The Midnight Visitor

January 31, 2013

by Caroline

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (630 words)

"In the sweltering summer of 2010, we lived in a sprawling ancestral house in Batangas, with my grandmother, Lola Pilar, who was bedridden and needed constant care. We had a live-in helper named Mario, a distant cousin of my mother, who had a habit of coming home late. One night, he stumbled in after midnight, […]"

In the sweltering summer of 2010, we lived in a sprawling ancestral house in Batangas, with my grandmother, Lola Pilar, who was bedridden and needed constant care. We had a live-in helper named Mario, a distant cousin of my mother, who had a habit of coming home late. One night, he stumbled in after midnight, reeking of alcohol, and my mother, desperate with worry, finally snapped. She told him to pack his things and leave, and she forbade her sister, who managed our beach house in Nasugbu, from letting him stay there or in any of our rental properties. Mario left in a fury, and we later learned he found shelter with a fellow member of his church. Three days later, he was killed in a motorcycle accident on the highway.

A week after his death, I was up late, talking on the landline in the living room. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the aircon. Upstairs, my parents slept in the master bedroom, my sisters in their room, and Lola Pilar in her hospital bed, tended by two nurses. I was just in my boxers, pacing as I chatted, when I thought I heard a creak from the stairs. I shrugged it off, but then the phone line crackled, and I heard a faint, familiar voice: ‘Tuloy pa ba ako?’ I froze. It sounded like Mario.

I hung up and went to check on Lola. Her room was dim, with a small lamp glowing. The nurses were asleep in the corner. As I approached her bed, I saw that the chair that usually blocked the opening at the foot of her bed had been moved aside, and the pillows were scattered. Lola was awake, her eyes wide with fear, pointing at the corner of the room. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a dark shape, like a man, hunched and dripping wet, before it vanished. A cold smell of rain and damp earth filled the room.

I ran to wake my parents. They came, but found nothing. We tried to rationalize it, but the next night, I decided to stay up with Lola. At 2:30 am, the lights flickered, and the TV turned on by itself, static hissing. Lola began to whisper, ‘He’s here. He’s standing by the window.’ I looked, and there he was: Mario, his face pale, his clothes torn, blood trickling from a wound on his head. He looked at me with hollow eyes and mouthed, ‘You never let me in.’

I screamed for my parents, but they couldn’t see him. Mario started to walk towards the bed, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I spun around, but no one was there. Lola gasped, and I saw her face contort in fear. Then, in a voice that was not her own, she spoke: ‘I was only looking for a place to stay.’ I realized then that Mario’s spirit had found a way in, through the one thing we never locked: the door to my grandmother’s heart.

We tried to cleanse the house, to perform rituals, but nothing worked. Every night, he would appear, growing more agitated, until one morning, Lola was found dead in her bed, a peaceful smile on her face, but her hand was cold as ice. The nurses swore they saw a figure leave the room just before dawn. My family moved out soon after, but I never forgot. To this day, I sometimes see him in my dreams, standing at the foot of a hospital bed, and I hear his voice: ‘You never let me in.’

And now, whenever I visit a hospital, I always check the foot of the bed, because I know that some guests never truly leave.

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