Once upon a gloomy afternoon, Regine and I was about to cross this bridge when the misty wind buffeted against our tiny frames. Thankfully, the sky took a break from her drama class and just accompanied us in our walking tour with her soft breeze. Her mood provided a good shade for the rest of the day coming from our church-hopping adventure.
My mind’s central processing unit was still busy digesting all the ancient images it has been fed to the whole day. We were chatting along the sidewalk when Regine told me of this not-so-old house which she and her father developed a habit of visiting once in a while. She said it was sort of a haunted house because when the owners moved out, they closed off all the windows. The first image that came to my mind was its windows were boarded up with ply woods, where the air can still pass through and sunlight can still peek inside every morning at dawn. Just like those in the movies I have seen where windows of abandoned houses were hastily covered, one could still see what was inside through the cover holes unintentionally created from imperfect hammering here and there.
I said to myself it will be just like all the other old houses we have visited that day. Dark, alone, maybe a bit neglected and eerily silent.
But then, when we turned around the corner with Regine pointing to my right, I clearly understood why she was lamenting why its sight was still giving her the creeps even after several visits to this place.
As I stood in front of her I stopped in my tracks. For a split second I could feel the hair at the back of my neck standing up. My heart skipped a beat as I tried to listen to her story. Then a few seconds later, there came the stacatto beating of my heart. The chill I felt at my nape traveled down to my bare hands and legs. The cold afternoon did not help in calming down that eerie feeling. I wanted to shout but fear almost overcame me. I looked at her and quickly took two shots.Yes, I only managed to take two shots of her because I could no longer take it. Take what? I could no longer take her screams. She has got no face, no mouth, no nose, and worst, no eyes! It was like someone ripped off her face and slapped a grey faceless mask on her head, stitched hastily to the sides. But still, despite being decapitated, the screams were so loud, they were ringing in my ears. So loud I had almost dragged Regine out of that place. She was speaking to me. She was trapped inside. She is asking to be freed. Her cries were unfathomable. It was like she was standing in a crowded room, screaming at the top of her lungs, but no one was hearing her. The house looked like Voldermort. But she, the girl inside, looked like a woman in a vintage painting, minus the not-smiling face.
I will leave the rest to your imagination dear readers. A head without a face. Silently screaming.