Papa was stupid.

That was all I could think of as I lay in bed thinking of what people were saying about him now that he was dead and buried. And the woman who had been in the car with him buried, too, in a funeral that was less grand, though none of us knew who she was. Just some random woman maybe, though I heard whisperings that she was his mistress. For all dads had their mistresses. Wasn't that that how the world worked?

I rolled onto my belly, letting my back cool off as sweat had soaked the sheets beneath me while I slept. I had been napping when the overhead fan simply stopped working, though downstairs, I could hear the ceiling fan running. Outside, the neighbor's dog barked at something though I didn't get up to look out the window for I only stared at the fan, unmoving, as it hung from the ceiling.

Just another quirk of this two-bedroom apartment we had moved into since papa was killed in that stupid accident, with appliances switching off and on, and things being moved around - something we attributed to papa not realizing he was already dead, and as he always did when he was alive, moving things around where he felt they'd look much better. I wondered what he thought of our current furniture, all of them donated by relatives who'd taken pity on us, the old family heirlooms papa loved now gone to wealthier relatives. I wondered how he found us, how he'd made his way to this crappy apartment that never got any sunlight.

Mama had found the place through a friend of a friend though we could no longer remember who. It was only a few blocks from our closest relatives, and it was cheap - very cheap. It was also available the at such short notice and that was what mattered, for the bank was quick to kick us out and sell the house.

And so we moved into the apartment that was much smaller than what we were used to, ignoring the worried stares of the neighbors who shut their doors and peered at us through their windows, their hands to their mouths. And each time we caught their gaze, they'd look up at the second story window, before looking away. Sometimes they made the sign of the cross.  But we didn't mind - we'd long gotten used to the pity.

While my brothers shared one room, my sisters and I shared the one with the largest closet to accommodate all our clothes and toys, for girls always had more clothes than boys anyway. The closet doors were even mirrored, which gave our bedroom the illusion of being much larger. Mama didn't have a room of her own, choosing to sleep on the couch downstairs. Maybe one day, she said, she would sleep in a bedroom again, but not yet. Not when papa was still lying in state in a closed casket at the funeral home.

Papa had gone out that fateful night, not planning on returning till the following morning like he always did after another one of their many arguments. And like the rest of their arguments, it was always about some woman, one of the many he'd met while playing poker at the casino. He simply could not get his hands off them, just as they couldn't get their hands off his money.

But that morning, he didn't return, and by afternoon, we heard the news long after everyone else did. One of my aunts had been the one brave enough to go to the morgue to identify him, as no one else dared to do it, not even mama - not with her high blood pressure.

He'd been speeding along the darkened roads, they said, and the swerved along a tight bend, wrapping around a balete tree, a form of a ficus that grew abundantly along the countryside. Papa and the woman did not survive, but the stories still being told of how their bodies were found still thrived around town, brought to life with the many versions that now clouded the truth - whatever the truth was. I could not listen to them, not about papa, no matter what a bastard he'd been to us.

That was two weeks ago, and each morning since then, they'd say hello and ask us how our night went, whether we slept well or had bad dreams. They all wanted to know if we were all okay.

But then, why wouldn't we be?

Still, as I lay in bed now feeling the heat build up in the room, I was not okay. I was definitely not happy. I sat up on the bed and stretched, the sound of the fan downstairs the only thing I could hear along with the dog still barking outside. Mama had taken my sisters and brothers to church with her, as she always did these days since the forty days of prayer were not yet over. According to Father Jim, the number of days didn't really matter although forty was the norm for Catholics like us. He said it could be hours, days or even years if you wanted, depending on papa's sins. After all, someone had to pay for them.

So mama settled for forty days, though secretly, she would have settled for none. She was tired of all the stares and the whispers behind her back by the people who paid their respect. The dead man in the closed casket had received less judgment than she was receiving now. Some said it was her fault that his eyes and his libido wandered, and that if she had only been a good wife - and good in bed as well - he would never have strayed. Hence, he would never have died the way he did, with only one of my aunts brave enough to look at his remains in the morgue. They even blamed her for not being able to stomach the sight of him on the slab the way my aunt did.

It was a battle she could never win, but mama was strong - and we had to be strong with her.

Yet as strong as we had to be for mama, I'd lost my faith the moment they told me papa had died with a whore for company. I lost it even more when I saw his closed casket the first day at the funeral home, knowing that the man inside it was no longer a man, but a shell of one. One who didn't give crap for his wife, nor his own children.

And so I stopped going to church with mama and the rest of them. They could talk behind my back for all I cared. I wasn't praying for a man who didn't give a damn about us.

