A Halloween Story
It happened many years ago, during a Halloween night I would never forget.
My friends and I had been invited to a disco in a nearby town. Back then, parties in neighboring barangays were among the most exciting events for young people like us. There were no fancy sound systems in every house, no smartphones to keep us entertained, and no electricity in the barangay hosting the dance. They relied on kerosene lamps to light their homes and the streets.
Still, we were excited. We dressed in our best clothes, prepared our lamps, and set off just as the evening settled over the countryside.
The road was narrow, surrounded by thick vegetation and towering trees. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets, the occasional croaking of frogs, and our lively conversations. Each of us carried a small kerosene lamp, its yellow flame flickering whenever the wind blew.
We were laughing and teasing one another when we approached a lake.
Suddenly, a loud cracking sound shattered the silence.
CRAAAACK!
Before we could understand what was happening, several tall trees came crashing down across the road. Their branches twisted and snapped as they landed directly in front of us.
“Susmaryosep!” one of my friends shouted.
For a moment, nobody moved. We stared at the fallen trees, their dark branches stretching across the path like giant fingers reaching out to grab us.
Then somebody screamed.
We all shouted and ran as fast as our legs could carry us, leaving the fallen trees and the lake behind. Nobody dared look back. We kept running until we were far enough away to catch our breath.
“Maybe the trees were old,” one friend said, trying to sound brave.
“Then why did they fall all at once?” another answered.
Nobody had an explanation.
But we were young, and the excitement of the disco soon pushed our fears aside. We continued our journey, determined not to let one frightening incident ruin our night.
When we finally arrived, the barangay was alive with music and laughter. Kerosene lamps illuminated the dance area, while people gathered around several tables where different games were being played. There were card games, guessing games, and other activities that drew crowds of curious spectators.
The disco music was loud enough to make the ground seem to vibrate. Young men and women danced beneath the makeshift decorations, their shadows moving wildly against the walls.
I joined my friends, enjoying the games and the lively atmosphere. But as the night progressed, I somehow became separated from the group.
That was when I saw her.
She stood near the edge of the gathering, her face glowing softly in the warm light of a nearby lamp. She had long, dark hair and wore a simple dress. She wasn’t dancing or joining the games. She was just standing there, smiling as though she had been waiting for someone.
Our eyes met.
She smiled at me, and I found myself walking toward her without even thinking.
“Are you enjoying the party?” I asked.
“A little,” she replied sweetly. “But it’s too noisy here.”
We started talking. She was beautiful, gentle, and surprisingly easy to talk to. We laughed about the games and exchanged stories about our respective barangays. I couldn’t believe how quickly the time passed.
I completely forgot about my friends.
Eventually, she suggested that we move somewhere quieter. We walked away from the crowd and found a large tree a short distance from the dance area. Its thick branches provided shelter from the night breeze, and the sounds of the disco reached us only faintly.
We sat beneath it, facing each other, our kerosene lamps casting small circles of light on the ground.
We talked about everything—our families, our dreams, and the places we wanted to visit someday. Every time she smiled, I felt my heart beat a little faster.
I was having the best night of my life.
But there was one thing I hadn’t noticed until much later.
My kerosene lamp was running out of fuel.
Its flame had grown smaller, flickering weakly inside the glass chimney. Occasionally, it would almost disappear before returning as a tiny, trembling light.
“Your lamp is nearly out,” she observed.
“It’s all right,” I answered. “We can still talk.”
She smiled again.
So we stayed beneath that tree, talking and laughing while the night grew colder. I didn’t know exactly what time it was, but the disco music gradually became quieter. The crowd began to thin, and one by one, the lamps around the gathering were extinguished.
Still, neither of us wanted to leave.
Then, sometime after the music had nearly stopped, I heard a rooster crow in the distance.
I glanced at my watch.
It was already three o’clock in the morning.
“It’s getting late,” I told her. “I should probably take you home.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked at me with a smile that seemed strangely sad.
For some reason, I felt an overwhelming desire to hold her close.
We had spent hours together, and I thought perhaps she felt the same way I did. I slowly reached toward her arm, hoping to draw her closer. My hand moved toward her shoulder, ready to embrace her.
But my fingers touched nothing.
Nothing at all.
I froze.
I tried again, reaching into the darkness where her arm should have been. My hand passed through empty air.
My heart began pounding violently.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
There was no answer.
I lifted my kerosene lamp and turned toward her.
The flame flickered once.
Twice.
Then it went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
I scrambled to relight it, my hands trembling so badly that I could barely manage the match. When the flame finally returned, I raised the lamp and looked at the spot where she had been sitting.
She was gone.
There was no sound of footsteps. No rustling of leaves. No sign that anyone had moved away from the tree.
I was alone.
Then I noticed something that made the blood drain from my face.
The ground beside me was completely undisturbed. There were no footprints in the soft earth, no marks showing where she had sat, and no trace of anyone having been there at all.
I jumped to my feet and ran toward the disco area, shouting my friends’ names.
They were gathered near the road, preparing to head home. When they saw my face, they asked what had happened.
I told them everything—the beautiful girl, our conversation, the hours beneath the tree, and the moment my hand passed through her arm.
One of my friends went pale.
“Which tree?” he asked quietly.
I pointed toward the darkness.
He stared at it for a long moment before speaking.
“That tree,” he whispered, “is where a young woman was found dead years ago. They say she died on Halloween night while waiting for her lover.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody teased me.
We hurried home together, carrying our lamps as the first hints of dawn appeared along the horizon.
Even now, I sometimes wonder who that beautiful girl was and why she chose to spend the night talking to me.
Was she lonely? Was she waiting for someone who would never return? Or had she simply wanted company for one last Halloween night?
I never went back to that tree.
And whenever I remember her beautiful smile, I still feel the same cold fear creeping over my skin.
Because for a few unforgettable hours, I believed I had found someone special.
Only to discover that the girl beneath the tree might never have been alive at all.
