Since its discovery by Ferdinand Magellan in 1521, the Philippines has seen its fair share of horrors and tragedies. From the oppressive 300 plus year rule of the Spaniards to the brutal occupation of the Japanese during World War II, the soil of the some 7000 islands that dot the Philippine archipelago have been soaked in the blood and tears of countless filipinos who wanted nothing more than to live peaceful lives.

One of the darkest periods in the country’s history occurred from the early 1970s up the the late 1980s. You see, in 1972, then president Ferdinand Marcos formally placed the Philippines under Martial Law. This period was what many considered to be the lowest point in the country’s history. While some revisionists and pro Marcos factions still contest such a claim to this day, the consensus is that this Martial Law period saw various atrocities committed upon the filipino people. What made it all worse, I think, is the fact that unlike the spanish and japanese occupations, these atrocities were committed by filipinos on filipinos. The late strongman held an iron grip on the country. Free media was silenced, propaganda reigned supreme, billions were plundered from the national treasury, and human rights became nothing but an afterthought. Records are, at best, difficult to come by, but some tallies point to over 3000 plus extrajudicial killings, more than 35,000 documented cases of torture, innumerable enforced disappearances, and over 70,000 incarcerations.

Now I’m not here to dwell on what the late dictator and his family did or did not do to this country but a lot of people forget that the politically motivated atrocities were not the only tragedies that befell the country during this time. You see, in 1981, first lady Imelda Marcos, in a bid to show off the cultural heritage of the Philippines, pushed for the construction of the Manila Film Center. The Center was meant to host the 1982 Manila International Film Festival. The 25 million dollar endeavor was supposed to not only showcase the cultural treasures of the country but, if some are to be believed, also reinforce the classy, intellectual, and sophisticated image that the first lady wanted to project.

Construction began in 1981 and with such a tight deadline, work had to be done round the clock. Some 4,000 workers toiled for 3 shifts across 24 hours. Some records show that work intended to be done over the course of a couple of weeks were achieved in a matter of days. While I will always commend the effort, competence, and sheer will power of the filipino worker, disturbing evidence shows that the speed at which they were able to work on the structure could not be completely attributed to their skill and hard work. Many believe that in order to meet the deadline (and pocket some of the funding), the planners of the building used substandard materials and methods in the construction. Worse, it was alleged that in order to facilitate faster construction, floors were built even though the underlying concrete had yet to fully dry and take hold. All this culminated on November 17, 1981. At around 3:00AM the upper scaffolding collapsed and around 170 workers plummeted to the floors below. From here, records are scarce given that the government at the time had a complete stranglehold over the media. As such, it may have well been in their best interests not to divulge the true extent of the losses to life and property. Many have stated that the higher ups sought to cover up the whole thing. In fact, rescuers, ambulances, and media personnel were only allowed on site some 9 hours after the incident, at which point many of the victims were already dead, having either been crushed by falling debris, killed by the impact of the fall, or as some witness accounts state, impaled on the steel bars below.

One of the more grisly, yet enduring legends regarding the Film Center revolve around what was done to those workers who fell from the scaffolding. It is a widespread belief that in an effort to meet the 1982 deadline, and to save face with the public, the entire accident was covered up…quite literally. It is said that construction was made to continue on the building. When asked about what should be done about the bodies, workers were told to simply build over them. Many believe that the deceased, and even some survivors, were buried alive in wet cement so that the construction could proceed as scheduled. Whether or not this is true is anyone’s guess. Officials involved have maintained that the bodies of the deceased were recovered and given the proper rites while eyewitnesses and workers insist that no such recoveries were made. Regardless, one thing is for certain, there are things still bound within the walls of the Center. Patrons, workers, urban explorers, and ghost hunters all insist that they experienced paranormal activities, ranging from seeing shadowy figures to hearing unnatural sounds, during their stay in the building. Even the grounds around the Center seem to possess such horror since taxi drivers passing by have reportedly seen, and at times picked up, passengers looking bloodied and distressed, only to find the back seat of their cabs empty upon checking again.

