodies like smoke, and they began to move the statues, arranging them in a circle. The humming became a cacophony, and the ground shook. I saw the cherub’s fountain turn to blood.

Marco took me to the attic, where he had hidden an old baptismal certificate he had found in the house. It belonged to a girl named Dorotea, who had died in 1942, at the age of twelve. Her father had built the garden in her memory, placing her favorite statuettes around the yard. But he had also buried her beneath the fountain, fearing grave robbers. The spirits were not malicious, Marco said—they were the girl’s restless soul, seeking her body. But they had grown stronger over the years, feeding on the grief, and now they were a maelstrom of anger.

As we spoke, the attic door began to rattle. The creatures had found us. Marco told me to open the window and climb down the vine, to run for the main road and not look back. I protested, but he shoved me toward the window. As I descended, I saw him open the attic door, and a torrent of pale shapes engulfed him. I hit the ground running.

I ran down the dirt road, the humming chasing me, until I reached the highway. A farmer on a cart picked me up and took me to the city, where I reported to the authorities. But when they returned to the house, it was gone—just an empty lot, the grass overgrown, no sign of the house or the garden. Marco was never found. I was told to forget, but I never could.

Sometimes, on quiet nights, I still hear that hum. And I look at my hand, where a small scar remains from the fall, and I remember the face of the cherub, its eyes following me as I fled. The garden of San Isidro is still there, in another dimension, waiting. And I fear that one day, it will call me back.