The 70-year-old man had lived alone for 50 years and had made a rule forbidding women from entering his house. I sneaked in at midnight, and the scene inside scared me for the rest of my life.

I was born and raised in a small barangay. At the end of the village road, there was an old bahay-kahoy, where a 70-year-old man had lived alone for decades. People called him “Mang Tagak” (a nickname given by the villagers). No one in the village knew much about his past, but he had a strange rule: absolutely no women were allowed to enter his house.

Whenever a woman passed by, he slammed the capiz window shut. If anyone accidentally touched the steps, he would angrily chase them away. Therefore, the house became taboo and mysterious. Adults avoided it, and children were curious. As for me, the older I got, the more curious I became.

One moonlit night, the amihan wind whistling through the coconut trees and bamboo bushes, I decided to do what no one in the village dared to try: sneak into that house.

As the clock struck midnight, I crept across the deserted eskinita, my heart pounding. The rotten wooden gate creaked open. In the darkness, the house appeared gloomy, as if swallowing me.

Inside, the house was so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat. The smell of old wood mixed with the smell of burnt incense made me suffocate. I walked slowly, my eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness.

Then I suddenly froze.

All over the four walls were hung portraits of women. Some were charcoal drawings on rough paper, some were faded watercolors. Dozens, then hundreds of faces with different looks: sad, melancholy, sometimes a gentle smile. But all exuded an indescribable coldness, as if they were watching my every step.

In the middle of the main room, neatly placed is a bust of a young woman, with a gentle face and long flowing hair. The moonlight through the crack of the capiz door shines down on the statue, making it seem soulful, lifelike and creepy.

I trembled and stepped back when suddenly I heard a hoarse cough coming from behind:

— “Who… who dares to come in here?”

I turned around. Mang Tagak stood there, his figure thin, his eyes old but still bright. That gaze seemed to pierce my heart. I stammered an apology, but he just sighed and sat down on a low wooden chair.

He did not get angry, but began to tell.

When he was 20 years old, he had a deep love affair with a girl named Lilia. The whole barangay admired their love. But in a jeepney accident right before the wedding day, Lilia passed away. That shock turned Mang Tagak to stone. He vowed never to let any woman enter his house again, because in his heart there was only one figure.

Those paintings, those statues were how he kept his memories. Every night, he sat alone, under the flickering oil lamp, drawing that face over and over again from his memory. Year after year, he turned the house into his own “memory temple”, to worship his lost love.

Hearing this, I shuddered—not because of fear, but because I could feel the pain and utter loneliness in his hoarse voice. People thought he was eccentric, but in fact he was just an old man, stuck in the past and unable to escape.

He looked at me, his eyes softening:

— “You are the first person to dare to enter this place. You see… there are no ghosts. There is only an old fool still talking to his memories.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just bowed my head in silence. That night, I left his house near dawn, my heart heavy.

Later, every time I passed the bahay-kahoy at the end of the road, I was no longer afraid. Instead, I felt pity for a heart that had been buried for half a century because of an unfulfilled promise.

His story made me understand: there are wounds that time never heals, we can only learn to live with them. And sometimes, a small altar with a fragrant bunch of sampaguita is warmer than any rumors outside. I was born and raised in a small barangay. At the end of the village road, there was an old bahay-kahoy, where a seventy-year-old man had lived alone for decades. People called him “Mang Tagak” (a nickname given by the villagers). No one in the village knew his past, only that he had set a strange rule: absolutely no women were allowed to enter his house.

When women passed by, he slammed the capiz window. Whoever accidentally touched the steps, he would immediately scold and chase them away. Therefore, the house became taboo, full of mystery. Adults avoided it, children were curious. As for me, the older I got, the more curious I became.

One moonlit night, the amihan wind whistling through the coconut trees and bamboo bushes, I decided to do something no one in the village dared to try: sneak into that house.

As the clock struck midnight, I crept across the deserted eskinita, my heart pounding. The rotten wooden gate creaked open. In the darkness, the house appeared gloomy, as if swallowing me.

Inside, the house was so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat. The smell of old wood mixed with the smell of burnt incense made me suffocate. I walked slowly, my eyes gradually getting used to the darkness.

Then I suddenly froze.

All four walls were hung with portraits of women. Some were charcoal drawings on rough paper, some were faded watercolors. Dozens, then hundreds of faces with different looks: sad, melancholy, sometimes a gentle smile.

But all of them exuded an indescribable coldness, as if they were watching my every step.

In the middle of the main room, neatly placed was a bust of a young woman, with a gentle face and long, flowing hair. The moonlight filtered through the crack in the capiz door, shining down on the statue, making it seem soulful and terrifyingly alive.

I trembled and stepped back when suddenly I heard a hoarse cough coming from behind:

— “Who… who dares to come in here?”

I turned around. Mang Tagak was standing there, his figure thin, his eyes old but still bright. That gaze seemed to pierce my heart. I stammered an apology, but he just sighed and sat down on a low wooden chair.

He did not get angry, but began to tell.

When he was 20, he had a deep love affair with a girl named Lilia. The whole barangay admired their love. But in a jeepney accident right before the wedding, Lilia died. The shock turned Mang Tagak into stone. He vowed never to let another woman enter his house again, because in his heart there was only one figure.

Those paintings and statues were his way of preserving his memories. Every night, he sat alone, under the flickering light of a kerosene lamp, drawing that face over and over again from memory. Year after year, he turned the house into his own “memory temple,” to worship his lost love.

Hearing this, I shuddered—not because of fear, but because I could feel the pain and utter loneliness in his hoarse voice. People thought he was eccentric, but in fact he was just an old man, trapped in the past and unable to escape.

He looked at me, his eyes softening:

— “You are the first person to dare to enter this place. You see… there are no ghosts. There is only an old fool still talking to his memories.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just bowed my head in silence. That night, I left his house near dawn, my heart heavy.

Later, every time I passed the bahay-kahoy at the end of the street, I was no longer afraid. Instead, I felt sorry for a heart that had been buried for half a century because of an unfulfilled promise.

His story made me understand: there are wounds that time never heals, we can only learn to live with them. And sometimes, a small altar with a fragrant bunch of sampaguita is warmer than all the rumors outside.