It’s 2016 and I’m about a few months from finishing my first year in college. One particular class required us to group ourselves and make a documentary about anything in the city of Manila. We were a group of five consisting of myself, Rex, a high school friend of mine who also went to the same college, Tina, a rather shy girl, Modo, a loud upperclassman who was in the same course as Rex, and Kat, a similarly loud and brash girl who, I swear, cursed more than anyone I had ever met. After much deliberation we decided on making a horror documentary, akin to shows like The Most Haunted Places on Earth starring Linda Blair. Given that our school was located near a number of historical sites, we decided to narrow down our choices to two: the chapel in our very own school where hundreds of priests were said to have been beheaded during the Japanese occupation, and Fort Santiago, a nearby…fort…built by the spaniards in the walled city of Intramuros. We eventually decided on the latter since we felt that we would get bonus points for going out of our comfort zone as well as the fact that Fort Santiago was a renowned historical site in the country.

A little backstory might be in order. Fort Santiago was a garrison constructed by the Spaniards during their occupation of the Philippines. It served as a military installation and a prison. In fact, Fort Santiago once held Jose Rizal, the Philippines’ national hero, before he was executed in the nearby Luneta Park. During World War II it served the Japanese a similar function and hundreds of both Filipino and American citizens, combatants and otherwise, were said to have been imprisoned, tortured, and killed within the walls of the Fort. Seems perfect for a history class documentary, no? Well, we thought so. That’s why a week later we all got into cabs and made our way to the walled city of Intramuros to film what we thought would be an A+ documentary.

Intramuros itself is magnificent to say the least. It’s a city within a city. Towering walls of stone separate it from the rest of Manila. Stepping inside is like stepping into a time machine. Cobblestone streets as far as the eye can see dance and weave across the city. Similarly made stone houses and buildings dot the sprawling grounds , many of which have been beautifully preserved and now function as museums and tourist spots. Horse drawn carriages called kalesas can be seen everywhere, the hooves of the horses making a distinct sound as they strike the stone streets. Aside from a number of modern establishments , people wearing modern clothes, and the occasional car, you wouldn’t be blamed for thinking that you had suddenly been thrust back into the 1800s.

Unfortunately, the beauty of the place was only matched by our sheer stupidity. In our zeal to get this project over with we forgot one very simple thing: Fort Santiago, and much of the places in Intramuros, were now technically tourist attractions and, as such, were bound by certain rules…namely an opening and closing time. The guard at the entrance told us that we had arrived some 15 minutes before closing time, obviously not enough to make a full blown documentary. We begged with the guard to let us stay past closing time but he said his hands were tied. He directed us to the main office and told us that maybe we could strike a deal with the management officials. Sadly, nothing but a closed sign greeted us as we arrived at the main office.

Now, technically speaking, this wasn’t supposed to be such a big deal. All we had to do was come back the following day. However, we were college students. Lazy, work ladden, busy…and lazy college students. We had already planned to finish our documentary tonight and none of us wanted to have to make our way back here the following day, or any other day for that matter. We just wanted this over and done with. As our group sat by the sidewalk weighing our options, I couldn’t help but admire the way the walled city looked. It’s cobblestone streets and towering stone buildings radiated a pale orange underneath the setting sun. “Postcard worthy” is what I thought as I looked out at the scene before me. My preoccupation with the sight is probably what made me forget all about Kat who had apparently separated herself from the group and had just made her way back.

“Guys, I think I have a plan B” she said, making all of us look up. “My dad is the…he’s kinda the caretaker of the Manila Film Center. It’s not as nice as Intramuros but I think it’s an okay substitute. He said we can film there. He’d even give us the tour of the place”

We all looked at each other, nobody saying anything for a few moments. Suddenly Rex jumped up and clapped his hands.

“That’s perfect! Think about it. Our project is a horror documentary. People probably weren’t executed there like they were here but we all know how fucked up the film center was when it was built. Plus, it’s an old abandoned building at night. It just screams horror documentary.”

We all realized just how perfect the situation had become.

“Wish you’d given us that option at the start, Kat. We could already be halfway through our documentary by now if we had gone with the film center from the beginning” I chimed in. We all had a quick laugh and immediately hailed an incoming taxi.

The film center was not far from where we were and we got there in about 20 minutes. The front of the center is what you would expect from any big theater oriented building. The main entrance is located in the center of a ramp. You can drive up either side to get to the main doors or walk up a flight of stairs located in the center of the ramp. The building itself is massive. A white concrete structure designed to resemble the Parthenon. I say “white” because I guess that’s what it was intended to be. Given the many years the building has left to rot and fester you could clearly see dark green, almost black trails of mold and watermarks running every which way across the once pristine white walls. When we got down I realized that I could finally ask a question. which had bugged me about the place for the longest time.

“Kat, what does ‘Amazing Show’ mean?” referring to the red and blue letters which spelled “Amazing Show” above the entrance. Kat laughed and gave what was probably one of the biggest surprises of the night.

