Ghosts of Infinity: and Nine More Stories of the Supernatural

by Lara Saguisag

  The cold wind, almost the same one that greeted him at the elevator, came bursting in through the wide-open windows with such force that he thought they were going to be torn off from the metal bars to which these were attached. And because the metal bars might cause damage, especially to the red-colored antique vinegar jugs they used to give their living room some character, Dante, like the dutiful husband he was, tried to get up to close the windows.

  But he never got to do that.

  Before Dante could even get up, somebody tapped him twice on the shoulder.

  Tap, tap, it was a light tap, four fingers nimbly touching his shoulder, an act of greeting, much like what friends did to each other to call attention to something; it was a gesture of well-meaning concern.

  With his left hand, Dante squeezed the area where he felt that weird sensation, of somebody tapping him lightly on the shoulder, as if he wanted to confirm whether he felt it or not, when he knew, deep inside, that there was nobody in the apartment, in fact, nobody on the whole floor, nobody except himself; that was what Jimmy had told him, he was the first one on the floor.

  With much resolve, he finally looked over his shoulder.

  Street Corner

  Carljoe Javier

  SHE DIED WHEN she was fourteen. And she never got over it.

  The red taxi, the headlights that were blind but flashed blindingly, the STOP sign flung from its pole, the pole left doubled over like a skinny man who’d just taken a punch to the gut: all these images flashed, slowed, spun, gone then back then meshed all together until they overlapped and then taken apart so that they could form a scene that placed me at the street corner staring out and lost in it and around it.

  It was years since. But I always thought of it.

  I’d grown up, was finishing school, doing everything that a normal kid was supposed to do. Except that I joined Katy’s vigil. She waited for him, and I went to meet her and waited with her.

  On those nights I finished my dinner quickly and told my mom that I’d be staying out. I still lived in the neighborhood where we grew up together, where it happened. My mother worried about me at first, but she got used to the ritual, although she nagged me about meeting girls.

  But every time I got started with a girl, she came back to me. She asked me to remember her, to stay with her until she found him. It’s the least I could do for her, she said, and I knew it. So I stayed, and I waited.

  KATY SAID THE taxi was red. She’d find him.

  The first time she came to me I was asleep. She called me to the street corner, to the STOP sign that had been put back up. I didn’t know why, but I went. She was waiting for me there.

  I came nearer to see that she was like mist, floating gently above the spot where her mother had cradled her. I couldn’t really see her as a shape or form, but I could feel that she was there, could imagine her fingers wrapping gently around the STOP sign’s straightened pole. “I … I’m s-sorry, Katy.”

  Although I really was sorry I think I apologized more because I was afraid that she’d come to get back at me. She nodded, motioned for me to come closer. In my mind I heard her whisper, “Wait with me.”

  I moved toward her, but stopped frozen by the cold that ran through my body, sharp, a shiver that drove itself like a corkscrew into the base of my skull straight down my spine. Then the cold numbed, stayed at the back of my neck, but relaxed the rest of my body.

  I sat beside her, silent. I knew that her eyes were on the street, waiting.

  There was a flash of light from down the street and I felt an energy coursing through me, pushing and moving and I was on the other side of the street, staring at the STOP sign and the mist that was gone.

  Then there were the screech of tires and the sick grinding of metal, thousands of fingernails clawing blackboards, the teeth grinding in response, the twisting like the sound of rusted pipes rubbed with the coarsest sandpaper. A red taxi flashed across to slam against a car, both vehicles blocking the intersection.

  The drivers got out and looked at their vehicles. Then they started screaming at each other. “It wasn’t him,” I heard her say, “but I’ll find him.” And the mist was gone but I knew she was still there at the street corner.

  WE WERE STILL waiting. He’d come.

  The accidents occurred on the same date that Katy was killed, the twenty-first. Each month brought a new driver with a red taxi, but never him. And I prayed each time that it was him, so that it would be over. But at the same time I wanted it to go on, because an end to the vigil would mean an end to Katy and me.

