The window shatters with a loud crash.

“You idiot!” Jesse hisses. She cringes and then glances left and right, looking for witnesses. By now the drizzle has transformed into a full-on downpour, plastering her clothes to her skin. The wind howls above them, shaking the great branches of the nearby Balete tree, threatening to kill them with debris. Luckily, nobody else is outside in this storm.

“You can barely hear anything over the noise,” her brother Mikee bites back. He clears the shards off the windowsill and then jumps into the house, apathetic. “Hurry up.”

“Are you sure the house is empty? What if someone sees—”

“The longer you stand there, the more chances there are of someone seeing you.”

Jesse can’t argue with that, so she allows her brother to pull her through the window. They land in a wet heap on the hardwood floors, but at least the rain has stopped battering her skin.

Mikee closes what’s left of the shutters to shield them from the rest of the rain. Immediately, the room goes dark—darker than it already had been. Jesse stands there, shivering, with her arms wrapped around herself. The house is so quiet that she swears her chattering teeth echo through the halls.

“The lights don’t work,” Mikee says. He’s already found the nearest lamp: an old, expensive, fragile-looking thing with curvy green glass and a long bronze base. They’re in a library, Jesse realizes. It had been the only accessible room from the back of the house, near the overgrown fence. The far wall is stacked floor-to-ceiling in dusty books. She’s never even seen that many books in one place before. A heavy wooden desk rests beside them, near the other end of the window. The rest of the furniture is decidedly antique: wood and rattan chairs, an elongated sofa with matching pillows, a low coffee table inlaid with capiz shells.

“Maybe we can find some candles,” she suggests.

A flash of lightning whips through the room. Jesse jumps as a face glares at her from the gloom. She screams and slams against the wall, only to realize that it’s no angry owner come to chase them away; it’s only an oil painting hanging on the far wall.

The painting depicts a beautiful woman who lounges on a familiar antique chair, her hands clasped on the armrest, a diamond ring on her finger. She’s dressed in an ethereal white terno: scooped neckline, wide butterfly sleeves, and a fitted bodice. Her dark hair lays in fashionable curls atop her head. And her pink lips twitch with a secret smile, so realistic that Jesse is convinced she’ll step right out of her gilded frame.

“What is wrong with you?” Mikee whispers. He huffs and pulls out random drawers in search of candles, but he doesn’t hesitate to pocket some shiny things either. Jesse would berate him, but she’s too drawn to the majestic portrait. She approaches as if possessed, hit with the urge to admire it from all angles.

Up close, she’s struck by how large the portrait is. It looms over her like a queen watching over her dominion. A shiver skitters down her spine. The woman’s eyes follow her no matter where she goes.

In loving memory, a plaque beneath the portrait reads. Doña Maria Consolacion Rodriguez y Manahan.

“So I may see you every hour of my days… Your beloved, Lito.”

A growl catches her off-guard. Jesse spins around to find a sheepish Mikee, his hand shoved between the pillows of the sofa.

“I’m hungry,” he explains. She rolls her eyes. But she’s hungry too, and these wet clothes don’t help with the shivering.

~*~

 

“How long has this place been abandoned?” Jesse asks.

They share a singular candle between them. Their shadows stretch across the walls like ghosts, flickering with each twitch of the flame. The mansion is obscenely large, and if they aren’t careful, they’ll get lost inside. Jesse doesn’t like this place; it’s too big, too empty, too grand. But she can already tell that Mikee savors every inch. If it were up to him, he’d live in here forever, a palace fit for a king.

They pass porcelain vases and carved doorways. Empty bedrooms with looming bed frames. Jesse jumps when they pass an ornamental mirror, their reflections distorted in the candlelight.

“Pedro said it’s been at least ten years,” Mikee replies. Pedro is Mikee’s favorite source: a homeless old man who’s seen everything, but can only be pried open for stories when given a suitable offering. “The wife died in some horrible accident, and her husband was so distraught that it changed him completely. He went from a benevolent master to an outright cruel one, yelling and abusing his servants, fighting with his own children, and locking himself in his study for hours on end. Some say he killed himself; others say he had an accident and fell down the stairs. Either way, as soon as he died, everyone ran right out. You would expect him to be happily reunited with his wife in the afterlife, but his terrible behavior meant that he could never go to heaven, and now he’s trapped in this house, doomed to haunt it forever…”

Jesse shivers again, and she’s not sure if it’s her wet clothes. She slaps her brother on the arm.

