Sally was a sweet girl who got tired of waiting for her happily ever after.

Ever since she was little, her mother would always tell her that anything she wanted in life, she only needed to pray for. So she prayed for good grades when she had school trouble; she prayed for good health whenever she got sick. And when her stepfather crept into her bed for the fourth straight night, she prayed for him to stop.

She didn’t get good grades. She still gets sick. Her stepfather continues to come into her room. Into her bed.

Prayers don’t get answered on their own, she heard their parish priest say one time at church. You have to work for them. God will only do so much, you have to do the rest for yourself. On your own.

That night, Sally prayed that her stepfather wouldn’t come into her room. And still he did. So she did the rest herself. Armed with a steak knife, Sally made sure her stepfather will never creep into her bed again.

The sun was at its highest. People hurried from destination to destination. No one wanted to loiter too long under the sweltering heat.

It was funny, the weather. It’s supposed to be cool—cooler—during the -ber months. It’s never been hotter. Well, not completely true. It was at par with the heat of the summer we had just experienced. As well as the heat during the supposed stormy season that delivered a handful of storms before completely evaporating.

These were the thoughts running through Gary’s head as he rushed out of his office building for a quick lunch. He loved his job, loved his co-workers—but he absolutely hated the location of his office. If he forgot to bring a packed lunch, like he did today, he had to race against the other people working at the same building, to get to the nearer food establishments.

Unfortunately for Gary, an impending deadline delayed his lunch by a few minutes. Those precious minutes meant that he would have to dine at the carinderia a couple of blocks from his building. Which was where he was going now.

With the scorching heat, Gary had to squint through the haze of vehicles waiting for the light to turn green. He had thirty seconds to cross the narrow road. It was enough time. Gary took a step forward, and was met with a deafening honk from the green Toyota that lead the pack of idle cars.

Gary swore under his breath, leaping aside from surprise. He wanted to swear out loud, annoyed at the driver for alarming him. But he never got the chance. Because during that split-second he had been airborne, leaping aside, he was hit by a speeding jeepney. The green Toyota had been warning him.

Ace thought no one would see. That was his main reason for doing it. For stealing from his own company. He didn’t count on his own employees having enough initiative to do their own investigating. That they would be able to trace the theft to him.

But that’s over and done with. Ace was able to salvage his reputation, feeding his vice president to the wolves. As for the too-curious employees—no one would be hearing from them again. It wasn’t that hard to descend down the slide to eternal damnation. It only took one step.

From his penthouse apartment, Ace had a great view of the setting sun. Christmas eve is here. The only time in the year he was happy about his physique. It made making his two children believe in Santa Clause easier. His wife Estelle already had his Santa suit altered. He did gain a few more pounds this year. All the better for pretending to be the jolly old geezer.

He watched as his son and his daughter prepared the milk and cookies they’ll be giving to Santa Clause. They placed it in front of the electric fireplace that was plain decoration. Why would they need a fireplace in the Philippines anyway? If they wanted heat, they only had to turn off the air-conditioning.

But his children believed that the fireplace was Santa’s portal into their living room. Never mind that it was just a plasma screen showing footage of logs burning. His children might be a little intellectually-challenged. They never wondered why the logs never needed replacing.

Ace helped his wife tuck the children in to sleep. It was a charade. The kids would pretend to be asleep and would sneak out of their rooms later, nearer midnight. Which meant he and his wife would have to pretend to have a date, leave the house, and once outside he would don his Santa costume and sneak in from the balcony.

His wife would wait at the lobby of their building with his change of clothes.

Ace was a thief, a jackass, and a horrible boss—but he was a wonderful father. Some would say it was his only redeeming factor. Estelle definitely thought so. And yet that was enough for her. Her children were happy.

She waited at the lobby for the clock to strike midnight. Ten minutes later and her husband would walk out of the elevator, ask for his change of clothes, and they’d enjoy a drink at the bar near their building before heading back to the penthouse. Except it was already an hour past midnight, and Ace wasn’t down yet.

Worried, Estelle took the elevator. She hit the elevator and listened to the muzak version of Santa Claus is Coming to Town. It took less than a minute to get to the penthouse. The door to their home was open. Estelle was worried.

Slowly, she crept up to the open door. She could hear her kids crying. She found herself running in, fearful of the unknown. And she found her son and her daughter standing before their father. Before Ace. Her son was holding his baseball bat, their gift to him last year. Ace was on the ground, eyes open and blank.