“Some company, I don’t know if filipino or not, kinda rents this place. They use it for a show or some production, I don’t really know what to call it. Obviously it’s called the ‘Amazing Show’ and it’s…it’s basically a huge theatrical drag show” she said with a laugh. We all looked at her as if she was crazy. She continued. “ Im serious! There’s like a troupe of transvestites who regularly hold shows here! You’d be surprised to know that there is actually an audience…mostly aging asian men, japanese, korean, chinese, who seem to get a kick out of it. Also, the occasional filipinos who I’m sure are just dirty old men” she said again laughing. None of us believed her at first but after a quick google search, everything she said was verified. The fact that a group of transvestites were routinely holding musical level theatrical shows for the benefit of dirty old men almost took the mystique out of the place and we all spent about a good five minutes outside just laughing at the absurdity of that image.

We eventually made it inside and I must say, I was pleasantly surprised. Far from the decrepit interior I was expecting, the lobby was just what you’d expect from any theater. The walls were made of wood and obviously meticulously detailed. A number of posters showing old school films hung from the rafters. One or two ornate sculptures served as additional displays across the lobby. The floor was carpeted with a velvety red cloth. I was honestly impressed. At the end of the lobby where a couple of massive wooden doors. The actual stage and theater must have been right behind them…together with the transvestites.

One thing really bothered me though…actually, it was completely unnerving. While the lobby itself was magnificent, the floor above was…I…I don’t know how to describe it really. So the lobby was basically an atrium which mean that the floors above could see down towards it and by extension, you could more or less see the upper floors from the lobby. That was what put me off. The amount of effort put into making the lobby look as grand as it did was clearly not put into any other part of the building. From where we were standing, we could clearly see the point where the place transitioned from the grandiosity of the lobby to complete and utter…all I could think of was decay. The upper floors looked completely run down. The walls were a dirty white, either the pain that once covered them had long since peeled or they were never painted to begin with. Even from our vantage point we could see the filth that covered the floors. The ambient light from the lobby cast a weird pale glow on the upper floors which made it possible to see all the floating dust that was in the air on those floors.

And the darkness. Clearly there were no functioning lights on those floors but the darkness was just…different. I had never seen or felt anything like it. Looking into those dark floors and hallways from the safety of the well lit lobby made a pit form in my stomach. It looked almost…solid. This wasn’t like the darkness of the night. It was an oppressive kind of darkness, like if you locked yourself in a box or a closet. There was absolutely no ambient light up there. Just looking at it made me feel like the darkness was swallowing me whole.

My thoughts were interrupted by Kat who led us up the grand staircase that adorned either side of the lobby into the mezzanine. We were led down to a surprisingly lit hallway and ushered into a big room. This room, and the man inside, would turn out to be the second biggest surprise of the night, following the whole transvestite musical thing. It was as if we entered into a 1930s mob den. It was an ornately decorated room. Wooden walls, carpeted floors, a wooden table located near the back center of the room. On the walls were various film industry memorabilia, placed in pristine glass cases. The man at the table stood up and walked towards us. He was dressed in an impeccable white suit and looked like one of those italian gangster stereotypes. We all stood there not knowing what to do until Kat met him halfway and gave him a hug.

“Pa, these are my blockmates.”

That was…Kat’s dad? When she said he was the caretaker I assumed he was just something along the lines of a security guard making sure that no trespassers made it inside or that he just made sure that the place didn’t completely fall apart. I was not expecting what looked like a 1900s mob boss. The rest of us threw each other confused looks until the man spoke. I won’t bore you with what he said, although what he said wasn’t boring at all. It’s just that he spoke a bit too fast and had an accent that I can’t place. He basically told us the history of the place, how he came to manage the property, and a bit about himself. Apparently, he was a singer or something in the past. A producer maybe? Something related to music and that’s how he found himself in the entertainment business. He pointed us to one of the many LCD screens on the walls and told us that the band playing in the videos was his old band. In fact, we did recognize him. We recognized Kat as well! Apparently, they would sometimes record songs together. Halfway through his little speech he offered us a drink, pointing to a mini bar which was stocked with what was obviously top shelf alcohol. Me, being the heavy drinker that I am, almost took him up on his offer, but Rex, who had known of my drinking habits since high school gave me a stern look which basically said “don’t even try”.

