White Lady
Virgilio Hollero, a wealthy 50-year-old Filipino businessman, was making preparations for a journey to Capiz. A resident of Manila, it was way farther than he would have traveled. Somehow, he felt he’d be successful putting up a sardine factory there.
He checked himself in the mirror, noting how plump he was. At 5’2” he was overweight at 160 pounds with graying, thinning hair. When he smiled, though, he looked like a kid.
He walked to the back of the room where a reproduction of Marc Chagall’s Birthday hung. Lost in thought, he stared without seeing the painting, something his wife had acquired even before they got married. He never told her, though, that this artwork scared him. He thought the woman in a panic; her eyes were large saucers, while the man’s eyes were deep set and unreadable. Her lover, though undeniably handsome, had no arms, was twisted and deformed. To plant a kiss, his serpentine neck was bent at an impossible angle. He was suspended in midair.
Virgilio broke the spell and hastily flipped the painting to reveal a built-in safe. Inside, he fished out the ring. He held it up, watching as the green gem sparkled in the early afternoon sun. The emerald was very expensive, but he thought it well worth it.
His wife had told him that wearing such a ring would protect him from witchcraft. Virgilio was not a superstitious man but he’d heard far too many unnatural stories about Capiz to chalk it up to chance. He also packed a .45 in the bag.
There was no direct route from Manila to Capiz. It took two plane rides to reach a neighboring airport. He was pleased he made arrangements for his friend Cesar to pick him up from the airport. Even so, the long journey was over rugged terrain. The roads were not cemented nor asphalted, pockmarked by numerous crater-like holes and exacerbated further by frequent monsoon rains. The countryside, though green and verdant on both sides of the road, became monotonous and lulled Virgilio to sleep.
“Hey, Pareng Ver, we’re here.” Cesar nudged his friend’s shoulder. Virgilio slowly opened his eyes, stood up and stretched. Virgilio looked up at the imposing house, Casa Mia. His first thought was: haunted house. The mansion was well over 50 meters away from the main road and sat on a hectare of land with a dark canopy of trees all around. The imposing structure was three stories high, of dark brown wood.
Virgilio, his body on automatic, roused himself from sleep to pour himself a glass of water from the bedside table. He looked at it now, assured that the .45 was there. Suddenly, he felt a sliver of fear growing in his mind; felt more than saw that he was being watched with malicious intent.
He glanced at the open window. His eyes grew wide, his body now fully awake. There floated a woman in white, impossibly suspended three stories high. Her eyes were bloodshot red and murderous. In a panic, he grabbed the gun and shot at her.
In seeming slow motion, he saw her rapidly hover away, dodging the bullets. But just as soon, she started moving towards him. She came closer to his face and grabbed his head. Then, everything went black.
When he came to, he saw the concerned faces of the whole household, crowded all around him. They had heard both the gunshots and his screams, and found him unconscious on the bedroom floor. He explained as best he could but could not, for the life of him, expound further.
No one could explain why he was suddenly stricken with an inexplicable fever; pain and chills wracked his body. Several times, he bleakly thought he was going to die. In a week, though recovered, he was pale and rail-thin at 130 pounds. On the way to the airport, he decided not to not push through with his Capiz business.
