At the end of part one, Glen’s “Yaya” had been relocated back to her bedroom in the servants’ quarters. Glen’s mother would not tolerate the wild ideas being “indulged” by the nanny, which she felt contributed to encouraging Glen his “flights of fantasy.” Now alone in his room without the security of the Yaya to comfort him once he awakened from a nightmare, Glen was now assailed by more encounters. Here’s more of Glen’s story:
I was now totally alone at night in my room. My sister who was next door, past the Jack and Jill bathroom that sat between us, made it feel like she might as well be clear on the other end of the house. I was now in third grade and expected to be more “mature.” One night, after dinner, I stayed up as late as I could just to be in the company of my mother. My father, as usual, was on a business trip. I found myself avoiding being alone in the bedroom. However, just like a typical parent, I was promptly sent to bed at the appointed hour as it was a school night.
I prepared for bed, changed into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, washed my face and combed my hair. I later heard my sister enter the bathroom as I lay in bed attempting to sleep. The sounds her of her ministrations somehow comforted me and lulled me to sleep, knowing she was right next door. Around one thirty in the morning, I awakened to dead silence. Something made me want to rejoin my mother in the family room where I heard the television was still on. I emerged, sat by her on the sofa, and before you know it, my mother lay behind me on the sofa and was fast asleep. I continued to watch the soccer game, still in progress despite the lateness of the hour.
Suddenly, the scent of putrefaction assailed my nostrils. It was so overpowering that I gagged with the stench. I looked around, wondering if there was food that had somehow spoiled on the coffee table or somewhere nearby. Then, I detected something behind me. Some movement that made the hairs raise on my head like static. On the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a white mist. It floated around my eye level, then suddenly shot up thru a ceiling vent. I looked around at my mother, still asleep, wondering if I should awaken her, then realized she would scold me. I stood, now beset by a desire to leave the room for the relative safety of my bedroom.
Things continued. The next clear memory I had was an event during fourth or fifth grade. It was rainy season once again and I was again in bed, attempting to sleep. I awakened to a presence in the room in the dead of night. The room was dead silent. Totally dead. Something shifted by the foot of my bed and I had to look. A man dressed as a soldier sat smoking at the end of my bed watching me. His uniform was tattered with bullet holes. I was paralyzed with fear, shut my eyes and rolled under the covers.
Not all entities were negative or frightening, however. One was an elderly woman who showed herself by my dresser, sitting on my cabinet. She sometimes could be found as if she was fixing my room, my bed and putting things in order on the dresser. She exuded an aura of a grandmother, kind and doting in demeanor. For me, she was a comfort, although she would simply vanish.
The worst time of my life while living in that house was when I entered high school. It was bad enough that I was going through so many changes that came with puberty, but it was made worse by my sense of alienation from my parents who didn’t believe what I saw. I was now being watched by things I couldn’t see while in my bedroom. Then one night, something slapped my thigh. All I could do was keep the covers on, my eyes pressed shut. As the encounters became more frequent, I lost sleep. I would take naps during the day, especially while in class, lulled in the comfort of people around me. Thus, my grades began to plummet. My mother discussed my frequent daytime naps, now a topic with my father who would come home from his trips overseas. Scolded and questioned, I isolated myself more, fearful of what they would think if I told them what I was experiencing.
On the second year of high school, on my older sister’s prom night, we discovered our mutual bathroom had a deadbolt. Our mother had installed it without explanation or prior warning. We wondered about the bolt which was only unlocked while we were using it. One night, to our collective terror, we stood in the hall way watching it move. The deadbolt was moving on its own. The bathroom doorknob moved by itself, as if someone inside was attempting to get out. A moaning accompanied it. Then, one night, my sister and I overheard two people talking inside the bathroom – while the door was bolted shut. This went on. Meanwhile, our parents argued and we wondered if they would eventually separate.
Two years later, now a college freshman, I moved to a dormitory. With great relief, I was admitted despite my low grades. I found myself sighing with relief, now out of a house that appeared infested by poltergeist activity. I slept and seemed to make up for all the years of restless sleep. The deprivation was over and I rested well in the new environment, the grades showing a vast improvement. I excelled.
On the morning of college graduation, I went to the house with my graduation gown and hat, getting ready to join in the ceremony. I entered my childhood bedroom to get dressed and found a sight that haunts me to this day:
A grandmotherly woman sat on the bed, dressed as if she was attending my graduation. She spoke so clearly that this is what I heard:
“We’re so proud of you so we’re going to leave you alone now. But if you need us, we’re here for you.”
With that she vanished, leaving a warm breeze in her wake. I never saw her again.
I flew back in 2019 as a grown and married man to see my father who had taken ill. I visited with my sister who still lived with my mother in the house. All the poltergeist activity had ceased. The cabinets where the elderly woman used to sit and watch me were now all gone. Yaya visited one day and told me “Di na mabigat.” (The house no longer feels heavy.)
The bolt in the bathroom was gone. Later, my sister and I discussed it and she intimated that our mother had secured it with a bolt after encountering what we had seen: The knob turning by itself, the moaning behind the door, the talking and the bolt moving by itself. Our mother had witnessed some of the activity after all, but didn’t tell us until my sister was an adult herself.
I sensed a closure with the passing of my father as my mother’s arguments and feelings of anger with him gave way to forgiveness. The forgiveness gave the home a feel of lightness as the negative energy of the emotions which beset my mother dissipated. The ghosts rested, now sensing peace and forgiveness, leaving us with the dying light of my father.
The house today is tranquil and nestled within a mature tropical garden. Almost every room has an altar of Christ and His saints, standing guard over a now placid home replete with antiques and the rays of the sun. The house sits behind gates, stoic and grand, as it did in the time when emotional turmoil opened a dimension of unearthly entities.
Silence reigns in restive repose as birds flutter and sing.
