There Are No Ghosts in the City
an original short story by: Pasta Garcia
Trigger warning: This is story is a work of fiction. If you are someone who is triggered by themes of psychological horror and s*icide, please skip this. I’ll see you in the next one.
The golden hour isn't as picturesque as it's made out to be on the internet. Around here, this hour is called so, because no other name would fit the phenomenon. The sun would direct its harshest golden rays on the town, casting a glaring mockery on everything they touch. The houses, the street signs, the gravel, the people.
The people in the wet market have grown accustomed to the summer heat. But towards the end of a day's hard work, the sweat soaking through the merchants' clothes is the straw that finally breaks their backs. Most choose to pack up and close shop even with little revenue. But anything is better than being fire-roasted at this point.
And it's at this point, that my wife sends me out to buy... mangoes... of all things.
Back in the city, I would hop on our little sedan, make a five-minute drive to the nearest grocery store, and get said mangoes in the comfort of an air-conditioned establishment. On a hot day like this, I would've even stayed in said establishment for more time than necessary, just to let my skin cool before facing the harsh weather again.
Whoever thought that a few weeks in the countryside is considered a vacation should get doused in ice water. On second thought, maybe I should take up on that offer - an ice water bath sounds incredible right about now.
My in-laws' house is... decent. Although saying that word right now makes me want to smack myself in the back of the head - they have little to no electronics in the house, let alone air-conditioning. If the [too] humble abode wasn't built with bricks and cement, it would have been your traditional kubo. So no. It isn't decent. It's ancient.
The wet market is a good twenty-minute walk away from the house... according to my wife. But I've been here before, and a kid I asked once told me there was a path right past the old mansion, next to the mango tree if I turn right two blocks over. This would save me half the time to get to and from there. And when I tell my wife about it-
"Don't cut through there." My father-in-law interrupts with a rumble in his voice, like thunder forewarning a storm. He continues to look at me, his eyebrows knotting as if this would help send the message. He's always been a mellow old bloke. It's odd, but I play it off as the heat messing with his temper.
My wife looked just as confused. "What's wrong, Pa?" She asked, placing a cool, wet towel on the old man's nape.
Pa doesn't answer right away, but he stares at his feet, and I can't see if his eyes are trying to recollect a memory, or trying to escape from one. "Just listen to me," he softens his tone. "Whatever you do, don't cut through there. You'll get followed."
I try my best not to snicker, and my wife shoots me a glare. "Followed by what, Pa?"
"Ay don't listen to your Pa! You better get going before the sun goes down." My mother-in-law emerges from the kitchen, mid-swipe of a towel across her brow, and shoos me away. The old man lets out a sigh. His warnings were dismissed once again. When Ma noticed his disappointment, she continues. "These kids don't believe in ghost stories, mahal. Let them relax while they're here."
"It doesn't matter if they do." He turns to me. "You better avoid that shortcut if you don't want to be followed." But I already had a foot out the door. "Don't worry, Pa. I'll bring home cigarettes for you!"
"Don't indulge him!" I hear my wife shouting.
---
Not even a block far ahead and the heat makes me dizzy. I cuss under my humid breath for forgetting to bring a bottle of water. The paper bills in my chest pocket have started to dampen from the sweat soaking through my shirt. It's fucking ridiculous, and all I can think of is why the hell do we need mangoes at this time... and that shortcut.
I look behind me to confirm that I am in fact, two blocks away from the house. Which makes this the right turn if I want to get to the market in half the time. My father-in-law's warning echoes in my ears, and I wave it off with a scoff. "There are no such things as ghosts," I told myself. I turn my heels and start walking.
Despite the sunlight facing my general direction, it's cooler in this part of the town. It's probably the long stretch of overgrown trees. Only one ginormous house was plopped in the middle of it all. I find as I get closer that it's covered in vines, unattended shrubs, and fallen twigs and branches. The rusty gates don't conceal the front driveway, where there weren't any cars, and the fountain in the middle could be as big as a pool. Which it very well might be, because the water is still and murky. Light didn't seem to pass through, or into the mansion. It could be the dark-colored heavy draped curtains or closed windows. Either way, I don't look long enough to notice.
As I look ahead, I notice yellow, round-shaped things on the ground a few feet from where I was. The closer I walk, the wider my eyes get. Are those... mangoes?
Talk about luck. I look up and find myself shaded under the coolness of an overgrown mango tree, its branches sagging under the weight of abundant fruit. I pull out a produce bag from my back pocket with haste, and fill it up as much as I could without it breaking. For a moment, I forget how tired, sticky, and sweaty I am. For a moment, I find it strange, that a tree could be producing so much fruit, and I happen to be the only one harvesting them.
For a moment, I am bent down with that thought hovering over my head. For a small town, it sure is lively and very populated. Yet, not a single person has passed me by this whole time. Paranoia suddenly makes the back of my neck feel too bare, and I shiver. The sun was setting. I should hurry before I run out of light. Cradling a bag of juicy mangoes in both arms, I get up and turn around to walk. I stop as soon as I see it.
On the mansion gate's wall, where the mango tree's shadow reflects, was another shadow. The silhouette of a woman, hanging by the neck on a strong branch, swayed back and forth by the nonexistent breeze.
---
It's been four days since the incident, and our lives are back to normal. I never did tell my wife why I came home empty-handed. My mother-in-law laughed it off. But Pa... I wish I'd listened to him.
My wife may already have an inkling of what I went through, but I know she's still skeptical. I would be too. But she attempts to comfort me anyway. She squeezes me in a tight hug and kisses my temple. "Don't worry baby. There are no ghosts in the city." She turns to face the window and is asleep in seconds.
I turn and face the other way, where the shadow of a young oak tree's reflection hits my bedroom wall, with the shadow of a woman, hanging by the neck on a strong branch, swayed back and forth by the nonexistent breeze.
—
This was based on a true story a late aunt had told me and my siblings, when we lived with her for a couple of years in the province of Nueva Ecija, Philippines. She saw the silhouette herself on the way home from the wet market. We avoided that route home, no matter how tired we were from our day’s activities.
If you like more stories like this, hit like and share! I’d love to write more! 😈