THE GHOST WHO WALKED WITH A LIMP

Can a ghost be surprised? This one looked amazed when he noticed I was looking at him wide-eyed and obviously able to see him! Then he came nearer still, smiling gently.

“There was this charming, adobe house in Calamba, Laguna that I fell in love with and wanted to buy,” my cousin told me over breakfast. “ It was a good thing I listened to your Tita Dahlia’s advice. I could have gotten myself a house where three people had been murdered.”

Tita Dahlia V – was a retired public school teacher from Ramon Magsaysay High School in Manila. She believed in the forces of wind, water and spirits. And yes, she also believed that ghosts are for real. “ The ghost stories we read about maybe figments of the writer’s imagination,” she stressed. “ but that does not mean to say there are no ghosts. There are and I should know!”

When it came to the acquisition of old properties or for that matter, any expensive heirloom being disposed of at ridiculously low prices, Tita Dahlia warned - -“ It is important to know the history of the stuff you are buying, specially when dealing with beautiful, old houses up for sale at give away prices.”

“ Believers in feng shui also tell us that moving into an old house or office is like stepping into the previous owner’s shoes. Whatever transpired in the past may affect the present occupants. House spirits certainly have power over the living. So we all have to be wary when owners are in such a hurry to get rid of something so obviously valuable. “

Tita Dahlia was always suspicious of old houses and of old dormitories in particular. When prodded to explain why, she confessed that it stemmed from a scary encounter with a resident ghost in an old boarding house where she had stayed as a student.

From Tita Dahlia came this chilling tale:

I was 15 years old and in my senior year when my father was promoted to head a branch office in Western Visayas. I was expected to graduate with honors and so my parents decided to leave me behind to finish my studies in the same school where I’d been since elementary grades.

After much prodding, I reluctantly agreed to live in an ancient boarding house where my father used to stay as a student. The owner, an old Spanish lady, was the mother of Papa’s childhood chum who died so tragically a week after his graduation from highschool. Senora Clotlilde vds. de Arroceros promised to take good care of me.

Lola Tilde was a 78 year old widow whose only surviving kin was a daughter who had long migrated to America. The boarding house was her only source of income and she saw to it that all the young people entrusted to her care were well taken care of. This was made possible with the assistance of Tiya Toyang and Nanay Sepa , her two faithful servants who were both unmarried and who had been in her employ for more than 30 years. She also had an elderly gardener who took care of her beautiful garden. Over the years, her well-managed boarding house had acquired the reputation of being a “home away from home.” Satisfied clients did not mind the slightly higher price she charged.

The boarding house was a large u-shaped structure with an interior garden. The right wing was a dormitory for boys, most of whom were students from the exclusive boys schools along Mendiola Avenue; on the other hand, the left wing was a new structure  recently built for working girls and coeds from a nearby women’s college. Both wings were independent of each other, but shared a common garden .

The garden was so beautiful, a breath taking sight even for a connoisseur. A narrow, ancient iron trellis attached to the masonry with sturdy bolts ran the entire span of the inner wall. In time, the intermingling vines and creepers became a thick canopy of lush foliage , now dripping with colorful grape -like berries and flowers. Pretty and comfortable wrought iron chairs and tables were set beneath this overhanging shelter of leaves and fragrant blooms – the perfect setting  for a romantic interlude. And to ensure the coolness of the place, built at the heart of the garden was a circular pool with a spouting fountain. The profusion of blooms from Lola Tilde’s collection of American roses, orchids and exotic African daisies , coupled with a number of giant ferns gave the place a certain magical appeal that made people want to linger.

In the center of the U-shaped structure was a spacious living room with large windows that overlooked Lola Tilde’s collection of flowers. But the first thing that caught ones attention was the grand piano and the ancient harp at the far end of the sala which were right below two huge oil paintings of Lola’s deceased husband and son. Boarders were allowed to receive weekend visitors in this area but always under the watchful eye of the efficient major doma, Nanay Sepa.. This central portion of the house was the mistress’ private domain and nobody was allowed to loiter after visiting hours.

Connected to the living room was a long corridor where three large airy rooms were lined up in a row; at the end of this dimly lit hallway was a banyo for visitors. And hidden from sight was a door that led to the kitchen, dining room and the master’s bedroom. All told, it was a lovely , quiet sanctuary for the aging widow who had only her music and her garden to live for. In the evenings, however, when the servants began lowering the blinds, the house became an eerie place.