Estelle walked up to her children. To the body of her husband. She could hear her son whispering. I thought he was a burglar. My friend said Santa wasn’t real. I thought he was a bad man. He was crying softly. His sister wasn’t crying. She was probably too young to understand what had happened. Or she was that slow. But, then again, she was preoccupied by three gifts that Estelle didn’t recognize.

One for her. One for her son. One for her daughter. None for Ace.

From outside, she could still hear the elevator music. She must’ve hit the emergency button.

When the zombie epidemic broke, everything changed. Or so that’s what people said happened. For Nathan, things were pretty much the same. He still had to wake up at five in the morning to beat the morning rush, he still had to toil in front of a computer for twelve hours a day (with no overtime pay), and he still had to court death every night as he traversed the length of the EDSA highway.

Things may have changed abroad, with the chaos and disorder being reported on television, on the radio, and on the internet. But life was pretty status quo in Metro Manila—with the added inconvenience of zombies. Of course, certain ways of life had been altered. That’s unavoidable, Nathan mused as he waited for his bus ride to the nearest Metro Rail Transit (MRT) station.

Number one change was avoiding the walkers; zombies that could walk, and would follow you until you tire and let them gnaw on you and turn you into one of them. But Nathan has had great experience with avoiding bums, the taong grasa—the street people who seem to have given up on sanity, and the thugs who would try to snatch your bag as they ran. Zombies didn’t run. That alone was a point against them in Manila.

Of course, there have been times when Nathan almost mistook a zombie for a taong grasa. That almost got him bit and turned. Thankfully, he was able to do his evasive maneuvering perfected by years of shopping at Divisoria.

The second biggest change was traffic. People carpooled now because there is safety in numbers. So there were less cars on the road. Of course, this meant more bus drivers who drove like the demons of hell were after them—which is not that far from the truth, if you think about it. But if, before, people cursed at them for hitting road-crossers and ensuring said jaywalkers were dead; they were cheered on now.

That’s because no one sane would cross roads and risk getting confronted by the zombies on their own. So the only ones that would jaywalk are the zombies themselves. And Nathan didn’t think anyone would argue for their rights…

Riding the bus nowadays wasn’t that different either. Nathan held tightly on the handrail as the bus he was on careened to the right, stopping beside a group of commuters. People quickly filled in. No one made eye contact. Everyone held their belongings closely to themselves. People knew that if something happened, it would be every man (or woman) for themselves. Good Samaritans get called up to Heaven far too quickly.

Reaching the MRT station, Nathan alighted and lined up behind the gates that used to be for keeping order in the lines. Its purpose now were for keeping people safe. And the traffic police by the road no longer herded people in; their job now was to ensure that no zombies would be able to come close. And the security guards who used to poke sticks into bags without looking inside, had been given new jobs: they were eye-checkers; tasked to see if a commuter’s iris responded to the shining of their handheld lights.

And third big change, the last one, was the content of news. Previously, when news of killings reached the desk of newsreaders, they read these articles with a solemn delivery. These days, there was a certain cheer in their voice as they tell of how so-and-so defeated a number of zombies in his or her area.

Yes, defeated. While violence is still rampant in the metro, there were less cases of mindless killing nowadays. When people are pissed off, they now look to zombie-killing to dispel their wrath. Of course there have been cases when people say they mistook someone for a zombie. But those cases are few and far in-between.

Nathan alighted from the train when he reached his station. Ayala Station. The malls weren’t open yet—not that the owners would risk a Dawn of the Dead scenario happening—so Nathan had to travel through the parking lot, and then cross a few roads, before getting to his place of work. Working in Makati, this is where things get tough.

As Nathan raced down the steps, he could feel the vibration of the Station as hundreds descended with him. There is strength in numbers, but when there you are in Makati on rush hour, said strength could turn against you. And as feet thundered on the steps, Nathan hoped that his shoes wouldn’t give out as he raced from the MRT station to the crossing, and then to his building.

With a nation of runners, thanks to celebrity-endorsed marathons, Nathan was going to have run faster not to get crushed.

Zombies were the least of his problems.

Her name was Glenda.

If there was anyone you would look over. If there was anyone you could forget. It would be her. Quiet, mousy Glenda. And she never complained. Never raised her voice. Never called attention to herself.

There once was a girl named Glenda. And people took no notice of her. She was passed over. She blended into the background.

She was ignored over and over: at home, at school—she was overlooked so many times, she began to doubt that people could even see her. Or hear her.

