Waking the DeadGorio stared out of his bedroom window, studying the horde congregated at his doorstep below. The dead of Barrio Masigasig had arrived at his house today, dug themselves out of their graves, many of them ancient and rotting, caked with dirt, their faces caved in, chests sunken, limbs falling or long gone. Others, freshly buried, looked almost alive, their skin unbroken, the pallor on their faces masked by funeral make-up. They were dressed in moldy barongs and musty party dresses, clothes that dragged on the ground or snagged in places, the damage gone unheeded because the dead do not think of these things.
“Why did you call us?” they whispered, their voices soft and ragged, sending chills down Gorio’s spine. “Why did you wake us from our sleep?”
Beside Gorio lay the scrol
