Safe Spaces

In the Dining Room

I have heard two kinds of ghost stories: one that consists of a pale child, standing at a corner; and one that describes a woman with long black hair, may or may not be covering her face, wearing a white gown. But when I tell them about shadows that lurk in dining areas, they will dismiss it as "Are you sure it's not the curtains?" "Do you have a pet?" or "Maybe a car just passed by."

No one would believe me that sometimes paranormal entities come as human-sized black figures with no face, no skin. Just black.

I encountered them after purchasing a secondhand wooden oval dining table on Facebook. The seller was a woman; she seemed nice, and she accommodated all my questions. It was the same table you can see in legitimate furniture stores but cheaper by two thousand pesos, of course, because it was preowned. You see, I refuse to buy the cheap ones because they are only composed of sawdust and glue, which are basically just remnants of the refined wood.

It was still expensive, but comparing this with the cheap ones, I thought it was worth the money.

The table complemented our minimalistic home, which was decorated with potted plants and other wooden furniture. My wife Winona was overjoyed with our purchase. My sons, Denver, 10, and Jeremiah, 16, would use this table to complete their assignments because, they said, it was more spacious than their own study desks.

All this, however, began to change after three months.

We were about to have dinner when I noticed a small crack at the curved side of the table where I sit during mealtime, so I asked everyone inside the house who might have hit it. Jeremiah answered, "No one ever sits in your place, Dad. Not even Mom."

"It's okay, hon," Winona added. "It's just a small crack."

When I looked at Denver, he was unresponsive. He seemed to hold his breath, his arms and legs stiff. "Denver?" I asked. "Be honest. Don't worry, I won't get mad. I just wanted to know if you accidentally hit it with something."

Our eyebrows crossed when he just froze and did not utter a word. Then, he fainted.

The three of us panicked and tried to wake Denver up, but he did not budge. Winona started the car, while I carried Denver inside. We told Jeremiah to stay and guard the house.

When a male doctor checked Denver, he said my son was fine and might only have low-blood pressure from sleeping late at night and exhausting himself from schoolwork. After three hours, Denver still asleep, we decided to return home. To our surprise, Jeremiah was outside. We hadn't parked our car at the front of our gate yet when he swiftly knocked on my window, suggesting fear in every hit.

"Mom! Dad! There's something inside!"

"A thief?" Winona panicked. "Call the police—"

"No, no! Something! Not a person!"

"Jeremiah"—my wife's tone turned stern—"stop playing jokes on us. Your brother has just been to the hospital."

"But, Mom! It's true! I-I was studying at the dining table and . . . and when I looked up, there was a figure! It was watching me!"

While he was explaining, I got out of the car and carried Denver in my arms. Winona locked the doors. "Okay now, Son," I said. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"I don't want to go back there!"

"Jeremiah! Stop that nonsense and go back inside the house," my wife firmly said. "Are you overloaded with schoolwork? Let me help you—"

"No, Mom! Believe me!"

We kept on ignoring Jeremiah, thinking he was also burned out like Denver. But I admit I was shocked when I saw his hands trembling, as Jeremiah does not get afraid easily; in fact, he would offer to spray cockroaches and trap rats, invite us to watch horror and thriller movies, and volunteer to buy what we needed at sari-sari stores at night.