There’s a lurker in my home
I was certain I was in mortal danger. It was during the COVID lockdown. I had had a long, exhausting day and was getting ready for bed. I switched off the lights. Outside my window, the neighbor’s outdoor light cast the shifting shadows of langka leaves across the grilled, opaque glass.
Then, at the corner of my eye, I saw a figure. A man. His silhouette was visible up to his chest, facing left. He seemed to be looking at something beyond my window.
My first thought was intruder. Burglar. I have always considered myself brave, one who would shout, “Who’s there?” But I was paralyzed. I thought of calling my brother, whose bedroom was connected to mine through a Jack-and-Jill bathroom, but my throat had gone dry. No sound came out.
The figure remained there for a while. Then I remembered something. My window was 10 or 11 feet above the ground. Then the silhouette disappeared. My heart was pounding. I lay there, staring at the window, trying to make sense of what I had seen. What was that? Who was that?
I had no answers. I only knew that I had been terrified. And it would not be the last time.
Somebody’s watching me…?
I live in a turn-of-the-century split-level house with an open floor plan. One unusual feature is a set of faux awning windows facing inward toward the hallway. It was a design intended to encourage airflow and let parents keep an eye on their children.
Having just finished my last Zoom call of the evening, my eyes were tired from staring at the screen. I was alone at my desk when a sudden movement caught my attention, quickly followed by a familiar, dreaded presence.
This time, the shadow appeared just outside the faux window, which meant whatever it was, it was already inside the house. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as goosebumps spread across my arms. I reflexively looked toward my bedroom door to ensure it was locked. Finding it secure, I suddenly remembered my elderly aunt, who often left her bedroom door unlocked.
I reached for my phone to call her, but before I could even dial, the shadow vanished. I searched every room in the house. Nothing seemed out of place. There was no sign of an intruder and no logical explanation. I felt completely unsafe. I began to wonder if something was following me.
Early experiences of the supernatural
I do not believe in ghosts or the supernatural, though I enjoy a good chilling story. The sixth sense, as far as I can tell, skipped me entirely.
Unsensitive to the supernatural throughout my childhood and adolescence, I never encountered anything ghostly. My high school best friends were another matter: Roshiela Carandang (Rosh) could sense a presence, while Katherine Bartolome (Bart) could see it.
One summer evening at St. Scholastica’s College, while chatting at our quadrangle tambayan before a sleepover, I was mid-story when they exchanged furrowed glances and looked past me. When I asked what was wrong, they stayed quiet, though I noticed an unusual summer draft.
At the sleepover, they finally admitted a figure had been standing behind me. Rosh had sensed the presence; Bart had seen the shadow. Skeptical as ever, I just laughed it off.
The circumstances around the sightings
At the time of my own sinister sightings, I was dealing with hostility at work after taking over someone else’s project. I was also trying to establish a mental healthcare startup. I was exhausted, stretched thin, and struggling to keep everything together.
Then, one after another, my father, my dear friend Brian Tenorio, who founded the startup, and my beloved mentor, Tito Rey Hidalgo, my dad’s batchmate and trusted confidant, died. Three men who had played important roles in my life were suddenly gone.
I like to think of myself as fiercely independent. But looking back, I realize how much their presence had given me the confidence to take on the world. Without them, I was lost. Still, there were responsibilities to meet and a business to build. Life did not stop because I was grieving, so I kept going.
And in the middle of all this, the shadows appeared.
“Lurkers”
I eventually spoke to one of my business partners, who became a dear friend: psychiatrist Dr. Trina de la Llana. I told her that the figures had stopped appearing for months. I knew stress could produce strange experiences, but the fear had felt so real. I was certain I was in danger.
“Maybe I’ve resolved it,” I said.
“Or maybe your lurkers are all gone,” she offered. Your lurkers. The people in the background of your life who were your safety nets.
Of the three men I lost, my father’s death left me with the most complicated grief. There was bitterness over the way he had left us, resentment over things left unsaid, and regret.
At the height of COVID, I dropped him off at the hospital with my brother, who was accompanying him for a checkup. Dad had been losing his appetite and had ascites. I thought we were going to find out what was wrong. A few hours after I returned home to work, my brother called. Dad was gone. He had suffered a stroke.
He came back to me as ashes in an urn.
It took time for the loss to settle. I had to reconcile all the versions of my father: doting childhood dad, flawed man, devoted husband to my mother till the end, and church elder. Imperfect, but his life was well-lived. In time, I learned to remember him without erasing his flaws or remaining trapped in his death.
Until now, I still cannot explain what I felt and saw outside those windows. Sometimes, when stuck in traffic, alone in my car, I feel a prickling at the back of my neck, as though something were seated behind me.
But I no longer feel afraid. I turn back to the road and keep driving.
