The Salt Lamp

It was a Tuesday when I finally dragged myself back to my apartment in Manila, my bones still humming with the chill of Baguio. The three-day trip had been a birthday gift to myself, a much-needed escape from the city’s relentless heat. My best friend, Mara, had come along, and we’d joined a budget tour to save on costs. I was still unpacking when my phone buzzed with a message from her: ‘Weird night, huh?’ I smiled, but the memory of that night sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the mountain cold.

We’d checked into a transient house on Saturday, around 2 in the morning, after a long and winding ride up from Manila. The place was a repurposed old house perched on a hillside, not far from the Our Lady of Lourdes Grotto. The owner, a cheerful but cryptic man, had handed us the keys with a warning: ‘Just a heads up, this place is old. You might hear things. Don’t mind them.’ I had laughed it off, but Mara had gripped my arm. The house was charming in a faded way, with creaky wooden floors and a smell of old incense. We had a small room with two single beds, but Mara preferred the bed by the window, and I was on a mattress on the floor next to her.

That first night, we’d had a few beers with our tour mates in the common area, swapping stories about the places we’d seen. By 1:30, we were both exhausted. We changed into our pajamas, turned off the main light, and left only a small lamp on the nightstand. I lay on my mattress, staring at the ceiling, while Mara scrolled through her phone. We started talking in hushed tones about the day’s adventures, the cool air seeping through the window.

That’s when the window began to move. It was one of those old wooden sash windows that slide up and down. At first, it was just a slight rattle, then the bottom pane slid up about two inches, letting in a gust of cold wind. Mara looked over and said, ‘The wind must be strong up here.’ I got up to close it, but as I pushed it down, I felt a strange resistance, as if something on the other side was pushing back. I shoved harder, and it slammed shut with a loud bang. ‘Just the wind,’ I said, but my heart was beating a little faster.

We settled back, and I tried to ignore the unease. But then, the sound started. It was a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingernails on glass, coming from the window. I froze. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked. Mara nodded, her eyes wide. The tapping stopped, and then the window slid up on its own, not all the way, but about a foot, just enough for a figure to crawl in. But there was nothing there. The wind blew in, making the curtains flutter. ‘We should close it again,’ Mara whispered. I got up, my legs trembling, and as I reached for the window, I saw a faint handprint on the glass. It was misty, like breath on a cold day, and it was on the *inside*. I yanked the window shut and locked it. ‘It’s locked,’ I said, but my voice was shaky.

We tried to sleep, but the air in the room felt heavy, oppressive. I lay on my mattress, listening to the wind outside, but it seemed to be whistling a tune, a lullaby I couldn’t quite place. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by Mara’s scream. I turned on the lamp to see her sitting up in bed, pointing at the ceiling. ‘There’s a face,’ she said, her voice trembling. I looked up and saw a dark stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a face, but in the dim light, it seemed to shift, its eyes moving to look at us. Then, the stain dripped, and a drop of something dark landed on her pillow. She scrambled out of bed, and we both stood in the middle of the room, watching the stain grow, the face becoming more defined.

We ran to the door, but it wouldn’t open. It was as if something was holding it shut from the other side. We both pulled, panic rising, until finally, it swung open with a force that sent us stumbling into the hallway. The hallway was dark, and the only light came from a small sconce at the end. The common area was silent. We noticed that the salt lamp that had been on the dining table was now on the floor, its cord unplugged, but it was still glowing, a faint orange light that seemed to pulse.

As we stood there, we heard a child’s laughter coming from the kitchen, which was dark. We crept forward, and through the doorway, we saw a small figure, a girl in a white dress, standing by the counter. She was humming the same tune we’d heard earlier. She turned to look at us, and her face was blank, featureless. She pointed a finger toward the back door, which led to a small garden. Then, she vanished. The salt lamp flickered and went out.

We didn’t sleep that night. We stayed in the common area with the lights on until dawn, huddled together, listening to the creaks and whispers of the house. When the sun finally rose, we left the room to find the owner had left us a note: ‘Hope you slept well. The house has a way of waking you up.’ We packed quickly and never looked back.

Now, as I unpack in my apartment, I can’t shake the feeling that something followed me. That night, as I was packing in the transient house, I noticed a small, clay salt lamp on the nightstand that I hadn’t noticed before. I thought it was part of the room’s decor, but now, sitting on my dresser, it’s here. I don’t remember packing it. It’s glowing softly, even though it’s unplugged. And when I look at it, I swear I can see a face in the glow, a girl with no features, smiling.