Welcome to the horror show

Allow me to speak about spooks.

We lived for a couple of years in a house in Blumentritt that recalled Edgar Allan Poe’s House of Usher, although it had none of the majesty of the Gothic archways or trophies of armor in the crumbling digs of Roderick Usher. It was an ordinary house all right but there pervaded an atmosphere of "insufferable gloom." Actually, the interiors resembled one of the houses in Estong Tutong or Mang Kepweng featuring the great Chiquito. Nothing creepier than watching extras wearing zombie makeup, noses plugged with cotton balls, singing "Sta. Maria!" as if in a kitschy Thriller outtake. (Although less spooky than Michael Jackson bonding with Bubbles the Chimp, or singing Heal the World.)

We had an attic. Inexplicably. My brother Chris was just less about one year old then and he would cry all of a sudden, sometimes in the middle of the bloody night, pointing to the direction of the attic. And as if by cue, our dog Rustin would howl like a dog in Gabi ng Lagim. Awooooo. It was always a creepy duet between the two. The rest of the family would be shaking under blankets. Our goal during that time was to sleep the earliest to avoid the horror show.

One time, my other brother Dennis was still awake in an ungodly hour. As if keeping an invisible appointment, a hooded figure in obligatory black opened his room door, hovered over my brother like Sadako on a hovercraft, and shook the bed. During those moments, one has to urge to yell "Time out!" or "Cut!" Dennis was speechless. He was, in Seinfeld lingo, "without speech."

At night, neighbors would sometimes spot an old woman beside the mango tree in front of the house. Looking really pissed. Not even the greasy tramp we called "Elvis," who was always drunk on gin and doing his pelvic shake, passed by our house during evenings.

Years later, we lived in a village in Pampanga. Near a pelota court with a dirty-white tombstone pallor. A neighborhood toughie claimed he saw a ball being bounced back and forth in the dead of night. Apparently, the undead also need their exercise. A "white lady" was also allegedly seen by several guys not drunk on Gold Eagle beer. Although it might have been a woman sporting industrial-strength face powder.

I was more bugged by a singing contest staged in that area where a folk singer performed the BeeGees’ Nights on Broadway, complete with pussycat falsetto. It was like Barry Gibb being struck by lightning due to all his bling-blings. I nearly swallowed my balls in fear.

This Is Spine-Tingling Pap

Three years ago, my band and I played a doomed gig in a hotel in Batangas. The incident was horrifying enough. We were sandwiched between two show bands fronted by two guys wearing too much satin (repertoire: Earth Wind & Fire, Village People, etc.). It was obvious that we were so out-of-place, what with our psychedelic rock pretensions and wasted Jane’s Addiction conceit. The audience clamored for YMCA.

After the first song, a voice wafted from the PA system: Pakiusap, huwag naman masyadong rock. "Semi-rock," then? Like Alien Ant Farm? Too bad: while the partygoers had the zeal of zombies (like characters in George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead), the people on the other side of the hotel fence (the tricycle drivers, the vendors, the passers-by) were moving their heads to the sound of the music.

We got unplugged. We didn’t get paid. We were two gigs short of opening for puppets or using Stonehenge or alien pods as props with disastrous results (see This is Spinal Tap). So, we headed for our singer’s house in a village near Mount Makiling. The house, like others in that area, was used by Mark’s family on weekends only. There was no one in the village, although strange lights abound. The American-style mansion, with a view of the mysterious mountain, recalled one of the wings of the hotel in The Shining. There was a Kubrickian sense of dread in that domicile. I half-expect a demented Jack Nicholson to break down the doors screaming, "Redrum!" or "Heeeeeere’s Johnny!"

Out of fear, the band slept in one room, enduring the sight of the drummer’s long-sleeve underwear, the guitarist’s hairless, mala-labanos legs and my snores (cranked to 11 on a Marshall amp). I could’ve slept in a cot on a sprawling space near the door, but elected not to. I’ve watched too many slasher movies not to know that the first dude to be spotted usually gets his screen time abbreviated (and his neck slit).

Years before that, I spent the night at that house with Mark, friends Pangk, Piso, Piso’s girlfriend and her sister. We were just chilling in the living room, playing guitar and drinking beer, when we were roused by a bloodcurdling scream. The girlfriend was brushing her teeth when water suddenly spurted from the shower. (Put Alfred Hitchcock soundtrack here.)

That night, we were all on the terrace drunkenly singing Tesla and Black Sabbath songs, when we heard faucet open and the sound of clanking plates. Someone, whatever that was, was doing some dishwashing. How frighteningly thoughtful.

Hey, Babe, Talk A Walk On The Dark Side

Two years ago, I was on assignment in Edinburgh, Scotland, and I encountered a guidebook that ripped off that line from the ’80s teen flick The Lost Boys to describe the Scottish capital with its history of ghosts and gristly murders and foreboding castles: If all the dead people buried around here stood up at once, we’d have one hell of a population problem.

One evening, I – fueled by boredom and ridiculous amounts of ale, draft beer and Guinness – joined the tour of Edinburgh’s Underground Vaults, which was once featured by host Linda Blair on a TV show called The Scariest Places on Earth.