After a bit more chit chat Kat’s father stood up, clapped his hands, and said it was high time to start the tour. He mentioned that he wanted to get this over quickly so we wouldn’t miss the show. We all gave him a confused look until he explained that he had gotten us free entrance into the Amazing Show that was going on tonight. Our confusion , however, was quickly replaced by shock. Kat’s father took out two silver pistols and tucked each into the holsters he had under his coat. He probably recognized our surprised but, with a wave of his hand, put it off like it was normal..

“ We have to carry firearms whenever we do our rounds here. You see, this building is pretty much abandoned. But it’s still the government property and it’s still being actively managed. We’ve had problems with people breaking in and stealing shit here. Everything from leftover furniture, scrap metal, copper wires, the film and music props which were left behind, everything gets taken and sold for scraps. That’s why we carry these. So that if we ever encounter trespassers…” he just gave a quick laugh which honestly freaked me out more than the gun. Another surprise came in the form of him handin Kat a pistol as well. Again he registered our shock and brushed it off. “Kat’s been firing since she was a kid. She even has a license. Don’t worry. You’re safe with her” he said with a laugh. Kat chuckled as well. With our minds thoroughly blown, and our tour guide armed to the teeth, we made our way out of the office to begin the tour.

We made our way out of the mezzanine floor and up the elevators I mentioned earlier. When we got to the top we stopped at that mark. The mark where the light gave way to absolute darkness. I’ve never been one to cower at the mere lack of light but even in a group, even with 2 armed individuals escorting us, I was completely unnerved by the darkness. I was trying to manage the knot in my throat and the pit in my stomach when Kat’s father turned on an abnormally powerful flashlight which cut a swath through the darkness. How straight and defined the beam of light was against the darkness only reinforced how deep and how solid the latter actually was. At that point, our camera started rolling and Rex, our designated “host” and “narrator” began his introduction

I won’t bore you with the entire filming sequence since, admittedly, nothing much happened. Most of it was just clips of dark hallways and filthy rooms, all the while Rex or Kat’s father would narrate or talk about the building’s history. Particular things did, however, stand out. I’ll try to summarize them below.

1. We were led into a cavernous room. Needless to say it was dark with only our own lights cutting through the darkness. Kat’s father led us to one corner of the room and said “Stay quiet for a bit. See if you get anything.”. We did as we were told and stood in a half circle for a minute or so. Rex asked what it was all about and Kat’s father explained “This is a part of the original top floor which collapsed. They had it patched up so that the roof could be set in place. This very spot used to be one of the gaping holes where the workers plummeted to their deaths. A few floors below us is where a lot of their bodies ended up…many of which were never recovered since the construction crews were ordered to continue with the work. They basically just poured the cement over the bodies, some of which people say were still twitching up to the point that they disappeared beneath the liquid concrete. Actually, that spot down there is, facing the stage, the first few rows in the left hand most side.” We all gawked at him. Tina seemed to regain her composure first and asked what was probably on all of our minds. “So…the actual theater…where people actually sit for the shows…” Kat’s father cut her off with a chuckle “Yup yup. Actually the ghost hunters who come here always say that area is where most of the ghosts can be felt. Audience members even say they see moving shadows in the corner while the shows are ongoing. Only a few feet of concrete actually separate the audience members seated in that area and what we can only assume to be tens, if not hundreds, of bodies sealed away underneath.” Rex found this bit of information perfect for our documentary. He had the video directed at the center of our half circle and started to narrate everything Kat’s father had said. I wasn’t needed for this portion so I made my way out to meet up with our escorts. Something about that room just seemed…off…

2. We were also led into another room, this time much smaller than the others. It was basically the size of a small condo unit with no windows and what seemed like scorched walls. For its size, the room itself was actually filled with a lot of…garbage. Well, I say garbage because everything was just dusty and strewn about but upon closer inspection, one might actually see why people would be willing to break into this place to pilfer shit. All across the floor, leaning on the windows, in boxes by the corners, were film memorabilia. I counted no less than 17 old school movie posters. These obviously weren’t your usual high resolution printed posters. These were made at a time when posters had to be done by hand. A lot of classic filipino film posters were scattered all over the room. I even recognized some of the films they depicted as being those my parents would often talk about. Aside from that you had a number of costumes just lying around. There was also an old school projector just sitting there on a table in the far end of the room and still attached to it was a film reel, no doubt one of an old movie as well. It may have all seemed like garbage but no doubt, these items could fetch a decent price if sold to collectors. On the far corner also sat a mattress…a decrepit one at that. It was blackish-brown and torn all over. Someone, I don’t remember who, jokingly asked if it was being used for naughtier purposes by the groundskeepers. Kat’s father, however, explained the history behind the room. “This was where the old janitor used to live. You see that mattress there? He died right on that mattress. Apparently, he had somehow broken his back while on that mattress and seeing as how this was in the days before cellular phones, he had no way of letting anyone know what had happened to him. When they found him, he was already in a state of decay and given how humid this country can get, you can bet that the guys who found him parted ways with their lunch soon thereafter. Actually, if you look closely, you can sort of see the outline his corpse left. He basically melted into the mattress after all.” He said that last bit with a little laugh. We weren’t sure if he was kidding or not but nobody was going to stick their face right up to that mattress to find out.

