The Unfinished House on Mangga Street

I was eight when I learned that some stories are not just stories. I was staying with my Tita Rosa in a small town in the province, in a house that was never quite finished. The walls were bare concrete, the windows were just rectangular holes cut into the masonry, and the only rooms with doors were the two bedrooms: one upstairs, one on the ground floor. Across from the ground-floor room was the bathroom, its door hanging crookedly on one hinge.

One humid night, I woke up with a full bladder. The house was silent except for the buzz of insects outside. I crept out of the room, the cold floor tiles chilling my bare feet. As I came out, I saw figures by the open window in the living room. Two people were sitting on the windowsill, their legs dangling outside. In the dim moonlight, I could see they were wearing old-fashioned clothes, like the ones I had seen in faded photographs of my grandparents’ generation. I blinked, thinking my eyes were playing tricks. Then I recognized them: my cousins, Ate Liza and Kuya Boyet. But they were not themselves. Their faces were blank, their eyes fixed on something far away, and they wore clothes that smelled of mothballs and dust.

I called out, ‘Ate, Kuya.’ Their heads turned in unison, but their expressions did not change. They just stared at me, not a flicker of recognition, not a blink. The hairs on my arms stood up, and a chill ran down my spine. I turned and ran back to my room, jumping onto the bed and pulling the thin blanket up to my chin. I lay there, shaking, listening for any sound. But there was nothing, just the hum of the night.

The next morning, Tita Rosa asked me to take a basket of food to my grandfather’s house down the street. I was still uneasy from the night before, but I obeyed. As I walked, the sun beat down on the dusty road, and I tried to convince myself it was just a bad dream. When I reached my grandfather’s house, he was sitting on the porch, shelling peanuts. He smiled and thanked me, but then his smile faded. He looked at me with a serious expression and said, ‘Child, did you see anything last night?’ My heart raced. I nodded slowly. He sighed and put down the bowl. ‘You saw them, didn’t you? The old couple who used to live in your Tita’s house. They died in a fire before the house was finished. They haven’t moved on. They sit by that window every night, waiting for someone to come back.’ My mouth went dry. I had not seen an old couple; I had seen my cousins. But as I walked back, I realized I had come around a corner and seen them from a certain angle, and perhaps my mind had superimposed their faces on something else. I was never sure until that evening.

That night, I could not sleep. I lay in the dark, listening to the wind whistle through the open window. Around midnight, I heard a soft thud, like something landing on the floor. I pulled the blanket over my head, but curiosity got the best of me. I peeked out. Two figures were now standing in the doorway of my room: an old man and an old woman, their clothes charred and smoking slightly. Their skin was cracked like burned leather, and their eyes were white. They whispered together, but I could not make out the words. Then the old woman pointed at me and said, ‘She has come back.’ The old man nodded. ‘Yes, the one who saw us.’ They started walking toward me, their feet making no sound on the tiles. I screamed, but no sound came out. I shut my eyes and prayed to every saint I knew.

When I opened my eyes, they were gone. The room was empty. But I knew they would be back. In the morning, I told Tita Rosa everything. She turned pale and said, ‘I have been hearing them too. I thought it was just my imagination.’ She called a priest, who came and blessed the house. But even after that, I would sometimes catch a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of my eye, or hear the faint sound of sobbing at night. I never slept alone again without a light on. And whenever I pass by that house now, I always cross to the other side of the street. Because I learned that unfinished houses hold unfinished business, and those who sit on the windowsill are not always who they seem.