Read Under the Floorboards: A Short Horror Story Page 1



  Under the Floorboards

  Copyright 2015 Ann G. Luna

  https://writinglunacies.com/

  Cover Design by Jee Ann Guibone

  https://thebooktales.com/

  Table of Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  About the Author

  I.

  In a small barrio in Panglao, Bohol, Philippines, 2000

  Vanessa slapped the back of her neck. When she drew her hand back, she scrunched up her face at the spatter of blood on her palm and the crushed body of the mosquito - fat, and big.

  “You okay?” Jorge asked, hauling her backpack on his muscled shoulders.

  “Define okay,” Vanessa said. “Your mosquitoes here are as big as cows!”

  He chuckled. “Stop exaggerating.”

  She folded her arms and followed him up the rickety bus. She didn’t dare touch the rusty rails, its paint peeling off like a snake changing skin under the hot May sun.

  “I don’t understand why your sister had to marry in your hometown when she’s already living in Manila.” Although Vanessa liked her boyfriend’s older sister, she wasn’t up for traveling by air, then by land to a remote town where people’s houses were a mile away from each other. “They could have the wedding there!”

  Jorge led her deeper into the small bus, where two seats remained vacant. He stepped aside to let her take the window seat. She didn’t flash him a smile, however, when she swept passed him. He plopped down beside her, placing their luggage between his legs.

  “Couldn’t you have booked tickets on a better bus with an A/C?” she muttered, looking over Jorge’s head at the old woman and her boy on the seat beside them. The boy was fidgeting, constantly yapping and talking about everything under the sun.

  Jorge laughed. “I didn’t book tickets.”

  Vanessa stared at him, bug-eyed. “What? But –“ She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Right. I forgot we don’t do that here.”

  Jorge flung an arm around her shoulders, and pinched her nose, a habit he never got tired of, and one that was already starting to annoy her.

  “Plus,” Jorge said, squeezing her with his sinewy arms, “the only buses here are small and old. Anyway, you’ll love the landscape.”

  She pouted, but settled closer to his chest, watching the dingy terminal. The small bus started, its engine as noisy as the calls of the vendors shoving their wares near the windows. Bottled water. Hard-boiled eggs. Small oranges. Even calamay, the brown and sticky delicacy housed in coconut shells. She hated how it would stick to the roof of her mouth, but it always reminded her of provincial life, something so quintessentially Filipino.

  Her jacket vibrated against her waist. She took out her phone. Speak of the devil…

  “Your sister’s asking if we’re close.” She snorted. “Really? She expected faster transport? Congested streets in Manila, delayed flights, and long lines in the terminal. It’d be a miracle for this country to speed up.”

  Jorge pinched her nose again. “Ay, my pretty little New Yorker. Relax and just enjoy the ride. Tell Anita we’ll be there in a few.”

  “A few what, days?” But she sent Anita a text message anyway. There was a sting on her arm again, despite the dry heat of high noon. She slapped on her arm. “Damn bloodsuckers.”