“Stop scaring me!”

He laughs. “You asked. I’m just sharing what I know.”

“You’re being spooky on purpose.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a scaredy-cat.”

“I am not a scaredy-cat! What if—what if—There has to be a caretaker, right? Such a pretty house like this, who would leave it abandoned? Didn’t his children inherit it? I’m just saying. I don’t think we should be causing any trouble…”

“Relax. Even if there is a caretaker, I’m sure they’re at home. There’s a storm, Jesse. Nobody knows we’re in here.”

Jesse gulps. That’s exactly the problem.

 

~*~

 

“Can you imagine the parties they held?” Mikee wonders.

They’ve stumbled upon the wide living room. Unlike the corridors, it isn’t completely cloaked in darkness; faint wisps of light filter through the gaps in the shutters. But then the wind rages against the windows, shaking the entire house with divine strength. By now Jesse’s clothes have dried, and she’s more aware of her hunger than the cold.

Her brother, though, seems to have forgotten their situation entirely. He saunters across the floor as if mesmerized, mouth gawking at everything in display. A shriveled plant with missing flowers. A dusty piano with a leather seat. Flowers carved into the wooden arch above the doorway. When Jesse calls his name, he doesn’t even notice, too caught up in his exploration.

She hovers away, unwilling to touch anything. But she almost stumbles against the arm of a nearby chair. It’s positioned by the window, allowing for a view of the whole room. A faded cushion lies on its seat. The embroidered plants and birds are yet to fade, but the cushion is lumpy and misshapen, with an indent where the person’s body must have been positioned. With this position, the chair almost resembles a throne—with the regent watching over their celebratory subjects. Jesse wonders who it was for: Lito or Consolacion? Did the mistress only take this seat once she had tired of dancing? Or was it for the surly master, unwilling to join the revelry?

When she blinks, she can almost imagine it: dust-free, shutters wide open, sunlight flooding into the room. Guests in expensive dresses and fine barongs, laughing and dancing to the vibrant band. A long buffet table with enough food to feed a whole village. Consolacion, resplendent in her white terno, acting as the perfect hostess; shaking hands, exchanging kisses, conversing with everyone she meets.

Long after she had passed, did Lito see this lifeless ballroom and feel the emptiness tenfold? Did he see the shadow of his wife in every corner of this room? Her favorite flowers, her favorite songs, space for all her guests, her favorite seat?

A big house is such a waste, Jesse thinks. But it’s also so incredibly lonely.

~*~

 

A dizzying amount of rooms. Corridors only distinguishable by the arrangement of the decor. Their candle flickering in the shuttered darkness. And most of all, the ghost of the owners haunting every step. The harder Jesse looks, the more she sees. Finely embroidered table runners already yellowing at the edges. Flowers, so many flowers, blackened with decay. A pair of exquisite men’s trousers still folded next to the iron. Faint skid marks on the wall, as if some sharp object was dragged across it.

Jesse flinches. She wants to reach out and trace the scratches on the wood with her fingertips, but decides against it.

“Kitchen!” Mikee exclaims.

He bolts down the stairs and into a void of an archway. Jesse follows, almost slipping behind him, before the candlelight goes out. The dirty kitchen is located unobtrusively below the house, with solid stone walls and the ground packed with dirt.

But they should have known, really, that nothing edible would have remained. Strings of shriveled garlic hang from the walls, so old that even the mold has lost its smell. A cutting board lays abandoned on the end of the long counter; a rusted knife still balanced on its edge.

Mikee opens all the drawers and rummages through them, occasionally sneezing or expressing his dismay. At one point he digs out a can of long-expired corned beef, and another ancient can of menudo.

“We can’t eat that,” Jesse says. “I think that was made even before we were born.”

Mikee makes a face. “I’ll find some crackers,” he mutters.

They do find one pack of crackers untouched by pests. It’s gross and stale, but they divide it between themselves anyway. They’re crackers, Mikee says, what’s the worst that they can do? The kitchen is so deep into the earth that the storm is indiscernible, and it’s just the two of them again, the way it always has been, the way it always will be.