First, I wanted to take part in the Witchery Tour, an entertaining romp through the various spots in Old Edinburgh where witches were hanged and the like. One guy from the hotel said that if I have the balls for it, I should go for the scarier, more popular tour: the Haunted Underground Experience. Feeling challenged, I did so. Stupidly.

Mercat Tours Ltd. offered a slew of attractions: Secrets of the Royal Mile, the Vaults Tour, Ghosts & Ghouls and, the tourist flypaper, the Haunted Underground Experience. The ticket cost around six pounds (P540 at that time) and the meeting place was the Mercat Cross on the Royal Mile at seven in the evening. It was chilly when I got there – chilly, in a Christopher Lee/Boris Karloff/Regal Shockers sense. Before joining the tour, I loaded up on ale and Guinness to steady the nerves. As if that would help.

The Underground Vaults, particularly the South Bridge Vaults, has been described as "possibly the most haunted place in Britain." It was the site of the Edinburgh Ghost Project in 2001. Lots of scary stuff took place in those dark and dank catacombs, according to Blair in her best Exorcist voice. And our group – composed of three female Scots, a French couple, a Brit boy who looked a bit like Jack Osbourne, and this shivering bag of hair, nerves and Dracula movie memories – stayed in those vaults for an hour. Which seemed like a nerve-wracking eternity. And we parted with our precious pounds to do so.

Our guide David was a dramatic dude, almost Shakespearean. He handed each of us flashlights, gave us pointers on how to navigate the slippery chambers, and told ghost stories with attendant dramatics – not about old sightings found in history books, but new occurrences experienced during the tour itself.

We came in through a metal door that was padlocked shortly afterwards. Descending the stairs into those blasted catacombs, we felt really cold, as if we were in a meat freezer. I was the last guy in. The guide nonchalantly asked if I was aware that in slasher movies, the person at the back usually gets the scythe first. Come to think of it, the people on that particular tour resembled characters in a Friday the 13th flick: the Scottish women (the blonde bombshells), "Jack Osbourne" (the nerd, the comic relief), the French couple (the gooey lovers), me (the token Asian fellow), and the tour guide (the protagonist who lives to tell the harrowing tale). I promptly moved to the middle of the pack. Better safe than dismembered.

The group filed slowly, languidly into the torture chambers. It was hard to breathe in the catacombs; that’s why claustrophobics are strongly advised against taking part in that tour. The guide told us about the occupants: the cobbler (a gentle spirit, a protector), Mr. Boots (a burly ghost with long beard, blue overcoat and big, noisy boots), the slumlord (an extremely territorial ghoul that lives in the "Hate Room"), a boy with a red ball and an extremely frolicsome dog, among other spirits.

David told us about the Mercat Tours Pregnancy Test. There is a spirit residing in one of the catacombs that abhorred pregnant women. Expectant mothers (as well as girls who have no idea they’re carrying a baby) would be hurled, pushed or violently dragged as they enter that particular room in the Vaults. No male has been victimized, so far. I wonder how that ghost would react to a girl with Adam’s apple, though.

In one of the rooms, I felt a force lightly brush my hands – like an overeager child. That was even before the guide told us about the little girl who supposedly resides in that spot. Must be the effect of the ale.

The guide took us to a narrow hallway. This passage is quite notorious for sudden and unexpected blackouts. One time, some boy scouts visited the Vaults. When they came to the hall, the lights went out on cue. They whipped out their ever-ready flashlights, which also failed to work. The scouts probably wet their pants. "Pray hard that we won’t experience total darkness when we pass that hall," the guide whispered.

Nothing happened and we passed by without a hitch. Thankfully, or my pancreas full of ale would have burst.

There is also a room in the Vaults where a woman was "clawed" by a mysterious presence. Another tourist got minor burns from a spot where a fireplace used to be. Guides report mystifying sightings, inexplicable noises and strange scents.

"One of our colleagues caught the whiff of whisky," David recounted. "He tried following the scent but heard a voice, faint at first, telling him, ‘Get out! Get out! GET OUT!!!" This startled "Jack Osbourne," who screamed like a schoolgirl. Eeeeeee…

After the protracted hour, we thankfully got out of the Underground Vault. Hey, the tour was scary, but I guess the ghost of alcohol was stronger. I staggered back to the hotel, and into my own plush catacomb.

In retrospect, none of these stories really bugged me. One incident in Malabon where I used to live was more spine-tingling. A neighbor left out a pot of boiled rice by the window to get plates. Some desperate soul snatched it. Isang kaserola ng kanin, would you believe! It is ghoulish how we ordinary folks struggle on despite the insufferable gloom of poverty. Meanwhile, our leaders and their sycophants suck the nation dry like Nosferatus.

Nothing’s scarier than desperation. Nothing’s more horrifying than hunger.

* * *

Check out Club Dredd Presents: A Wave of Mutilation – A Tribute To The Pixies featuring Twisted Halo, Ciudad, Blast Ople, Marty Mcfly, Citric Maple, and The Bitter Pill tonight, 10 p.m., at Gweilos Eastwood.

* * *

For comments, suggestions, curses and invocations, e-mail iganja_ys@yahoo.com.