The Umbrella’s Stitch

It was a Tuesday in late October, 2012, when the rains came to the Barangay Lower Sulok. I had just stepped off the jeepney at the corner of Mabini and Rizal, my shoes already soaked through from the puddle that formed where the road met the broken sidewalk. My office mate, Delia, had taken a different trike home, so I was alone under the pale glow of the streetlamp that flickered like a dying firefly. The rain was not heavy, but it was persistent, a fine mist that clung to my skin and made the world feel muted, as if I were walking through a dream.

I quickened my pace, my umbrella a flimsy thing with a bent rib, but it kept the worst of the dampness off my shoulders. The streets were empty, save for the occasional stray dog that slunk into the shadows. I hated this part of the walk, the stretch of Mahogany Street where the houses turned into corrugated iron shanties stacked on top of each other, their windows like black eyes watching me pass. It was here that the feeling always hit me—the prickle at the back of my neck, the sense that I was not alone, even when I could see no one.

That night, the feeling was stronger than usual, and I found myself counting my steps to keep my mind busy. Then, I heard them: soft footsteps behind me, the rhythmic patter of shoes on wet pavement. I turned, half-expecting to see another late worker, and there she was. A woman in a nurse’s uniform, her white dress faintly glowing in the dim light. She carried a black umbrella, its fabric so dark it seemed to swallow the light around it. Her shoes were the kind nurses wear, white with rubber soles, and they made a soft squeak with each step. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Company, even if silent, was better than solitude on such a night.

I slowed my pace a little, letting her catch up, but she never did. She just kept the same distance, about ten feet behind me, matching my stride exactly. I tried not to think about it. Maybe she was just shy. I turned onto the narrow alley that cut through to my street, a short path lined with tall fences and overhanging trees that turned the alley into a dark tunnel. I paused at the entrance, looking back, hoping she would turn too. She did, and I felt a silly, childlike joy. But then I saw the man at the other end of the alley.

He was stumbling, clearly drunk, weaving from one side of the alley to the other, his arms flailing as if he were swatting at invisible flies. My heart hammered in my chest. I had heard stories of drunk men attacking people in alleys, especially women alone. I considered turning back, but the nurse was behind me, and the thought of walking back past her, of facing the darkness alone, was worse. So I clutched my bag tighter and walked forward, my eyes fixed on the man, ready to bolt if he came near.

As I approached the middle of the alley, the man stopped his erratic pace and turned to face me. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and he pointed a trembling finger at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. ‘Get away from her!’ he slurred, but the words were thick and garbled. ‘Don’t let her touch you!’ I froze, confused. Who was ‘her’? I looked behind me, and the nurse was closer now, almost within arm’s reach. Her face was pale, her features blurred by the rain, but I could see her mouth move, as if she were whispering something. The drunk man stumbled forward, his hand reaching out, but it passed right through me. I felt a cold jolt, like a shiver of ice, and then he fell to the ground, writhing as if in pain, his fingers clawing at his chest.

I screamed and ran, my umbrella forgotten, dropping it in the puddle. I didn’t stop until I burst through my front door, slamming it shut and leaning against it, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My mother was there, her face etched with worry. ‘Anak, what happened?’ she asked. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. I just pointed at the door, shaking. My mother, a woman who had seen her share of strange things, simply nodded and said, ‘You saw her.’ I didn’t ask who ‘her’ was. I didn’t want to know.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over the events again and again. The nurse had been real, I was sure of it. But the drunk man had fallen, and I had felt nothing when his hand passed through me. In the morning, I forced myself to go out, to trace my steps. The alley was empty, nothing but wet leaves and my forgotten umbrella, lying where I had dropped it, its fabric torn and a single stitch missing. I picked it up and brought it home, unable to shake the feeling that I had missed something important.

Weeks later, I learned from a neighbor that a woman had been found dead in that alley the very night I walked through it. A nurse, in fact, who had been murdered months before, her body dumped there after a robbery. They said she had been seen wandering the area, always carrying an umbrella, always following people, but never touching them. Some said she was looking for someone to take her place. I never told anyone about the man who had pointed at me, or the way his hand passed through my body. I only know that every time I walk that alley now, I feel a cold presence behind me, and I never turn around.