Until one day, she started believing that she didn’t exist.

And she disappeared.

There once was a girl named Glenda.

Now she is no more.

There was a story I wanted to tell. And I’m hoping that by writing it down, I would remember what it was.

It had something to do with opening a door, inside a monastery. It wasn’t a normal door—aside from the fact that it was situated in between landings, it was a very small door. I thought it led to a storage room. Except for the fact that beyond the wall was nothing.

Going inside the door would’ve taken you to empty space, a story up. You would have fallen if you’ve gone in. Should have fallen. To the garden below. The garden outside. But I didn’t fall down.

It was dark inside. There were no windows, and my only source of light was from the door I was slowly leaving behind.

There shouldn’t have been a room inside the door. I shouldn’t have been able to enter it at all. But I was already inside, and I could hear whispers. Soft chants permeating my consciousness, surrounding me as I squint my eyes to try and see if there was anything inside.

There was some thing. It was just that one thing. And even if I wanted to describe it, I wouldn’t be able to. I couldn’t see it properly. Just a rounded outline that grew as I came closer to it.

And then the chanting stopped. And I could hear the door behind me, creaking as it started to close.

I felt a pair of eyes sear into me. The rounded outline continue to grew even though I’ve already stopped moving towards it.

I ran.

I ran out of that dark room, and I shut the door behind me.

I could still hear the chanting. From inside the room. The door knob started to move.

The door opened.

I ran.

There is a story I was supposed to share, but I forgot what it was. I’m hoping that by writing it down, I would remember. And I could warn you.

It’s about a small door that should’ve led nowhere—but took me inside a dark room…

It was a still night, and it was hot. That part wasn’t uncommon—even during the rainy season. But the fog was. Uncommon, I mean. Especially in that place. Our subdivision has never been a particularly foggy place. Zero visibility only usually happens when there’s a typhoon in the area.

But there it was.

The fog covered a bend, and a few meters of road. That was the other weird thing. I know that it’s possible for fog to just occupy a certain place, but a very specific (and small) area like that? I thought it was weird. Weirder when we passed through it. It felt as if someone was pulling at me, trying to drag me.

I’m usually in a car when I pass through this bend in the road. Maybe that’s why I never notice. But that night, I was riding at the back of a motorcycle. A tricyle, actually. And while a slight drag wasn’t weird, the sensation of being pulled was. It was as if a pair of hands were trying to take a hold of your clothes but keeps losing its grasp.

And you know what was weirder still? The tricycle driver never noticed. Neither did the passengers inside the cab. But my seatmate and I exchanged glances. We both felt the sensation.

And just like that, we were out of the foggy area. And taking a look back froze my blood. There were black shapes inside the fog—shapes that I didn’t see before entering and while we were inside.

One of them was waving. Or beckoning.

I quickly turned back to facing front.

Tonight, I’m gonna have to pass that bend again. And I don’t have a car.

deadsunsanddyingstars:

7107photos:

372. Jeepney

The jeepney is not only the most convenient way to commute, but it is also the canvas for artists. Sometimes jeepney drivers paint their family members on the body.

Can you believe that something as colorful as this can also be the setting of a scary urban legend? Well, I don’t actually know if it’s an urban legend or if it’s real, but the story goes like this:

A young man, coming home late from work, rode an almost-empty jeepney. He sat at one end, wanting to be able to step down as soon as he got to his stop. And because of this, he needed to ask a fellow passenger, a big guy who was sitting with his sleeping girlfriend, to pass down his fare to the driver. But the guy wouldn’t take the money. Instead, he looked at the young man darkly.

An elder woman saw the silent exchange, and not wanting a fight to happen, stepped in and took the young man’s fare. The guy continued to glare at the young man. After a few minutes, the elder woman asked the jeepney driver to stop so she could step down from the jeep. Passing by the younger man, she told him to step down with her.

The young man was confused, but he obliged. As soon as the two were out of the jeepney, it was off again—not even waiting for any more passenger to come in.

The young man asked the elder woman what was wrong. She asked him who he thought the girl beside the guy was. The young man said it must’ve been his girlfriend. The elder woman shook her head. She told him that the girl wasn’t the guy’s girlfriend. She wasn’t even his friend. The elder woman told the young man that if he had looked closely, he would’ve seen that the girl wasn’t breathing. And that the guy was holding a knife to the girl’s side.

The elder woman continued, that she asked the young man to step down with her because she had a bad feeling where the knife was going next.