Jesse is desperate for water, but she doesn’t want to wander outside in search of the well. Instead, Mikee dusts off his hands. Sleepy and barely sated, in the dusky candlelight, he suddenly looks very small. And the kitchen is so big and unfamiliar.

She just wants to go home. She wants the muddy riverside, even with its stench. She wants their tiny hut, their grandmother, even if she’s so dull. She even misses the pots and pans they’d lay on the ground to catch the rain droplets dripping from the roof. Suddenly, it seems like a huge mistake to have even come here.

“We should find a place to sleep,” Mikee says.

“You’re right.”

They’ve got spare candles, but Jesse doesn’t like the idea of sitting in pitch blackness. She can’t imagine falling asleep, vulnerable, in a big house that creaks and whispers with each gust of wind. Sleeping on dusty sheets that aren’t hers, invading someone else’s personal space, destroying a tomb that’s been untouched for so long.

Mikee has no qualms, of course. And she could be overreacting; it’s not as if the owners are there to notice. But as they sneak out of the kitchen and return to the upper floors, the shiver creeps back into Jesse’s spine.

Her eyes have grown more used to this semi-darkness. Her ears are more sensitive.

And as ridiculous as it is, she wonders if the house is watching. If it knows they’re here, two parasites in its belly.

 

~*~

 

“Which way?” Mikee asks.

His adventurous spirit has finally waned. The storm continues to batter the windows, but somehow, it’s even darker. How much time has passed? Has the sun long set? Time here is frozen, no difference between the hours. Like a doll house or extinct creatures suspended in amber. Jesse shuffles closer to her brother and chooses a direction at random.

“How about there?”

They haven’t explored this wing yet, but Jesse imagines it’s better than where they came from. She doesn’t want to pass the old library again. She doesn’t want Consolacion’s eyes tracking their every move. They pass a few bedrooms, but they’re all strangely unusable: giant bed frames with no mattresses, white sheets covering the furniture, no light bulbs, some even with locked doors.

Deeper and deeper they go into the bowels of the house.

But while the previous wing had been all decadence, the longer they walk, the less of that they see. There are less flower vases scattered across the halls. Less lamps to polish, less grandeur. Closed door upon closed door, each one far enough from the other that she wonders how large they are inside. And finally, right when they’ve run out of hope, when they think that they should turn back, one final door looms ahead.

Mikee tries it before she can stop him.

The door creaks open at the lightest touch. Mikee lifts the candle. There’s a flash of movement inside. Jesse almost screams, almost flees, but no, it’s only their reflection. A tall mirror lies on an ornate wooden dresser, right at the far wall.

A solid mattress with folded sheets. A tiny couch, a matching chair. A decorative candle balanced on the nightstand.

“Finally,” Mikee mutters.

It’s a woman’s bedroom, that much is clear. Perfume bottles and make-up are organized neatly on the dresser. Across the queen-sized bed is a giant closet, larger than Jesse’s ever seen. A pink bathrobe hangs from one handle. A gorgeous green dress hangs from the other. But when the candlelight flickers upon it, Jesse realizes that a spool of thread has unraveled from the sleeve. There’s a hole near the hem. And a dark stain on the waist.

She sucks in a deep breath. Something thuds heavily in the corner. Jesse spins around, only to find her brother rummaging through more drawers.

“What are you doing?” she exclaims.

“Looking for blankets,” he answers plainly. Mikee disturbs several layers of carefully folded nightgowns, and then opens another drawer. “How many clothes does a woman need?”

“Well, she’s rich.”

“Is that why she and her husband don’t share a room?”

“What?”

Mikee rummages through another drawer full of ladies’ handkerchiefs. “This must be the wife’s, right? It’s so fancy. Look at the size of that rock!”

He points to a shell-shaped plate on the dresser. Rings are mixed inside, all of them gold, many of them glittering with precious jewels. It seems almost blasphemous, Jesse thinks, to keep something that precious out in the open. How has nobody stolen it yet?

“I know why she has her own room,” Mikee mutters. He seems to have found a blanket. Or maybe it’s just an oversized shawl. “It’s to make space for all her stuff.”