Much of the tour involved pretty much what one could expect from a dilapidated building. Aside from those two key rooms, most of our footage just featured long, dark hallways with narrations being made either by Kat’s father or Rex. Our tour soon ended and we made our way back to the lobby of the theater. I’m pretty sure I was the only one to let out an audible sigh once we were back underneath the glow of the chandelier but the look on everyone else’s face, the armed escorts included, betrayed the relief they all felt.

After concluding the documentary, Kat’s father escorted us into the actual theater where the Amazing Show was about to begin. Surprisingly, the theater was pretty packed. Given the nature of the building and the type of show it was hosting, I honestly expected us to be the only people there. I was shocked to see that more than half of the seats were filled, mostly by aging men who looked like the kind that I’d be very wary of having my daughter around.

The show itself was, forgive me for the wording, amazing. This wasn’t some drag show you’d expect to see at some seedy dive bar. I’ve seen actual plays on Broadway and the production value of this show could just as easily match any theatrical show I’d ever seen. The stage was decorated with massive props resembling the face of a victorian era street. The performers were all decked out in ornate sequined costumes and they all had magnificent singing voices. The choreography of their dances was top notch as well. In fact, from the distance we were sitting, one could even consider the performers beautiful or sexy. It was only when they actually made their way closer did you realize that…yup…these were guys (and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that mind you).

The performance ended and we all made our way to the exit. We thanks Kat and her father profusely for hosting us and made our way to the dark street below. Modo, Tina, Rex and I were standing by the sidewalk waiting for a cab to pass by when Rex suggested that we go grab a drink or two as a form of “pagpag”. For those unfamiliar, “pagpag” is a tradition…or superstition…wherein one who comes from a wake or funeral should first make a stop anywhere before going home. It could be at a bar, a restaurant, a convenience store, hell even just a gas station. The idea behind it was that if you didn’t make such a stop, the spirit of the deceased you visited would follow you back home. Now, I’m not one to turn down a couple of drinks but I was pretty exhausted from the day’s events so I declined his offer. Modo tried scaring me by saying that if I didn’t do the pagpag that the ghosts of the film center would follow me home. Being the aspiring lawyer that I was, I immediately pointed out the flaw in his reasoning.

“Pagpag is done when coming from a wake or funeral so that the ghost of the deceased doesn’t follow you home. We didn’t come from a wake or funeral. Plus, whoever died in the center did so decades ago. I’m pretty sure pagpag no longer applied”

We all had a laugh and bid our goodbyes. I let the three of them take the first cab we hailed and, after a few minutes, I was in a cab of my own, making my way home.

I don’t remember much of the ride home or what I did when I got back for that matter. All I know is that at around 2:20AM I was jolted from my dreamless sleep by an acrid stench. My first thought was naturally fire. My father is a bit of a nagger and will always nag me about making sure I don’t burn down the house. It didn’t matter if I was turning cooking on a stove, plugging in the microwave, or even just lighting a cigarette, I would always be met with a cascade of reminders about not burning the house down. Naturally, being the hard headed sob that I am, I would always play off these warnings but lo and behold, when faced with the prospect of roasting in my own house, those warnings came to the forefront of my mind. I rushed to the kitchen to see if that’s where the smell was coming from. To my surprise, I was met with…nothing. Aside from food that had probably been left out for me, nothing was burning in the kitchen. All the appliances were unplugged and the gas was off. I immediately checked my smoking area to see if I had forgotten to stub out one of my cigarettes. Again, nothing. At this point I was starting to think that it was all in my head. My imagination running wild after having been woken from my slumber so suddenly. I decided to have a smoke to calm my nerves. The irony of smoking to calm my nerves after having said nerves frayed on end by the prospect of dying in a fire is not lost on me but hey, what are you gonna do. I sat down and lit a marlboro red, hoping that the tough yet oh so familiar taste would bring me back to my senses.