  This was my way of paying her back. And it was my only chance to be with her. The warmth of her body that I used to feel was replaced by the paralyzing shiver that she greeted me with every time. But I could still feel her, know that she was with me.

  THOSE NIGHTS WERE colder. I felt it in the air and inside me.

  It was especially cold that night. I could remember the gnawing at the base of my spine. It wasn’t a tingle; tingles feel like fingernails. It was a gnawing cold, like jagged teeth, biting into me, sinking deep into the flesh.

  I walked out onto the empty street, happy to see that even the dogs had left it to Katy and me. And I knew that there was something about that night.

  People had noticed the monthly accidents at first, and there’d been much talk about them. But as the months went by the accidents lost their novelty and I could visit Katy without being bothered by people standing around the corner hoping to see an apparition.

  As I walked to the corner I could feel an energy, heavy, taking my legs, coursing through them, clutching at the muscles, breaking through the flesh. And I knew this was the night that he’d come.

  I WAS LATE. It shouldn’t have happened.

  It hurt to remember, but that night it seemed that walking to the street corner Katy was forcing the memories into my mind, calling them out of the deep crevices where I’d buried them. And I had no choice but to relive it all.

  Our maid ran up to me. “Jojo, Jojo, where have you been? Didn’t you hear what happened?” Her voice was shrill, taking on the exaggerated tone that it always had when she had some new chismis to share. But her face lacked the enthusiasm of discovering a revelation like Mang Tano’s driver taking Aling Linda’s maid out for a movie.

  “What happened?” I looked across the street to see the signpost bent down onto the concrete. It was mangled, the STOP sign creased cleanly between the T and the O, its faded red paint falling bluntly on the gray sidewalk. A few steps away a crowd had formed, encircling her body.

  “Si, si Katy …”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I heard the sound of tongues clucking and whispers like shimmers flashing across the silence only to highlight the quiet with their leaving.

  “Grabe.”

  “Sayang.”

  “’Yan kasi e—”

  I heard the people around there saying these things as I came, silence giving way to speculation, then spectacle. Her mother was already there crying, holding the crumpled body in her arms, rocking back and forth on the concrete.

  There was nothing for me to say or do. The idea would not come into my mind. I would not allow myself to realize what had happened.

  Instead I trained my mind on my bike that had been bent beyond repair. She had loved that bike, she’d take it out for rides around the neighborhood if we were supposed to meet and I wasn’t there yet.

  So she’d been biking to kill time waiting for me. It was only right that the bike was crunched beyond repair, because I’d never use it again even if I could.

  I don’t remember how they took away her body or cleared the scene. I’m sure that someone pulled me away and brought me home. All I can see when I try to think of it is the bike’s bent frame and the handlebars that were still intact.

  HE LEFT HER there. That’s what they told me.

  I wasn’t there, didn’t even think about her. Katy went home before I did, said that she wanted to rest before I went over to her house. I had no pr
oblems with that. We weren’t going to do much, anyway. I was still frustrated about the day before.

  We cut classes and went to SM to see a movie. During the movie I kissed her and forced my tongue into her mouth. At first she pulled away, but when she asked me if I loved her and I told her that I did, she gave in.

  She gave in to much more. Each time I tried something she resisted at first, but I assured her that I loved her, and told her that if she loved me she’d do it. Soon I had my hands up her shirt and skirt, things coming undone. I was surprised with myself how I could force her into it, could push her so far. I couldn’t stop myself either. When we finished I was tired and I slumped back into my seat. Katy looked like she wanted to cry, like she wanted to say something to me but was holding it back. I couldn’t understand what could’ve been wrong; it was my first time too, but I wasn’t reacting to it the way that she did. I was actually pretty proud of myself.

