A story came my way from a fellow Filipino expat who moved to the States after getting his university degree. He is now married and living in a house he had purchased in the southern area of the U.S. I met him thru another friend who had known him for several years and were on social media before meeting up at a reunion.
For the purposes of this narrative, I will call him “Glen”. His family is not aware he’s sharing this with me and as you will see from the following story, there is a good reason. I hope you enjoy his account.
My name is Glen and I live now in a nice peaceful suburb of South Carolina. My recollections of my native country is punctuated by experiences which my sister and I share when we lived in a brand-new house my parents had built back in the 80’s. My parents were strict and pretty punitive. We were raised in the tradition of Roman Catholics and taught not to entertain what was considered back then as flights of fancy. This included the idea of seeing spirits or ghosts. That kind of thinking remains with my parents to this day and when I shared this story, I was partly concerned how it would be received if my parents found out, so I am keeping my name and location anonymous.
Regardless, I felt I should tell my story to those who would be receptive. For a long time during my childhood and into my years as a teen and a student, I felt I couldn’t share a part of my life which happened repeatedly to me and to an extent, witnessed by my sister. Now an adult with a career and a marriage which I am fortunate to say has been very happy, I still feel the need to unburden a very strange part of my life which I now feel free to do as blogs and books such as these exist.
So here is my story:
It began where hauntings sometimes seem to begin: with the construction of a new house. My parents decided when we were still quite young to build a custom house. The land they chose was rather sizable as we were relatively well-off, my dad having a high position in the aviation industry. My mom, a homemaker at the time, was very much into cooking, decorating and entertaining guests. Thus, when we finally moved into the house when I was a small child of three, she enjoyed furnishing the home and gave us all that we needed, including the spaciousness of having our own bedrooms, and a “Jack and Jill” bathroom which sat between our bedrooms. As children, we also had at our disposal, a “Ya ya” or nanny, who doted on us and made sure we were looked after and protected. She slept near our bedrooms so that at night she was there to check in on us and make sure we were safely tucked in for the night.
As a child of about four or five, my sister enjoyed having her own room while I enjoyed roaming the house and the grounds. However, shortly after a few weeks, I began experiencing some rather unsettling events. Since my father traveled a lot, my mother was alone in the house with us, save for the maid and our nanny. Our “Ya ya” was very close to me. She was more relaxed, doting and accepting than our mother who was a disciplinarian in our father’s absence. When events started to happen, I instinctively reached for our Ya ya, who was a sympathetic and nurturing listener.
First, about me. I was born with a cowl on my face. It’s a membrane that covers my entire face upon birth. Doctors of course removed it to allow me to breath, but if you’ve never seen a baby born with one, you may consider it strange and unusual. I don’t know how many people are born with one, but I was told it was a translucent piece of skin that covered and protected my face. It was a layer like a veil which didn’t have to be surgically removed, just uncovered, as if an additional placenta. Legend has it that people who are born this way have a gift of second sight.
In retrospect, I believe that now.
One night, shortly after we moved into the new home, an older man dressed as a carpenter paid me a visit. I was in my thin cotton pajamas as the tropical weather was year-round, but it was rainy season. Most of my encounters, as you will see, tend to occur during rainy season when monsoons would hail down, pattering on the tile roof and the scent of new grass would blow in through the open windows. The man in question was very friendly. I assumed he was one of the carpenters who would come in during the day, as we moved in once the majority of the house was completed, save for a few finishing touches on the outside and some minor adjustments.
The carpenter never said anything. He would stand at my bedroom door, smile and then turn and walk away. One night, curious as to where he would go, I followed him out to the hallway. Once in the hall, I discovered I couldn’t find him. Only a breeze remained.
One night, I had a nightmare. I don’t recall what it was about as it was so long ago, but I ended up lying in bed between my parents. Several years later, my parents told me that it terrified them when upon waking later on that same night, my father noted in shock that I had disappeared from the bed. My mother was beyond herself as she recounted the episode, since their bed was flush against the wall and I had to have stepped over my father in order to get out of the bed. My sister also had night terrors. It all began when we moved into the new home, but our parents dismissed it as our own difficulty in adjusting to a new environment.
Then, one night, unable to tolerate it any longer, I told our Yaya. Shortly after telling her, the woman slept outside the bedroom in the hallway, her foldable mattress rolled up during the day in a closet across from the Jack and Jill bath. Our night terrors stopped, filled with shadow beings that sometimes made themselves look like our parents, when they were not. I remember telling the ever-patient Yaya of our sightings with these strange beings. I knew in my heart they were not of this world and I got the sense from the yaya that she believed me, but counseled me to keep quiet about it. Thus she and I bonded as i was able to recount with comfort what had become part of my bedroom.
When I was in first grade, things spiraled to a new level. I was about five years old at the time when my mother discovered that the nanny had been “encouraging our stories” and was reprimanded for believing us. Yaya had to move away from the hallway where she slept and was told to sleep again in her own bedroom at the other side of the house near the kitchen. The sympathetic ear was gone. Left alone to fend for ourselves, I became silent and fearful, and my father, home from work, threw me out the front door one night after I attempted to share the latest “flight of fancy” in the darkness of my room.
Outside and alone in the dark, I cried. I looked around the front yard, full of trees and plants that harbored dark recesses where shadows could lurk. I was told and still recall my father’s words: “Be a man. You need to be brave.” I was only five.
Then, in the darkness as I sat on the steps, watching the darkness around me, I heard a voice: “We are here for you. Don’t be afraid.”
I sat up, listening. “Don’t be afraid. We are protecting you.”
A warmth enveloped me and I felt relief. I was no longer afraid.
During third grade, things spiraled to a new level.
THIS IS PART ONE of Glen’s story. Stay tuned in a few weeks for the second part when Glen is confronted by another phantom.
*** Mark your calendars for my latest release, “The Night Visitants” which will be available for pre-order on April first on Amazon.