An overview of the room I was in should be in order. You see, the room itself was not entirely closed off which is why it was perfect as a smoking area. It was a relatively big room. Not a bedroom type mind you but large enough to have a table, two chairs, a rocking chair, a bunch of old antiques, and its own restroom. In fact, the restroom was what we would normally allow guests to use. Both ends of the room were also relatively open. The front end was simply closed off from the garage by a gate, a mesh sliding door, and curtains. Next to the bathroom was a small staircase, maybe 4-5 steps down, which led to the garden at the back slash basement of the house.

Now I know cigarettes are bad for you. Here in my country all cigarette packs come with grotesque, oftentimes exaggerated, photos of the effects of smoking. Open sores, tumors, and various other reminders of what could befall a smoker adorn each and every pack. That being said, I think every smoker will agree with me that sometimes, you just have to light one up. The calm that first hit brings you is something just so surreal. The 7 minutes or so each cigarette takes from your life, allegedly, is oftentimes a fair trade for the momentary peace one experiences while huffing and puffing on a cigarette. At the time, it was no different for me. I sat there looking out into the empty night, a cold wind gently blowing through the window. Embers danced around my fingers as halos of smoke slowly plumed upwards. I could have stayed in that moment forever. A point in space and time where I had nothing to worry about; no problems, no burdens, not even thoughts, just me at peace in the dead of night. My serendipity, however, was immediately shattered by a fleeting figure I caught in the corner of my eye.

Whipping my head to the rear door, I saw someone…or something. It was the dead of night and the lights outside the house were closed but I could see a figure standing a foot or so away from the rear door. You might ask how I could see it in the dark but you have to understand that…I don’t know how to say this properly but…not all darkness is the same? I’m sure you all know how it is walking into a dark room and still being able to see figures. There’s always ambient light around that makes the darkness a little less…dark. Here it was more or less the same, it was dark outside but the moon was providing a bit of help in illuminating the garden outside. Plus, this figure was dark. And I mean dark. Even without the lights on I could see the outline of the figure. It was much much darker than the night surrounding it. It was as if someone had embossed a man shaped figure in a darker shade than the blackness around it. I sat there transfixed. I don’t know how long I held that…that thing’s gaze…and yes I do mean gaze because even from the inky darkness outside I somehow knew that it was looking at me. What jolted me from my hypnosis was the ash from my now finished cigarette falling on my lap. I winced at the brief but searing pain in my leg and brushed the ash off. My gaze immediately went back to the outside gate but…it was gone. I rushed out of the room and flipped the switch for the outside lights. I was half expecting the man to still be there, a burglar or something, waiting to break into the house…but the garden was empty. It must have taken me no less than 10 seconds to open the lights and get back to my spot but the figure, or whatever it was, was no longer there. There was no way anyone could have fled from sight in that short a time given the overall layout of the house but somehow, whatever I saw had vanished.

Now completely unnerved, I left that room, making sure to lock both the sliding and the mesh door leading to it, and made my way to my room. There, I lay in bed, covered up to my nose in my thick weighted blanket. I listened intently for any sound of movement outside. At the time, I thought maybe it could have been someone trying to break it but given my uncertainty about what I had seen, and the certainty of safety given that each door and window in this house is heavily padlocked or deadbolted each night, I refrained from waking up my parents. I thought that only when I was sure it was someone outside would I wake them up. At that point, the problem would no longer be mine but between whoever was outside and the business end of one of my father’s many guns. One minute turned to five, five turned to ten, ten turned to thirty and I heard no movement outside, no indication that there was a soul up at this ungodly hour.

At some point, I don’t know when really, my eyes started to get heavy. I’m sure you’ve all experienced slipping into the sweet embrace of sleep. That small gap between consciousness and unconsciousness when you know sleep is about to set in. That small transition from the reality of your room to whatever fantasy may lie behind the lids of your eyes. In that moment, you’re not really thinking, not really moving, just waiting…waiting for the slumber to take hold. I found myself in that position. That almost drunk and hazy feeling of not really knowing what’s going on around you and not really caring because any moment now, you’d fall asleep. I could feel it. A second or two more and I’d be asleep. The cool air blowing from the air conditioning unit and the snugness offered by my weighted blanket all conspired to bring me closer to sleep. But just as I was about to give in to such comforts, a familiar smell wafted up my nostrils. That horrid, acrid stench that had initially woken me up some hours ago. I’d like to say I bolted from my bed but…but I couldn’t. I don’t know if it was sleep paralysis or something but I just couldn’t move. The stench intensified and I could actually feel some irritation in my nose, something like sand…or dust.