  When we walked out of the movie I saw this tall girl with creamy-colored skin and plump breasts bursting out of her red tank top and I couldn’t help but let my eyes crawl after her, pecking at her flesh the way my mouth wished to. When my head turned back to Katy I felt the smack of her palm across my cheek.

  I glared at her, asked her what it was for. She started shrieking at me about looking at that girl, “after everything that we’d done. After all that I’ve given you!” I told her I didn’t do anything, asked her what her problem was. She tried to slap me again, but I caught her wrist and told her to quit it. I told her I didn’t know what the big deal was, then I walked away from her and went home.

  I left angry, and when we saw each other at school she asked me if we could talk. I told her I didn’t feel like it, but when she asked me to come over in the afternoon I said I would.

  But I wanted her to wait, so I stayed at school for a long time. I didn’t want to go running back to her; I wasn’t sorry about anything, so I hung out at school, watching the school buses leave and the parking lot clear, shooting hoops with whoever was there.

  So she was waiting for me.

  IT WAS OVER. And she left me here.

  From this street corner the memory remains sharp, sharper than the screeching of tires or the edge of the STOP sign, sharpened to a fine blade’s edge after it was torn free from its post and skidded across the uneven asphalt, slicing through the street and the leg of the man who was unfortunate enough to be standing half a street away from where it happened.

  We were waiting beneath the STOP sign, her cold inside me and the night’s cold outside, leaving me stiff and shivering. And I heard her say, “This is the one.” I felt it, too. I braced my body as I saw the headlights come down the street toward us.

  I felt Katy coursing through me, the cold and the pain, but suddenly there was hate I’d never known that she’d hidden, that I felt driving through my veins and instead of being on the other side of the street looking back at the STOP sign and the accident, I was frozen, the shiver combining with the energy that I’d felt earlier that night that was heavy and now piercing my muscles, going through me and planting me dead solid there staring at the headlights that were getting bigger and that blinded me.

  I stood in the middle of the street, the red taxi rushing at me but in that moment it seemed to inch forward, a slow inevitability. Its driver clutched the wheel and I could see through the headlights and the black throbbing orbs that their beams had left in my eyes that he wasn’t looking at the street but at the mist that had formed on his windshield.

  The STOP sign was scraping, then slicing like a shuriken across the street. The post that it had been attached to had bowed to the spectacle, taking its leave as it drove itself into the ground, trying to hide its unseen ears from the grinding and screeching of metal.

  Things flashed, then slowed, then spun, meshed and overlapped then broke apart, and I was lost in all of it. I felt the energy, felt like gravity was changed and I was being driven into the ground, then a loss of the gravity and the energy came in with a final shock and was gone.

  And I wasn’t in the middle of the street anymore, but at the post where Katy had stayed.

  I could feel her leaving me, the mist that was her dissipating. The shiver that had frozen me for an instant now became a form, not an instant but an entity, engulfing me and surrounding me, my confines—the street corner.

  Ghosts of Infinity

  Featuring Arturo Ganigan, NBI

  Emil M. Flores

  I

  Old Green Eyes

  MAY 15, SUNDAY 6:30 p.m.

  There was a long dead silence before he spoke again. The voice was unnervingly calm.

  “I was preparing for class. Yes. I was. I really was. Then I heard a sound from outside.”

  “What kind of sound?”

  “Rustling. Footsteps. I stepped out of my study. I looked around and shone my flashlight at the tree. Nothing.” The voice got excited again. “No! I saw them!”

  “What did you see?”

  “Eyes! Terrible green eyes! The third eye! The third eye! They’re coming!”

  “Who was coming? Can you see them?”

  “They’re coming for me! But I performed the ritual! Appeased them! Keep them away from my family! Please keep away!”

  Dr. Maryam DeMarco turned off the recorder and slumped back in her seat. “That’s all, Mr. Ganigan. He was delirious so I had to stop.”

  “He mentioned a family,” I said. “I thought he lived alone.”

