Safe Spaces

By the Stairs

My uncle, who was an architect, taught me strange construction concepts such as oro, plata, mata. They believed that the last step of a staircase should end with either oro or plata—which means "gold" and "silver," respectively—as this would bring wealth to your home. If it ends with mata, which means "death," your house was said to be filled with bad luck. Because of this, I now chant oro, plata, mata whenever I walk up or down the stairs.

I did this to our new house in Binondo, Manila, and smiled after learning that the last step was oro. My parents would always show off our new home to their friends, saying it was a good buy because they got it for a relatively cheaper price than the usual cost of houses in Manila.

Our first night of stay was also the same day as the house blessing, so the fridge carried plenty of leftovers from the celebration. That night, at around one in the morning, I quietly snuck out of my room and went downstairs, with only the light of my phone's screen guiding me. My parents were really strict, and I would be doomed if they found me getting ahead of my siblings, so turning on the lights was off the list.

As noiselessly as I could, I opened the freezer, got the container, and filled my mug with ice cream. But when I heard steps coming from upstairs, I immediately crouched down and pressed the power button to turn the screen light off.

Hugging the ice cream container close to my chest while still holding the mug, I knew I was doomed if either of my parents saw what I was doing. I was preparing my apology as the steps got louder and louder, closer and closer.

I decided that it was better to admit that I was indeed sneaking a mug of ice cream than to deny when I was already caught. So I stood and was about to utter a word.

But no one was there.

Scared, I quickly opened the freezer and returned the container before I ran as quietly as I could toward the stairs. However, something felt off in my first step, as if it took me a larger stride to go on to the next. This made the hairs on my arms rise, which was bizarre because there was really nothing to be off about.

It was then that I heard someone whisper, deep and uncanny: "Mata."

My curiosity made me look behind me. I regretted it.

My mug dropped to the floor when I saw two wounded men, all in gray including their skin, staring at me with a look that I could only explain as full of suffering and anger.

I screamed and ran crying toward my parents' room. My older sisters, who were actually awake and were only pretending to sleep, also scurried to us. Bawling my eyes out as I explained, I apologized for my misdeed and asked them if I could sleep in their room. My parents looked at each other, got some prayer paraphernalia, and went downstairs. I refused to come with them and, instead, hugged my older sisters. They only found the broken pieces of my mug and melted ice cream by the steps.

The next day, our parents told us to pack our things. Little by little, we went back to our old house in Quezon City, and our house in Binondo had been made into an apartment. The next week, my father discussed with us—and I was grateful for his openness—that two construction workers were buried alive when the house they were working on prematurely collapsed during a 1968 earthquake. Since then, they haunted the place.

For the sake of my father and his business, I will not dismiss the address. But if you live in Binondo, Manila, take note of houses with a red roof.