The Seventh Seat

The bus groaned to a halt in the dusty terminal of Vigan, its brakes sighing like a dying animal. It was past seven, and the old city had already cloaked itself in a heavy darkness, the streetlights casting weak, jaundiced pools on the cobblestones. I was with five others from the office—me, Lena, Marco, Tia, and the twins, Diego and Dani. We were all cramped, tired, and hungry, our excitement for a two-day getaway tempered by the long ride from Manila. We found our lodging, a colonial-era inn that creaked with age, its wooden floors and stairways groaning under our unfamiliar weight. We were given one large room with six narrow beds, and we dumped our bags, freshened up, and headed out into the night, our stomachs growling.

We walked through the Heritage Village, the calesa horses clip-clopping past us, their bells tinkling in the still air. The guides on the street corners, all dressed in period costume, seemed to watch us with more than tourist curiosity. I felt a strange tickle at the back of my neck, the kind you get when someone is staring at you, or when you’re being followed. I counted us: Lena, Marco, Tia, Diego, Dani, and me—six. But my mind insisted on seven. There was a seventh shape among us, a presence that didn’t quite fit, hovering just behind my shoulder. I shook it off, blaming the long hours and the unfamiliarity of the place. But the feeling persisted, like a faint, cold breath on my neck.

We found a restaurant called Café Leona, its patio spilling out onto the cobblestones under a canopy of vines and lanterns. We grabbed a table, and the waitress brought out wooden chairs for us—six of them. But as we sat, my friend Farrah, who had joined us at the last minute from a nearby assignment, asked for an extra chair. I thought she wanted to put her bag on it, but when the waitress brought it, she just placed it beside her, not even looking at it. I leaned over to put her bag on the empty chair, but she put her hand on my arm and whispered, ‘Don’t.’ Her eyes were wide, and she was staring at the chair as if it held something invisible. I pulled back, confused, and the others fell quiet.

Marco noticed my discomfort and cracked a joke, but the laughter died quickly. Tia, who was seated across from us, suddenly shivered and asked if anyone else felt a draft. The night was still and warm; there was no wind. Diego and Dani, the twins, exchanged a glance—they were both pale as the moon. ‘Did we count six chairs?’ Dani asked, her voice small. Diego counted on his fingers: ‘Let’s see: Lena, Marco, Tia, us two, and…’ He looked at me, then at Farrah. ‘That’s six.’ But there were now six of us seated, plus Farrah’s extra chair. ‘Who’s sitting in the extra chair?’ he whispered.

We all stared at the vacant chair. It was wooden, old, with a curved back, and it seemed to be just a touch too large for the table, as if it didn’t belong to the set. The lantern above flickered. Farrah closed her eyes and said, ‘It’s been following us since the bus. It’s been trying to get in.’ Her voice was calm, but her knuckles were white. ‘I saw it in the reflection of the window on the bus. There was an extra seat at the back, and it was occupied by a woman in white. She was wearing a veil, and she was smiling at me.’ A chill ran down my spine. I felt a nudge at my elbow, as if someone had accidentally bumped me, but no one was near me.

We decided to leave, but as we stood, the waitress came over and asked, ‘Are you all together? Do you know the woman in white? She said she’s with you, but she wouldn’t order.’ She pointed to the chair. We all froze. Farrah shook her head, and we fled, our dinner forgotten. Back in our room, we huddled together, the six of us (I still counted six, but my mind kept insisting on seven), and we locked the door. Marco pulled out his camera to show us the photos he’d taken, and in one of them, a group shot on the patio, there were seven blurry figures. The seventh was a pale, translucent woman in a white dress, her face obscured by a veil. Farrah screamed and threw the camera across the room.

We tried to sleep, but none of us could. I lay awake, listening to the wind rattling the windows, and I felt the presence again, heavier now, oppressive. It was in the room with us. I could hear soft breathing that didn’t match anyone’s, and the floorboards creaked in a pattern—step-step-pause—as if someone was walking around our beds. In the morning, we packed quickly, desperate to leave. As we loaded the bus, I counted again: Lena, Marco, Tia, Diego, Dani, Farrah, and me—that made seven. I blinked and recounted: one, two, three, four, five, and me—six. Farrah was standing right next to me, and she whispered, ‘I think she’s gone. But she might come back when we least expect it.’ The bus started, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that as we pulled away, a seventh seat in the back row was still occupied, watching us go.