  “Maybe his family is in the province. I think he has brothers.”

  “Okay,” I paused as I stood up. “The things he said, are you sure they came from his memories?”

  “There’s nothing mystical about hypnosis, Mr. Ganigan. It isn’t mind control.”

  Ma’am, I thought. The past several hours have been quite mystical for me. Keeping those thoughts to myself, I thanked the good doctor and proceeded to leave.

  “You’re the agent who trained in the States, aren’t you?” I got that question a lot. “Did you ever think of emigrating?” That one too.

  I turned, thought about what she said, and smiled.

  II

  Dream TV and Crazy 8’s

  MAY 14, SATURDAY 7:15 a.m.

  Having been abroad puts things in perspective. Much of this country perplexes me. Then again, much of me perplexes me. Maybe that’s why I’m into investigating things. To lessen the puzzles of my life by trying to solve other people’s. This particular case was the abduction of UP Professor Jaime Dizon. At that time we thought he was abducted from his home on campus the night before. The Prof was an anthropologist who was interested in ancient cultures. He was most probably involved in something big since the chief didn’t want any publicity. No photo ops, now that’s unusual. The first thing I did was check with the campus cops.

  Now the cops were supposed to be investigating an abduction right in their own backyard but instead, the ones on duty were watching TV. I guess with meager pay comes meager work. The SPO1 guy I just talked to went to “look into” the reports of the break-in at Prof. Dizon’s place. I took a peek at the 14-inch television set sitting on top of a rusty green filing cabinet. It was “The Infinite Dream Crusade with Daniel Salvacion.” And there he was, the one who asked the Bureau to find the missing Dizon. I wanted to talk to Mr. Dreamer but I had to schedule an appointment with him for my investigation. He was concerned but apparently his show came first. On TV, he looked serene in his light green kimono as he espoused the power of dreams. “Dreams can be reality” was the idea he was selling. Subconscious positive thinking or something like that. Perfect for people who have nothing left but dreams. The cop watching the show had his eyes plastered on the white man of wisdom on TV. At least he wasn’t watching a pirated X-Rated VCD. Finally SPO1 Morales gave me a copy of the initial report of the break-in. As I left the station, I could hear a newscaster bellow out a report about stolen military equipment. I figured that another coup or mutiny was going to happen but I had work to do.

 
For this case I worked with Barbara “Barbie” Benigno, a shorthaired petite mestiza who was a computer and trivia geek. She also had a mean right hook, according to some guys who had dated her. She could be clumsy at times but she was dependable. When we got to the Prof’s house we saw a policeman sitting outside the patio. The Prof lived alone so the cop must have been assigned to guard the place after the preliminary investigation. I showed him my badge and went inside the house. Barbie followed.

  The break-in happened at the Prof’s study, which was basically an extension of the back part of the house. Right outside the window was a balete tree. On the mud near the tree were shoe prints that looked like those of heavy work shoes. Boots possibly. Around the huge twisted roots, black beans were scattered about. From what I got from the report, the neighbors called the police at around 3 am to report a break-in. A motorcycle cop came but immediately left to call for back up. Apparently there were armed men involved. Three combat booted men, I surmised. When the cop returned with three other cops, the armed men were gone and so was the Professor. Nothing was reported stolen. But then, no one would know since the Prof lived alone. The study was in shambles. The screen door was forced open and the eastern screen windows were ripped or cut by a sharp object. According to the SOCO’s* findings, there weren’t any other fingerprints in the room aside from the Prof’s. I looked at the Prof’s desk where papers were scattered around a Compaq notebook. I looked over the papers. Most were graded student assignments and photocopies of maps and essays. I had hoped to find some personal notes but the only writing paper I found had number eights frantically scribbled on it with red ink. At the bottom of the sheet were the words “stop” and “ghosts.” The words were practically etched on the paper. He must have used the same pen for checking his class papers. I also found a diskette underneath the papers.