And then I saw it. Again, out of the corner of my eye I could see a figure. I couldn’t move but this wouldn’t be a problem since the figure carefully…slowly…painfully made its way to the foot of my bed. When it was squarely at the foot of my bed I could see it in all it’s horrific glory.

It was…a man. I would wager around 130 to 140 pounds heavy standing at maybe 5 feet 7 inches tall. He was wearing faded jeans, a loose white shirt, and a hardhat or helmet of some kind. His clothes were tattered. His entire body was covered in some kind of dust or soot. His face was grotesque. His eyes were dead, cloudy and milky but still showing the redness of being bloodshot. The left side of his face was caved in. You could actually see the fragment of bone which lay sunken in the center of his cheek. His nose was…well, it was gone. Replaced by a disgusting cavern in the center of his face. His lips were parted and revealed black and yellow teeth. What caught my attention the most was his hat, or what was left of it. The left side of the hat was almost completely destroyed. Underneath I could see a massive gash in the man’s head. It looked like he had fallen right on his head and it split upon contact. Actually, it looked more like someone had taken a large blade, a machete maybe, and brought it down hard on his head. The gaping wound oozed a viscous black liquid. At first I thought it was blood but, having been a martial artist for most of my life, I knew what bloodied wounds looked like and this couldn’t have been it. A lot of people don’t realize how sharp and bright blood can be once it first leaves the body. It’s only when it has had time to oxidize does it take on the dark crimson the movies have all shown us. This…liquid…was thick…like honey…but black as the night sky outside. His chest seeped the same dark liquid from a large hole carved out the left side of his chest. The hole itself was jagged with skin, muscle, and bone matter jutting outwards, either someone had actively ripped out a chunk of this man’s chest or…he was impaled by something from behind.

For an eternity we held each other’s gaze. What felt like hours passed before finally…the man started to move…he started to move towards me. He climbed on top of the bed and slowly crawled over me. I wanted to move. I wanted to scream. I wanted…I wanted to do something, anything, to get this thing off of me…but I couldn’t. His stench was overwhelming at this point, I’m pretty sure if I could move, I’d be throwing up. My eyes watered and my nose was on fire from the assault on my senses. Finally, I came face to face with the man. He was lying right on top of me, his body being supported by his left arm while his right hand was on my shoulder. A heavy, cold, dead hand on my shoulder that felt like all the weight of the world has been burdened upon me. I didn’t know if this was sleep paralysis, a nightmare, or reality, but I was terrified. In my head I was crying, begging, for this to end. My thoughts, however, were silenced when the man…started talking. I say talking because what came out of his horrendous mouth weren’t words so much as garbled sounds.

I strained to understand what he was saying, what was happening, what all this was, when I suddenly felt something caught in my throat. I don’t know what it was but at first, it felt like a slight itch. Then, ever slowly, that itch turned into a searing pain. It was almost as if I had swallowed a handful of sand and the rough particles were tearing at my insides. The taste was bitter and chemical but that was the least of my concerns. My throat was now burning and I was slowly finding it harder to breath. I was gagging. I tried to scream, tried to cough, hell, I tried throwing up but I couldn’t move. The pain was becoming excruciating. A thick sludge of…something…was clogging up my throat and I was not trying to gasp for air…but the reprieve of a full breath escaped me. I was slowly losing consciousness. The darkness around my field of vision slowly started to expand. The last thing I remember seeing was the man’s cold, dead eyes.

I woke up falling. I dont…I dont know where, when, why, what…my thoughts were a blur. All I know is I was falling, the night sky above me slowly being swallowed up by the edges of whatever whole I had fallen into. Before I could get my bearings, something slammed into the left side of my face. The pain was instant and excruciating. I could feel the shattered bones in my cheek move as I continued to fall. Finally, I slammed hard into the ground. I tried to move but…I couldn’t. The fall had no doubt broken my back but something else was keeping me in place. I looked down to see a large piece of rebar jutting out from my chest. Bits of my white shirts and what I could only assume to be bits of me dangling from the edge of that sinister piece of metal. I looked up to see a part of the night sky, now framed by the gaping hole caused by the collapse of the top floor we were working on. I saw a bit of the scaffolding jutting out from one of the lower floors, no doubt the same scaffolding that I had struck with my face on the way down.

