Tres
648 Words
Iphigeneia woke shortly before five, the sky beyond the narrow windows still bruised with night. Her body ached with exhaustion, yet sleep would no longer hold her. The memories of the previous night—the screams, the whispers, Maria’s evasive answers—pressed too heavily upon her chest.
She dressed quickly, eager to leave her room and its suffocating stillness.
Stepping into the long hallway, she hesitated. She did not know which room belonged to Maria. The corridor stretched before her like a passage in a convent or a mausoleum—doors on either side, all closed, all mute.
“Maria?” she called softly, mindful of the old sick man sleeping somewhere within the villa. “I’m ready. Are you awake?”
She knocked on the door nearest her own. No answer.
She tried the handle. Locked.
“Maybe the next room,” she murmured.
As she moved away, a sound drifted faintly from behind her—a low disturbance, almost like breath drawn through decaying lungs. She stopped.
Turning back, she approached the first door again.
“Maria?” she asked, her voice now barely above a whisper. “Are you getting ready?”
She reached for the handle.
This time, it turned easily.
The door opened upon a darkness so complete it seemed to swallow the light from the corridor. A stench rolled out to meet her—thick, sweet, unmistakable. The smell of ‘agnas’. Of something long dead.
Iphigeneia recoiled, pressing a hand to her mouth.
“Maria?” she said again, forcing cheer into her voice. “Why is it so dark in here?
No reply.
She groped blindly for the light switch, fingers brushing cold wall, peeling paint—nothing. To steady herself, she opened the door wider, allowing the corridor light to spill inside.
That was when she heard the whispers.
They rose from deep within the room—many voices, layered, murmuring in hushed urgency, like prayers spoken backward. The sound slithered across her skin.
“Does she have visitors?” Iphigeneia wondered, uneasily.
Against her better judgment, she stepped inside.
With each step, the hallway light diminished, as though devoured by the room itself. Strangely, she did not bump into furniture. The space felt vast—far larger than it should have been—stretching beyond reason.
The whispers grew louder.
Then—silence.
Abrupt. Absolute.
“Maria?” she called, dread creeping into her voice.
The darkness seemed to press inward. The air felt thick, charged, ‘hindi tama’—wrong.
She turned toward the door.
Before she could take more than a step, a whisper brushed her ear.
One voice.
A woman’s voice.
So close she felt the breath of it.
She froze.
Her eyes strained against the darkness, but there was nothing—only shadow upon shadow.
She had never believed in ghosts. Not truly. But now fear took root, cold and unmistakable.
Then came the word.
“Arriba.”
The voice was hoarse, rasping, as though scraped raw by earth and time.
“What…?” Iphigeneia whispered.
“Arriba.”
Louder now. Commanding.
The voice trembled with effort, as if the speaker labored for every syllable.
“Arriba.”
And suddenly, she understood where it came from.
Above her.
Her blood turned to ice.
A sound followed—slow, deliberate movement. Something dragging itself across the ceiling. A grotesque crawl, punctuated by sharp, wet cracks, like bones shifting where they should not.
“Putang ina…” she breathed.
She backed toward the door, heart hammering.
The crawling hastened.
The cracking grew louder.
Dust sifted down from the ceiling, brushing her hair, her shoulders.
She lunged for the door.
Before she could grasp the handle, it swung open from the other side.
“Maria!” Iphigeneia cried, collapsing forward, tears streaming, her body trembling uncontrollably.
Behind her, the darkness stirred.
Above them both, something exhaled.
- Writer
