The Painted Marbles

The summer I turned nine, the heat in Barangay San Isidro was thick enough to chew, and the only relief was the afternoon siesta when even the chickens stopped scratching. My family had moved to my Lola’s old house, a sprawling wooden structure with a corrugated iron roof that crackled like gunfire as it expanded in the sun. It was there I met Miguel, a wiry boy with a laugh that sounded like a handful of pebbles being shaken. He was five, with a gap-toothed grin and a habit of collecting smooth, white river stones he called his ‘marbles.’ We would spend hours under the acacia tree, sorting them by size and pretending they were treasure.

But the summer turned sour when a fever took hold of Miguel. The fever came on a Tuesday, and by Thursday, he was gone. The adults said it was a sickness that stole the breath from his small lungs, a thing they called ‘the damp.’ His wake was held in his family’s house, a place that suddenly smelled of candles and wilted sampaguita. The air was heavy, not just with heat, but with a silence that felt wrong. There was no laughter, only the low murmur of prayers and the occasional clink of a spoon against a glass.

With school out and nothing else to do, my cousins and I were allowed to play in the yard, but the house itself was forbidden. Yet, the pull of the forbidden was strong. On the third night of the wake, I crept onto the balcony that overlooked the yard. The balcony was attached to the room where Miguel’s body lay. The door to that room was open, a thin, white curtain swaying in a breeze that didn’t exist. I froze. The curtain moved again, not a gentle sway, but a deliberate push, as if someone was parting it. Then I saw a small hand, fingers splayed, gripping the edge. A small, pale face peered out from behind the cloth. It was Miguel. He was smiling, but his eyes were empty, two black pools. He didn’t look at me; he looked past me, toward the staircase.

Auntie Lita, Miguel’s aunt, had just appeared at the top of the stairs. She was carrying a tray of food for the visitors. She saw the same thing I did. The curtain billowed, and the figure stepped out fully. It was Miguel, but he was no longer the boy I knew. He wore his funeral clothes, dark and stiff, and his skin had a waxy, unnatural shine. He walked slowly toward Auntie Lita, his bare feet making no sound. He stopped right in front of her, tilted his head, and said in a voice that was not his, but a low rasp, ‘Auntie, let us play.’ His smile widened, too wide, and then he vanished. Auntie Lita dropped the tray, clattered to the floor, and let out a scream that cut through the night. She fainted, and when she came to, she babbled about the ghost, about the boy who wanted to play.

The atmosphere in the house turned to stone. The adults grew tense, whispering in corners. They brought in a priest to bless the house, but nothing seemed to drive the cold spots away. My cousins refused to go near the balcony. But I couldn’t stay away. I was drawn to that curtain. I remembered Miguel’s collection of stones, hidden under a loose floorboard in the room. On the last night of the wake, I snuck into the room. The casket was closed, but the air was thick with the smell of decay and something else, a sweet, sickly smell like rotting mangoes.

I knelt by the floorboard, prying it open. Inside, the stones were there, but they were no longer white. Each one was painted with a single red dot, like a bloody eye. A chill ran down my spine. I scooped them into my palm, and they were cold, unnaturally cold. I looked up, and the curtain was billowing again. Miguel’s face appeared, but this time it was rotting, his skin peeling away. He smiled, a gaping hole in his face, and he pointed at the stones. ‘They are mine,’ he hissed. ‘You played with them. Now play with me.’ I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I screamed. I dropped the stones, but they scattered across the floor, each one leaving a trail of frost.

The commotion brought the adults running. The priest held a cross, and the room, which had been freezing, suddenly felt warm again. But the stones were gone. Not scattered, but gone. No one believed me about the painted dots. They said I had a nightmare.

After the funeral, the house was boarded up, and my family moved to a different town. But I never forgot those red-dotted stones. Years later, as an adult, I found one in my mother’s old sewing box. It was the same white stone, but the paint had faded. I threw it in the river, hoping to be rid of it. But that night, I dreamt of Miguel, perfectly healthy, laughing. He was holding a hand full of white stones, and he said, ‘We can play forever now.’ I woke up with a start, my hand closed tightly. When I opened it, there was a stone, smooth and white, with a single fresh red dot on it. I haven’t slept since.