Part 3: The Third World

Backyard

The ticking of the wall clock sounded alongside the staccato rhythm of the keyboards. It was a little late, a few minutes after three in the morning. The monitor light illuminated the face of a young man, in his late-twenties and lean. He stopped for a while, staring at the computer and eating cookies. When the pack was empty, he crumpled it and threw it somewhere in the dark room. It plopped on top of a stack of books. All the while, he was still reading something on the monitor, occasionally scrolling down on the mouse.

He would sometimes put a cigarette in his mouth, but he never lit it. He would return the stick in its place tucked behind his ear, and he would sometimes glance at the papers by his side. A dog howled outside, and he momentarily tore his gaze away from the screen. He scanned his room, mountainous piles of papers, books and hard drives littered the small expanse of it. A phone rang, and he searched for it beneath some papers.

“Hello?” his voice went out cracked. He cleared his throat and tried it again, “Hello?”

“Are you done?” a female voice asked him.

“What? Who is this?”

“It’s Pam,” the female voice continued, “I’m coming over to see your progress, and maybe catch some sleep. It sounds like you’re still working on it. Oh, and I have news.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and hung up.

Pamela ‘Pam’ Balani, a book editor, drove her white Sentra slowly along a silent street in suburban Mandaluyong. She was looking for a particular gate, number 626 A-C, while bats flew overhead. The street was lined with various trees, acacia, mango, and even umbrella trees.

She found the crimson pedestrian gate tucked between two large ones, and she parked her car on the next street corner. Walking back towards the gate, she hugged herself as a cold breeze blew past.

She unlocked the gate by swinging a top lock. Opening it, she walked the entire length of the adjacent houses in a faux alleyway that can only accommodate one person. At the end were three houses, the one in the middle was the one she was looking for, number 626B. She pressed the doorbell, a shrill bird-like song that filled the quiet house, and waited.

“Yes?” a voice whispered. She was startled for a moment, and then said, “It’s me, Pam. Let me in.”

The door opened to reveal a young man of average height, with his long black hair untied and wore corrective glasses. This was Salvador ‘Andoy’ Mortiz, a writer. He writes Philippine Gothic stories, and Pam was his editor. He beckoned her to come in, which she did.

“What is it?” he asked her when she had sat down on the wooden chair in the dimly-lit living room. He gave her a glass of cold orange juice, and then sat down opposite her.

“Someone called me, something about a kapre,” she said, sipping her juice as she watched his reactions. His eyes grew bright, and a flicker of delight crossed his face.

“Huh,” he grunted, “and what did the caller said?”

“She claimed to be haunted. It might be a good idea to investigate.”

“Sure. When are we going?”

“Anytime you want.”

“How about you sleep here today, we’ll go tomorrow?”

She smiled, “Sounds good.”

He beckoned her upstairs, where light from an open monitor came from a room. She carefully went up the stairs, her host right behind her. The room they came in to was filled with bric-a-brac of things. The walls were lined with shelves containing various books, papers, figurines, masks, and hard drives. The floor was covered with other books and hard drives, and in the middle of it was a table on top of which was an open laptop, connected to two more hard drives. A cushion used as a seat was right in front of it. An open book, a half-empty glass of juice and an empty carton of cookies were beside the cushion. Andoy cleared a space beside the cushion, moved it, and then sat Pam there.

“Is this new work?” she asked, pointing at the monitor. She arranged herself on the pudgy cushion, thinking that it was always used.

“No, just keeping up with my research. Did you know that the White Lady in the Philippines was a fairly recent phenomenon?”

“Really?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Yep,” he said, sitting down on floor in front of the computer. “What is this kapre business about?”

“Why not rest first; we’ll just tackle it tomorrow, ok?”

He grunted. He continued to type, scroll, and read. Pam looked on, reading as well just behind him. Later, she struggled to prevent yawning, but failed.

“Do you want to sleep?” he asked, his eyes still glued to the monitor. Pam just nodded slightly. He stood up and led Pam to the other bedroom across from his, and then closed the door. As she prepared to sleep, she heard the clacking of the keyboard coming from the other room. She smiled.

They went to the house of Zoraya, a good-looking girl who claims to be haunted by the kapre. She lives with her mother in a single-storey home, with a vegetable garden at the back. There was also an old mango tree growing there as well, shading parts of the house from sunlight. They were escorted into the modest living room, and were given beverages. After drinking and resting a while, Andoy began his questions.

“So,” he said quietly, “would you like to tell us what has been happening to you?”

“Alright,” the girl answered slowly, “It all began when we still lived in Montalban. We used to have a big mango tree growing in our little backyard. It was planted there by my father before I was born, and it had blessed us with its sweet fruits.

“It first happened when I was about sixteen. There would be heavy footsteps on our roof, and there would be that smell of tobacco and body odor. I was so scared I would always sleep with my parents. My father would get mad because of the nightly noises and the bad odor that seems to seep in to our home.

