When the all clear came–the apparition had vanished into wherever it spent its time between sightings–the baby’s head was a burning ember between her legs. Almost swooning, she staggered to the door by herself, as the servants, not moving a muscle, whimpered like children. But ghost or none, she would not have this baby in this moldy old bedroom, Concha remembered thinking frantically. They were all hesitant to risk carrying the Senora out of the bedroom and down the stairs, where one clairvoyant maid claimed the ghost was standing rigidly, hungry as ever, ears pricked for the baby’s first cry. The night she went into labor, her husband Nando was out, and everyone stood around gnawing their knuckles as she screamed in pain. This was when I was pregnant with Norman, Lola Concha recalled. One girl had fainted dead away, rolled down the entire eighteen steps, and split her head open on the stone landing.
Stocky Lola Concha, always immaculately attired in flowered pantsuits, her neck enveloped in perfume so old it smelled of whisky, had told my mother that she had come to the house as a new bride two years before the war and already the servants were going mad faster than they could hire new ones, precisely because of encounters with the woman in white. Now the gossip was exchanged between biscuit and coffee breaks from Bible Study or at dusk after vespers. Along with my mother, grandmother, and all three of my aunts, she attended the three-year old Church of the Risen Messiah, which had devoured whole weekends that the older set had hitherto devoted to tending gardens, praying the rosary and taking merienda over gossip. A few testimonies claimed the ghost could talk, and even cry tears of blood, seeking justice.īut the lady of the house, whom everyone has called Lola Concha as far as I can remember, was said to scoff at this version. The sightings went back to as far as the founding of the house, although some victims insisted that the haunting had begun after the war, on account of a girl being raped and murdered there by drunken Japanese soldiers, her parts cut up and scattered in the many corners of the ancient house. The face would tilt forward, the tongue becoming restless, the mouth slowly opening–enough to make your heart pop, according to one witness.
#A ghost story cracked#
What was horrifying about her expression was not the bloodless skin, vein-webbed and tinged with decay, nor the parted lips revealing a glistening tongue, but her eyes–hooded and staring, widening slowly with black interest, the cracked irises suspended in the enlarged whites. Filled with terror, she looked inside.The house was largely haunted by a woman in white who appeared frequently on the staircase, pale hand on the wooden balustrade, with a terrible look of hunger. Paying no heed to the final message, “ Do not open this coffin,” she slowly opened the lid. Every step of the way, she saw messages in slime “ Do not enter” and “ Do not go one step further.” But that did not stop her until she reached a dark room with a coffin. She saw a message in green slime on the wall “ Do not go to the magic castle at midnight.” The curious woman decided to go that very night.
While she was strolling around, she found a castle in the woods. Once upon a time, there lived a curious woman who strayed off her path while taking her dog for a walk. When the husband turns around, he finds the fifty-pence coin lying on a burnt table! 11. They return to see for themselves and are shocked to find the dilapidated shell of a house. The next morning, a restaurant owner in the next town tells them that the house they are talking about was destroyed in a fire, and Mr.
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