The Slums and the Station

It was a rare sight for Brian—seeing the lazy shift of the sun on its way to rest. For six years, it was the energizing view of the sunrise he has grown accustomed to glimpsing as he sets out for work early in the morning just like he did hours ago. When it was time to go back home, it was always the light of the moon that would greet him in the darkness.

Today, however, golden streaks of sunlight poured out from the west, striking patched roofs of iron sheets in mismatched colors that dominated the small houses crowding the whole place. The slums, they call it, and true to its name. It was the sun’s touch that made the sight more pleasing.

People filled the streets, basking in the minutes left of the calm dusk. Vendors lined either side of the road, busied by customers purchasing a meager dinner. Other adults, as Brian observed, were also walking home from work, marked by worn out uniforms and the tired look in their faces, not far from how he must have looked like to them. Kids scattered in groups, running and playing with their delighted voices rising to disrupt the rather calm and weary evening. One child’s voice particularly caught his ears, one so familiar that he easily recognized amidst the crowd’s noise. Its beholder soon also took notice of him as he walked.

“Papa!” A boy’s high-pitched voice addressed him from a few feet’s distance and soon neared in proximity. He came bounding towards Brian with a mud-coated toy truck in hand.

“What have you been up to, Ronnie?” Brian slightly raised his arm to ruffle the boy’s black curly hair. His son stood at his waist’s length. Growing up fast at six, he thought.

“I was playing with Paco and Michael,” Ronnie replied, his dark brown eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “We were policemen riding trucks!”

Both smiling, they walked towards their home. It was much like the other houses—unpainted concrete hollow blocks that boasted height with its three floors, yet only one of it is truly theirs, while the two top floors belonged to other families. Outside was a narrow gate that stood to Brian’s chest. Upon entrance, there was a steep and strait set of stairs that twists to lead towards the other homes. Directly in front of them, however, was their own green door. He pushed it open with a soft nudge—it was only locked every night. Behind it was a cramped and dim home, with a single light bulb to illuminate the whole area. A thin square mattress was sprawled on the cement floor where they slept. On one corner, a bathroom was separated from the whole place by a shower curtain. On the other end, a round wooden table stood. The stove beside it was lit open to heat a pot, tended by a petite woman with black hair tied in a low bun. As they entered, she smiled warmly, and it seemed to Brian that the place was not so dim anymore.

Surprise was hinting at her eyes as she saw her husband. “I didn’t expect you to be here this early, Brian,” she said as she extinguished the fire on a stove with a swift twist.

“Sergeant Luis was kind to me today,” he said. “I was mopping on one of the offices and offered to do the job himself, did you know? He sent me home right then and there!” He chuckled in disbelief. “He even called me ‘sir,’” he added with a hint of pride. “I couldn’t believe it myself, Shirley!”

“That’s strange,” she pointed out with a shrug, “but he got you here just in time for dinner, didn’t he? We should thank the man.”

Ronnie was setting the plates and utensils on the table, being careful with each move. It was his “duty,” as he called it, and did so with pride and enthusiasm. “Are they really that nice, Papa?” His eyes sparkling with excitement. “I should definitely tell that to Paco! He’s always been afraid of the police,” he said, slightly frowning for a moment before regaining his smile.

“Did you ask why he was scared of them?” Shirley was pouring noodle soup on a bowl as she politely talked to her son.

“He doesn’t like their guns,” Ronnie said.

The three of them sat around the table and quietly took their dinner. Brian seemed lost in his thoughts as he drank the soup from his bowl. It was not until later when they all finished their meal when he finally spoke. “You know, Ronnie, there is something about the police that is scary, but it’s not guns or anything like that,” he said.

At that, Ronnie straightened up in his seat, ready to listen intently. He was always most interested with the cops. He found it amusing that Brian worked as a janitor in the nearby station ever since he was born.

“Their workplace,” he paused, “has ghosts.” It was only supposed to be an entertaining remark for his son, but it being true gave him chills instead. He supposed ghosts normally lurked in old establishments such as the police station, so when he first felt their existence, he ignored it, but not without being nervous. Even earlier, before Sergeant Luis found him, there were already goosebumps on his skin, but kept doing his job, nonetheless.

He was quietly dragging the wet mop on the tiled floor, his gray uniform clinging to his skin as he sweated. It came without warning, just as it did in some days before, but he could never get used to it. Even the daylight that the bright afternoon sun gave did nothing to decrease his creeping fear. They are whispering again, he thought. What do they want?

He can never understand the words, though the existence of the sounds cannot be doubted. He was sure there were more than one voice, feeding his terror to grow as his heart pounded faster against his chest. It was the woman’s voice he heard first, followed by a man’s, then another and another, kept hushed as they speak to bother Brian. He closed his eyes and signed a cross on himself, suddenly remembering his long-lost faith. Please don’t show them to me, he prayed, let them hide in the shadows. It was at that moment when the door burst open, making Brian jump in shock, but it only revealed the policeman that saved him.

The next day, he left home as early as he always did, the dawn still alive in the sky. On one hand, he carried a white paper bag filled with the best kind of vegetables they had, fresh and far from rotting. Shirley packed them before sleeping last night, telling him to bring it for Sergeant Luis as a humble token of gratitude.

It was midday when he went to clean the room just across the office he mopped yesterday. He pushed aside the lingering fear and started wiping the table’s surface.

He meticulously scrubbed at every edge and corner where dust have accumulated. “It won’t ever be clean unless you clean like a mother,” Shirley once said when he was about to start the job six years ago. Since then, he grew more diligent with every wipe and sweep. He lifted the table and chairs to clean underneath. He raised himself on a ladder to remove the dust clinging to the fluorescent light and the corners on the ceiling.

Brian was cleaning the bookshelf when it came again—the voices. The terror came much stronger this time because now, the words were clear, and its speakers were much closer. He gripped the cloth tightly in his hand and closed his eyes. It’s here, it’s here, it’s here, the thought echoing in his mind.

“Let me go!” A woman’s voice screamed loudly.

He still had his eyes closed, afraid that once he opened them, he will see a woman right before him. He wanted it to stop, but other voices followed in hushed tones while a woman persisted in her screaming. Suddenly, he heard desperate scratches against the wood of the bookshelf, as if fingers were raking at it, and then it was moving, being pushed against him. At last, he opened his eyes and ran, but before he could reach the door, he heard a loud and heavy thump behind him. Mustering up all the courage he had left, he slowly turned around and found the bookshelf already lying on the floor, its contents smashed beneath it, but the horror was in the view behind it.

On the space where the large bookshelf stood was a dark hole on the wall. Beyond it was no light, not anything else but them—the monstrous faces of the ghosts. Their soot-covered skins tightly clasped their bones, their eyes bloodshot and sagging underneath as they screamed—screaming at Brian and someone else, someone behind him. He was about to know, but it was a second too late. He was already inside the room, together now with them after one quick and forceful push from behind. The last thing he heard was, “I’m sure you’ll get along nicely with them,” a voice said, “sir.”