“You’re making a mess,” Jesse says, unnerved. “The blankets aren’t—”

At one point, Mikee’s hand knocks against something hard. He yelps and drops the end of another floral-patterned shawl. But as soon as he cradles his hand, he leans in, and his eyes widen.

Nestled at the very bottom, almost invisible, is the surface of a lacquer box.

Jesse already knows what her brother is thinking. Treasure. The most valuable jewelry around here. Maybe they could pocket it all and sell them. Fix that leak in the roof, buy a new dress, make grandmother smile for once. They could even move somewhere else, away from the riverside…

Mikee opens the lid and his smile immediately drops.

“What is it?” Jesse asks.

“Just paper,” he grumbles.

But it isn’t just paper. The surface is covered in beautiful cursive scrawl. She catches a glimpse: my beloved Consolacion.

“They’re love letters!” Jesse gasps.

“Gross.”

Jesse carefully removes one from the box. It unfolds neatly, the creases embedded deeply into the paper. The pages have yellowed with time, and some of the ink has faded, but if she holds the candle close enough and squints, she can still read the lines.

…deserve better… dreamed of you again… wish I could hold you in my arms…

Mikee wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, that’s so romantic,” Jesse cries. It hurts now, to realize how much they loved each other. No wonder Lito went mad. And now these two kids are sullying the only intimate proof they’ve got left. But that doesn’t stop her curiosity. She flips the page, reads on and on…

Someday we will meet again,

Always yours,

T.

She blinks. That’s a T, not an L. She’s sure of it. Could it be a nickname? What was Lito’s full name?

“You’re wasting the candles,” Mikee grumbles, already bored. “Let’s find the rest of the blankets and go to sleep. I’m tired.”

“You weren’t too tired to drag me here to explore,” Jesse bites.

“Yeah, well, I’m tired now.”

“You’re such a baby.”

He sticks his tongue out.

They do find proper blankets; they were in an entirely different cupboard. Mikee jumps into the bed with the excitement of a puppy. Jesse is more subdued, using her blanket (not even hers, really) as a shield. She’s used to the entire family all huddled up together, but even with both of them here, the bed is still too big. And all those shadows of Consolacion’s possessions dancing on the walls: her dress, a ghostly silhouette; her mirror glittering with candlelight; even her heels and shoes stacked in the corner, forming a ghastly lump. There’s a window here too, though it’s been sealed tight. By now the wind is a mere whisper, but that seems even worse. It feels like a hallucination.

“Goodnight,” Mikee says, and he’s out like a light, taking the candle with him.

Jesse was wrong. This room is not pitch black. With the candle snuffed out, she can make out faint traces of moonlight that seep in through the cracks below the window. Now the room glows with a ghastly sheen. Jesse turns her back to the mirror and focuses on the dresser below the window. They’d shut it tight and tried to return all the clothes Mikee had dumped.

Close your eyes, she tells herself. Don’t look. You’re being paranoid.

She pulls the blanket over her head and wills herself to sleep.

~*~

 

She’s running through the halls of the house. The walls warp around her, claustrophobic and endless. But the lamps are on, and she can see clearly in the electric light. Her breaths are heavy. Her feet clack against the wooden floors. She glances backwards—no one.

When she glances down, she finds that her hands are longer, bigger. Adult hands. And she’s wearing a fine green dress that sucks her in. She’s running in heels; how has she ever run in heels?

And then the growling begins, monstrous as a wolf.

She runs again. This time, she rounds the corner and almost slams into a mirror. But no, she catches herself at the final moment. Her reflection flinches. She is no child; she is a beautiful woman ravaged by fear. Wide eyes, red lips, tears trailing down her cheeks.

She is Consolacion.

The growl returns. She feels it deeply, as if it resonates within her bones. Footsteps pound behind her. She darts forward, only to be yanked back by her hair. She screeches, lashing out blindly.

“Get away from me!” she cries. Pain shoots across her scalp. He grabs her arm, squeezes—

Jesse wakes with a cry. For a moment, she’s suffocating. She flails, arms getting wound up even tighter, only to realize her blanket is tangled around her limbs. She eventually kicks it away.

The room is brighter now. Dawn light seeps into her vision. But she’s alone; Mikee is gone, his own blanket a mess on the opposite side of the bed.

“Mikee?” she calls out tentatively. “Where are you? This isn’t funny!”

