Safe Spaces

In the Dressing Room

I rarely join circles talking about their paranormal encounters, but when I would, I only shared one story.

When I was a kid, we stayed at my uncle Greg's house in Sampaloc, Manila, as we waited for the completion of our house in Antipolo. We lived there until December 1996; by then, I was six years old. My three cousins and I, along with our neighbor nicknamed Bunso—I never really got to know his real name—often played games such as tag, stop-dance, and hide and seek.

I remember Bunso as a soft-spoken, small boy whose favorite place to hide was the room where the helper dumped or hung all newly washed clothes. We called it the "dressing room" since we directly find and get our clothes there if we ever run out of outfits in our cabinets.

But one day, around September 1996, he stopped playing with us. As children, we didn't really mind and continued our afternoon games.

However, the afternoon of my birthday's eve, October 8, 1996—which was why I still clearly remember when it happened—he returned and shyly asked if he could play with us. Uncle Greg, Aunt Miranda, and my parents were not around then, saying they would be gone in a while.

Of course, we agreed. We were even surprised that he suggested playing hide and seek, as he would often just nod at whatever game we chose.

I was the seeker, or "it."

After counting up to ten, I first went to the dressing room, thinking if I'd find him there, and I did. I heard him giggle and then saw him crouched down behind the metal clothesline where some of the clothes were hung. Wondering why he would hide at that place when he knew he would be easily found there, I refused to call and catch him because I wanted to prolong the game; instead, I went around to find my cousins.

I found my other three cousins hiding under the sink, behind the potted plants, and inside their parents' closet. When I got all of them, I proceeded to the dressing room and shouted, "Got you, Bunso!"

But he was not there anymore.

I checked behind the clothesline, under the bed where the rest of the garments were dumped, and even behind the door. He was nowhere to be found.

So I thought he must have seen me and went to find another place to hide. I searched the whole house, even my cousins already helped me find him because they got bored waiting, but we did not find him.

My parents, Uncle, and Auntie arrived in the middle of our search for Bunso. They asked us what we were doing, and in chorus, we said, "We're trying to look for Bunso."

I could vividly remember how horrified they were.

They all called for an albularyo. My cousins and I were not sure what was happening, but we were not allowed to go to bed until this man finished pouring oils on our foreheads and stomachs. With lit candles on our dining table instead of dinner, he said, "He's no longer here anymore. Don't worry. Maybe he was just saying goodbye to his friends."

I was confused, but for the most of it, I really didn't care. My parents wouldn't even tell me that time why the man rubbed our foreheads with oil. It was in my first-year high school when I knew about what truly happened after finding a photo of the four of us while I was looking for pictures for our family-tree project.

My parents said that day was Bunso's fortieth day of death.

Of course, I would now wave it as "But I was a kid then. You know how playful children's imaginations are," even though my cousins could still recall this experience.

Today, I just wondered what would happen if I called and tagged him during the game that day.