I was the youngest boarder and everybody doted on me, specially the two elderly servants who constantly reminded me of my resemblance to my father, who for years had been the constant companion of their deceased senyorito, I had also grown attached to Lola Tilde who treated me like her own grandchild. And so, when I found myself alone in the left wing during the two weeks sem- break, Lola asked me to occupy the room opposite hers. Two folding beds were set up for the old servants who were instructed to keep me company.

It was obviously a boy’s room in predominant colors of brown and blue. There was this glass show case where a collection of miniature imported toy cars, tiny tin soldiers in different fighting positions, stacks of comic books and quaint bottle caps were displayed. Pennants of various shapes and sizes adorned the varnished walls and several trophies lined the top of an oak chest. Also displayed in one corner, was a large photograph in pewter-steel frame. It was a picture of my father and another boy. Both were smiling broadly.

“Manoling?” I asked my two elderly companions as I tried to suppress a shiver that ran through me. Both looked teary-eyed when they replied, “ Yes. Our young master and his best friend.”

It was the last evening of our semestral break. I still had a few more pages to cover with my home-reading assignment and so, as I settled comfortably in the large bed I made up my mind to continue reading Don Quixote de la Mancha way into the night.

I plowed through the pages of the famous comedy, chuckling now and then until I reached the end of the one chapter with a half empty page. There was this comment scribbled in Latin: Monitori tu salutamos, ora pro nobis (we who are about to die, salute you). How strange, I thought to myself. Who could have written this morbid note?

My mind  was still on the scrawl when I suddenly realized I was cold. It was a particularly warm night but my room had turned frigid. Just as I was about to get up, I heard the bouncing sound of a soft ball being dribbled and before I could react, I saw a weak glimmering ball of light enter the room from the darkened doorway. The ball of light hovered around Tiya Toyang’s folding bed. I stared at it, seemingly hypnotized, until it increased in size.

Soon it became a giant-size soap bubble and there was this transparent figure of a man in it. The man stepped out of the bubble and sat beside the sleeping Tiya Toyang, the loyal yaya of many years who was now tossing restlessly in her bed. After a moment, the ghost stood up and bent down to touch her head in an unmistakable gesture of fondness. He pulled up her blanket up to her neck, tucking it in at the sides. The sleeping, old lady quieted down and he turned away, smiling.

The ghost now turned to the snoring Nanay Sepa. Again he sat at the edge of her folding cot, watched her curl herself as though extremely cold. He gently shook his head and reached for the folded coverlet at her feet and covered her with the thick blanket.

I was looking intently at the ghostly apparition all the time, taking in all his movements. Meanwhile, an uncontrollable trembling had seized me. I was freezing. The book I was holding slipped from my hand and dropped to the floor with a thud. The ghost looked back and saw me at the far end of the room.

Can a ghost be surprised? This one looked amazed when he noticed I was looking at him wide-eyed and obviously able to see him! He came towards me and the lamplight on my night table illuminated his transparent figure clearly. He had a young, good looking face of a Spanish mestizo, his eyes were an attractive shade of gray and he had a  dimple on his chin. I noticed his spanking white pants and delicately embroidered barong tagalong. Funeral vestments, I said to myself. I also noticed that he walked with a limp.

He came nearer my bed and the look of wonderment in his face gave way to recognition. He came nearer still, smiling gently. He was only a few steps away from the bed, when he suddenly held out his hand in a welcoming gesture. I closed my eyes and fainted in sheer terror.

It was morning when I came to. Tiya Toyang was gently shaking me and calling my name, “Dahlia, Dahlia, wake up. You’ve been having nightmares. We had to repeatedly shake you a bit the whole night. You’ve been calling out to your father.”

I told Lola Tilde what had transpired and from my description , she had no doubt that it was her beloved son . She assured me there was no way anybody could have known about the limp. She told me the day  before her son died, he had accidentally stepped on a bar of soap carelessly left on the school’s bathroom floor, lost his balance and sprained his ankle. He was brought to a nearby hospital for treatment and both his mom and the attending physician were not worried. Manoling was  strong and  healthy; and a star athlete too.. “ He will heal fast,” the doctor assured Lola Tilde.

What her son failed to tell his Mom was the fact that he had hit his head hard on the floor when he fell. That evening, as he was sharing his hospital meal with his mom, he suddenly grabbed  his head and screamed in  pain; terrible seizures wracked his body. He fell into a coma soon after and died the following day without regaining consciousness.

When I refused to remain in the boarding house, my father understood. My scary encounter with the ghost of his childhood friend had traumatized me; I was now afraid of the dark and refused to sleep in a room all by myself. Dad reluctantly transferred me to a girls dormitory where I shared a bedroom and bath with five other girls.

And from then on, I also developed a fear of old houses.