Nobody responds. Her voice is small and fragile.

In the daytime, Consolacion’s room is more welcoming. It’s dusty, yes, and eerily frozen in time. But all the shadows from last night are gone. It’s almost sad, Jesse thinks. It’s as if she just stepped out for a moment; as if she’ll be back any time. There are magazines on the desk that she hadn’t noticed. A framed photograph of the woman herself modeling in a dramatic pose. A purse on the chair by her dresser, still unzipped.

Her death must have been so traumatic, so sudden, that Lito couldn’t even bear to put all her things away.

It’s only now that Jesse realizes there is another door in the room. It’s beside the shoe rack; she hadn’t noticed it last night. It creaks open. Jesse lunges, only to be faced by her brother.

“Bathroom,” he explains, confused at her expression.

You scared me, she wants to yell, but he’d make fun of her for it. Instead, she stomps past him and locks herself in.

Even the bathroom is decadent, which isn’t fair. Porcelain toilet, broad marble counter, and a large bath. A frosted window allows the sunlight to illuminate the room. By now the storm is gone, and Jesse’s heart flips at the idea of going home.

The toilet doesn’t flush, and the taps don’t work. Jesse crouches down and opens a cabinet blindly. An empty bottle topples with the force. No other supplies here, just pipes. As she sets the bottle straight again, she catches sight of a fallen rag covering the drain.

Rust. That must be rust poking through the holes. An ugly brown stain, long settled in. Jesse shivers, shuts the doors, and rushes outside.

 

~*~

 

The storm is over, the clouds have parted, and the birds begin to sing. The mansion isn’t as frightening like this. The living room is welcoming, even if it’s dilapidated. Jesse no longer jumps at all the mirrors. Even the corridors are beautiful, with bits and bobs catching her eye. Tiny figurines imported from other countries. Candelabras in the shape of human figures. A few framed photographs of the couple and their children, all formally posed, all aged in sepia, all beautiful.

Jesse can’t wait to go home. But of course, Mikee won’t stop fussing.

“I’m hungry,” he grumbles.

“You know there’s no food here. We can eat when we get home.”

“You think Lola actually cooked anything?”

“She must be worried sick about us!”

“She probably didn’t even notice we were gone.”

Well, Jesse can’t argue with that. But still, she says, “Wait a little while longer.”

“At least let me get a drink,” Mikee says. “I’m thirsty.”

Jesse swallows. She’s thirsty too. The taps don’t run, and it wouldn’t be safe to drink from them anyway. But a house like this should have a well somewhere on its grounds. Maybe at the back of the house, near the fence. Right outside the door to the kitchen.

“Fine,” she says. “One drink and then we’re going home.”

All the doors are locked, so they climb out through the broken library window again. Jesse ignores the imprints of the candles they stole. Consolacion’s portrait hangs over them in the light; it’s so much more faded now that it’s fully visible. The paint is cracked and chipping at the edges. And now, in the daytime, she’s flat and still. No more gaze following their every move.

The mud outside is wet and slippery, thick with rain. Jesse almost slips. Mikee laughs but directs her to the rest of the gardens. There is a well, already half-hidden by shrubbery. She expected a water pump too, but only the well is visible. Stone walls, a wooden roof. The bucket is bone-dry and rotting on the rim. She peeks inside.

A black void peeks back.

“I’m sure this dried ages ago,” she mutters. But Mikee tests the rope anyway. She’s as parched and desperate as he is. When was the last time they drank anything? Her stomach grumbles. Her throat itches.

“Won’t hurt to try,” her brother says.

He lowers the bucket with aching slowness. The rope is frayed and chafing, so they go slow, hoping that it won’t break. The bucket descends down, down, for a disturbingly long time. Eventually it snags on a surface. Crashes. Water there, somehow, but not a lot. The sound echoes through the stone.

Mikee pulls it up. Jesse helps. It seems to take an eternity, and with every few feet, the bucket slams against the stone walls. Clang, clang, clang. Heavy with its own weight. Water sloshes.

Eventually, they heave it up. Jesse peers inside. There’s enough water to dunk her hand in, but it’s dark and muddy with age. Still, she sloshes it, and then freezes. Something glimmers at the bottom. Something long and thin, reedy, and white as stone.

A diamond ring wrapped around the bone.