“One night, it occurred again. This time, we heard someone speaking in a deep voice, but we could not understand the words. My father became so angry, that he got his bolo and went out to confront the monster. He never came back alive.” She was sobbing as she said the last part. Andoy and Pam let her compose herself, silently observing her as she was comforted by her mother.

After a while, she continued, “That was three years ago. After burying my father, we moved from place to place, which was easy because it was just me and my mother. We finally found this place; it was cozy like our little house in Montalban. It even has a mango tree growing in the back, and because of it we felt we could call this place home.

“After about two months, we experienced the same happenings. There were the heavy footsteps, the tobacco and bad odor, and also the whispers. When I heard about you and your written works, I called to petition our predicament,” she finished.

Andoy looked at her as she finished her story. He was unconsciously stroking his week-old facial hair, looking as if he was uninterested. And yet, his eyes were sparkling like a little boy’s upon seeing a new toy.

“Have you ever made out what the words are?” he asked.

“Um, no,” she answered. “I can’t make out the words, sorry.”

“I’m not really anything but a writer,” Andoy began, “so I−”

Zoraya looked surprised for a bit and then desperately said, “But, they say that you know everything about supernatural events. Maybe there is something that you know of that would ward off this− monster.”

The mother and daughter clung together, their eyes screaming for help. He turned to Pam, who was twirling the empty glass in her hands. She looked at him, gave one of those almost nods, and then went back to the dancing glass. He turned back to the hapless people, and then he sighed.

“We’ll help you,” he said.

He sat quietly behind some thick bushes of santan, waiting. It was about ten-thirty pm, his legs was already cramping, when he saw someone on the mango tree. It looked like some large wildman, dark-skinned accompanied by an over-powering stench of tobacco among other things. He watched as it shambled along, climbing on the mango tree. The breeze picked up, the stench wafted towards his direction. He almost gagged from it, even through the cover of his handkerchief. This was the kapre.

The kapre lifted its nose, sniffing the night air. Then it growled softly, shuffling in its position on the tree. Andoy cautiously crept towards the kapre, fearing he might alert the mythical beast. He tied his handkerchief over his nose, and crawled on his hands and feet. Slowly, ever slowly, he neared the kapre.

The kapre went down the tree, and slowly walked towards the house. It used its hands to hoist itself on the roof, causing dents on the roof gutter. It treaded on the roof, its footsteps causing a ruckus on the tin roof, and kicking away the stone- and tire-weights. Andoy made it towards a window and stole a peek, he saw the mother and daughter huddled together, shaking with fear.

The kapre was whispering to himself as he walked back and forth on the roof. Andoy strained his ears, and his eyes went wide when he made out what it was saying. He got out his phone and dialed a number, whispering briefly to someone, and then putting it away.

He looked around for something to use as a weapon, and espied a small pile of hefty rocks. He went towards it, and waited. He watched the creature as it continued its babbling. He chose a rock and threw it. It cluttered on the roof, not even coming close to hitting the kapre. He cursed, then chose another one.

The kapre heard the falling rock on the roof, and he turned to face it. It saw Andoy looking for another and it growled. As Andoy turned towards the roof, with a rock in both hands, he saw the kapre staring at him. He threw a rock towards it, it just glanced off of it without so much as a scratch. He had read that the kapre has a belt that rendered it almost invincible, but he could not see if this is true.

He threw the other one, and it hit the kapre’s chest. The kapre roared, a savage roar, and it jumped down and ran towards him. As it neared him, he heard sirens in the distance, and he smiled. He ran towards the road, the kapre ran after him and tried to catch him. He ran on towards the sirens, his labored breathing sounds foreign to his ears. He often tripped on the uneven asphalt, but it never caught him. Waving wildly at the police cars, he stopped them. The kapre behind him was roaring and foaming a bit at the mouth, it was bent on catching him.

The police got out of their squad cars, and pointed their weapons on the kapre. Instinctly, Andoy dropped down to avoid getting in the line of fire. The police ordered for the creature to stop, and when it did not, fired at its leg. It dropped down on its face, but struggled to get back up. The police surrounded the wounded creature.

The kapre was no mythical creature, it was just one of those wandering people on the street. His name was Mahmoud, and he had been diagnosed with serious mental illness. He had been wandering the streets near Zoraya’s house even before the mother and daughter had moved there, and he was tolerated by the neighborhood. After returning to Zoraya’s house and making sure the family was alright and safe, Andoy went outside under the old mango tree. He got out his cigarette pack, and lit one stick. He stared at the stars for a while, finished his cigarette, and stepping on it.

He sighed and said aloud, “I am so glad it was over with.”

“Me too,” a voice said from the mango tree’s branches, “I absolutely hate copycats.”