In 1995, in Metro Manila, a family of seven disappeared, leaving behind only a note: “Going to visit relatives for a few days.” Ten years later, the community was shocked by the chilling secret hidden deep inside the disappearance…

In 1995, in the suburbs of Quezon City, a Filipino family of seven disappeared overnight. They left behind only a hastily written note in Tagalog: “Babalik kami pagkalipas ng ilang araw. Dadalaw lang sa kamag-anak.” (We will be back in a few days, just visiting relatives). But no one returned. The small house, the old car in the garage, the unfinished meals on the table — everything stood still as if time had stopped. For 10 years, the community in the barangay gossiped about everything. Until one day, a chance encounter revealed the chilling secret.

The family was the home of Mang Ben and Aling Lani. They had four children: two boys and two girls; Lola Nena (Mang Ben’s mother) moved in with them. The house was always filled with laughter and the smell of adobo and sinigang wafting up every afternoon. Filipino neighbors often said, “That house always smells pleasant, like warm rice.”

Mang Ben worked in a car repair shop, Aling Lani helped cook at a mami-pares restaurant near EDSA. Life was not rich but stable, full of love. The children would come home from school and gather around the table, telling stories about school; Lola Nena would occasionally nag them because they were more interested in playing than studying. In the summer of 1995, the whole family was still helping out at the barangay fiesta: Aling Lani was smiling, Mang Ben was busy setting up the parol light, the children were running around the church yard. There was no sign of trouble.

One morning, neighbor Aling Sara came over to ask Mang Ben to help check the gas stove. She knocked on the door many times but no one answered. The door was unlocked, and when I entered, I found the house dead silent. There were dishes on the dining table, and the adobo pot was still warm. On the wooden table next to the door was a handwritten note: “Babalik kami pagkalipas ng ilang araw…” The car was still in the garage, the suitcase was still in the closet. The PNP was called, but at the time they thought it was just a short trip.

Days followed days, then months. The family did not return. Letters and bills piled up at the gate. Rumors spread throughout the barangay: they had run away from debt, they had been kidnapped, and some even vaguely said that Mang Ben had been involved in shady business dealings. But there was no evidence, no trace. The house gradually became a “bahay multo” – a haunted house – in the eyes of the people around.

Time passed, and the house deteriorated. Weeds covered the yard. Sometimes people saw flickering lights inside, even though the door was always locked. Children in the neighborhood dared each other to go to the backyard, then screamed because they heard footsteps upstairs.

In 2005, a group of young people in the community decided to investigate, wanting to prove that the ghost story was just a rumor. One summer evening, they took flashlights and cameras and sneaked into the abandoned house.

Inside, there was a thick layer of dust, but strangely, there was no sign of vandalism. There was a family photo frame on the dresser; coats were neatly hung in the dresser. It seemed that all seven of them had just stepped out and never returned. One of the group noticed that the calendar on the wall stopped at June 1995 — the exact time they disappeared.

Looking closely under the bed, they found a wooden box. Inside were several handwritten letters in Tagalog, written in shaky handwriting. The content was fragmentary, mentioning the fear of being “followed,” and a vague line: “If anything happens, look under the tree behind the house.”

The next day, the group returned to dig in the back garden. Under the damp soil, they found an old tin box. Inside was not gold or silver, but a yellowed notebook. The first page read: “We are no longer safe. Someone knows the family’s secret.”

The news spread like wildfire throughout the barangay. People began to ask: Was the family really visiting relatives, or had they run away from something more terrible?

The PNP was called in again, and the NBI also turned over old files. But after so long, the clues were fuzzy. The notebook contained many fragments: sometimes like a code, sometimes just a prayer. One page mentioned “a blood debt in the old hometown,” another page said “a stalker from the dark.”

The elders whispered that Mang Ben had been involved in a boat trip in the late 1970s and 1980s, carrying a grudge from his old town in the South. Others said it was possible that the whole family had been lured to a distant province to work as illegal laborers. None of these theories were confirmed.

The most chilling thing happened a few months after the notebook was found. One of the young men said he kept getting strange calls, with only sighs on the other end. At night, he sometimes saw the shadow of a woman wearing a white baro’t saya standing by the window, then disappearing.

The house was eventually sealed by the barangay, and the city decided to demolish it to build a small commercial area. But those who had passed by still said they sometimes heard children laughing in the wind, or the faint smell of adobo.

The story ended without a clear ending. Seven people disappeared without a trace, leaving behind a short piece of paper and a gloomy notebook. Ten years later, the secret revealed only made everything more mysterious. In the midst of a seemingly peaceful life, there are still dark corners that no one dares to touch.