¨ðº°˜¨ ¨˜°ºð¨

I didn't realize how cold the room had gotten till I found myself shivering. I glanced up at the fan again, wondering if it was moving again, but it wasn't. I looked around the room, noticing that the lights were out, too, and outside, dusk had settled. I rubbed my hands against my arms and got up from the bed, my toes curling as soon as they landed on floorboards.

Ice cold.

To my right was the door that led to the stairs, and to my left was a wall-to-wall closet, though one of its two doors had been pushed open. I couldn't remember having left it open, but maybe one of my sisters did. The side of the closet that was open was empty, no clothes hung from the wooden rack, nor any hangers. It was as if someone had pushed all the hangers aside, revealing something that made me clap my hands to my mouth, stifling a scream.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again, wondering if I was still dreaming. I stared at what hung from the closet rod, the hairs at the back of my neck and my arms standing on end, a chill seeping into my bones.

Though frayed and bloodied, there was no mistaking what it was even with the fading light of the afternoon. A noose.

Outside, the dog had grown silent, probably appeased with a bone. But inside the house, from the second floor bedroom where I was, it was deafening. The sound of blood rushing between my temples pounded through me, even as my mind screamed one word again and again. RUN!

But as I turned to head towards the stairs, I saw her, standing by the door leading to the stairs.

She was pale and thin, with long straggly hair that hung down the sides of her face and her chest, her arms hanging along her sides. She wore a thin blue shift with flowers and butterflies though there was nothing beautiful about them. They seemed as dull and grey as she was, her black eyes staring at me. Just black eyes, no whites to be seen. And her feet, bare and dirty, were not touching the floor.

Step in the closet, she said though her pale lips never moved, her words seeping into me. Your papa is waiting for you.

No, I whispered but nothing emerged from my lips, my body paralyzed by the sight of her, the command she repeated again, this time growing louder inside my head.

Step in the closet.

But even as my mind screamed no, it was as if something else overtook me for my legs began to move, only it wasn't towards the door. No, my legs propelled me towards the closet, where the noose awaited me. I shook my head, tears falling down my face. No. One foot moved, and then the other. No, I whimpered again. I'm not going inside the closet.

Still, my legs kept moving.

I willed every ounce of strength I had to move my legs towards the stairs, but it felt as if my feet were stuck in tar. Still, I found myself facing the stairs again, though she still stood there - no, floated, for her feet still did not touch the ground. And she was still blocking my way.

Step in the closet, she said again, with more force that sent a chill right through my bones.

No, I said to her again, this time forcing myself to move towards the stairs - and I was - not caring if she was blocking the door. Would I brush against her and feel her cold skin? Would I know of her death and how she died? Would she grab me and pull me towards the closet where the noose awaited me, just as it awaited her, the marks around her skin visible to me now? Would she then wrap it around my neck, reminding me once again that everything would be alright?

Your papa is waiting for you. All of you, she said.

No, he's not, I said again, though this time, I began to pray, whispering the words learnt through the years as a child at papa's knee, with him holding my hands together in front of me. His words, heard as a child, becoming a comfort to me even as this specter glared at me, her arms now raised towards me.

- Step inside the closet.

"Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name-"

- Your papa is lonely.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven-"

- You will be happy again.

"Forgive us our sins-"

Suddenly, as if the tar that held my feet rooted to the floor had turned to mush, I was moving. I ran as fast as I could, through the door and past the girl. The skin of my arms prickled as I brushed against her, ice cold and feathery, but I did not care. I ran down the stairs, almost tripping on the steps but gripping the bannister as tightly as I could, just as the front door opened and mama walked in, asking why I had locked the deadbolt - even though I hadn't.

She froze when she saw my face then, her gaze drifting to something behind me, something that was fading, the chill replaced by a mist that seemed to dissipate. Mama's face turned pale as she understood then why the rent had been so low, why the place had remained empty for months. She knew then why the neighbors looked at us the way they did, asking the questions they asked each time - Are you guys okay? Have you had any bad dreams? She understood then that things being moved around the house was not the spirit of papa visiting us at all, but of someone else.

And unlike what people thought of her, mama was not stupid. She never was.

She grabbed me, shaking and blubbering, and before my brothers and sisters could enter the house behind her, she ordered them all to get out. Out, out, out, as upstairs we heard the closet door slam shut once, twice, three times, the mirror where my sisters and I had preened endlessly with our dresses shattering with a deafening roar.

Outside, the neighbors ran out of their homes, making the signs of the cross and praying out loud the same prayer papa taught me as I sat on his knee so many years ago, my hands held in prayer in front of me, clasped between his own, their words joining ours as the closet door kept sliding shut. Shut. Shut.

"As we forgive those who trespass against us."