All around me I could hear…chaos. The sound of debris falling resonated throughout the chasm that had consumed me. I could hear people…voices…familiar voices…screaming, crying, cursing in agony. I tried to talk but all I managed to release was a vile mixture of blood and whatever dust I had swallowed from my tumble.

I lay there…listening to the people around me, none of whom I could actually see. After a while, the noise started to die down. At first, the cacophony of sounds just seemed to get a bit softer. Overtime, however, all the noise ceased. All I could hear was the intermittent sound of rocks slowly crumbling around me.

Hours must have passed until I hear more voices. Voices, not around me but some distance away. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but I could make out some of the words.

“…no time”
“still have a deadline…”

“…survivors”

“…cant let the media”

“What do we do n–…”

“Cover it up…”

“…might still be alive…”

“Pour it over…continue….”

“They won’t know…”

Hours more had passed before I finally felt something other than the pain radiating around my body. At first it just came in drops. Then trickles. Now it was raining down all around me. A thick, clumpy liquid feel on my face. I knew from experience just what that was, liquid cement. In a matter of minutes I was covered in it. The cement was being poured from massive tubes lining the top portion of the whole the collapse had made. I tried to scream, tried to tell them that someone was still alive down here, but my meek cries were drowned out by the sound of cascading cement.

I screamed and I screamed but to no avail. Soon, the cement was up to my face. The rest of my body lay submerged in the viscous substance. Already I could feel the weight of the liquid constricting my body. I tried one last desperate scream but that just gave the liquid the opportunity to enter my mouth. I choked on the thick substance slowly making its way down my throat. The pain was unbearable. My insides burned and I could feel the particulates shredding my insides. Pretty soon I too was almost completely submerged, the cold, viscous substance slowly hardening and welcoming me finally into the sweet and welcome embrace of death.

I woke up with such a jolt that I managed to fling myself right out of bed. Beads of sweat ran down my face as I gasped for air. I whipped my head around to get a bearing of where I was. I was in my room. The AC was still blowing and the TV turned on but with the volume at 0. My night light basked me in its yellow glow of security. I lay crumpled on the floor for a good five minutes before I gingerly made my way onto my feet. I looked around and saw no scaffolding, no pipes, no rebar, no gaping hole in the sky and, most importantly, no dead man. I listened outside. Nothing but a couple of chirps from extra early birds, given how upon checking the time it was only 5:00AM. How…how was it only 5:00AM? Going through…whatever I went through…felt like an eternity.

I sat at the foot of my bed trying to rationalize my ordeal. Was it all a dream? Foul portents of things to come? Or did what I just go through actually happen… my mind was racing, a thousand thoughts per second only matched by what felt like the thousand beats per minute my heart was pumping. My head was throbbing and I made my way to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water. When I looked up at the mirror I was half expecting to see that dead man’s milky eyes looking back at me…but all I saw was my reflection…my confused, exasperated reflection.

I had no idea what just happened. And just like any other smoker who finds himself in a bind, I went out to light a cigarette to help clear my thoughts. It was around 5:15AM and the sky was just starting to turn a deep blue-ish violet hue, signaling the impending rise of the sun. More birds were now chirping and I could even hear some of my neighbors start to move about their houses. I could not wait for the sun to finally rise and wash away the darkness around me, and the horrors it brought with it.

I took out another marlboro red and put it in my mouth, savoring that very first hit just as I lit the end with a match. I was starting to calm down, basking in the light embers dancing between my fingers and all too familiar wisps of smoke that rose from the end of the stick. Now, most smokers have a particular sense of smell. You do this long enough and your nose just becomes sensitive to particular kinds of smoke, if that even makes sense. Basically, you know what cigarette smoke smells like compared to other types of smoke. You can even tell if someone who just walked into a room has just had a cigarette. Well, there I was enjoying the sweet, woody aroma of my cigarette. Mind starting to clear up, heart starting to calm down, hands starting to steady, I leaned back into my chair to await the rising sun.

Somewhere upstairs I heard a door open; most likely my mother getting ready to start the day. I was no longer the only soul awake in the house. I felt safe again. Secure again.

Just as I was about to put out my cigarette, the faint hint of an all too familiar scent wafted up my nose. That sick…acrid..burning smell that not only assaulted my senses, but made my nose itch with whatever particulates it carried. I didn’t have time to think, move, act, or even realize what was going on until I felt that familiar cold, dead hand on my shoulder.