Gthe hosts are definitely not real. These were my words before we set off into the mountains of Baguio City. A group of delegates from our elementary school department were going to a leadership seminar at one of the most haunted places in the Philippines, Teachers Camp. Ghost stories abound from this spooky place where we were to stay for six days. It was known for its age and rumors that it was built on land associated with war. People see ghosts of war veterans and enemy soldiers kidnapping women. I thought I would never be able to experience something like this, but I was wrong.
The first day of the trip was fun, as I recall. We rode our bikes around the park and hung out in the hotel room of one of the delegates' parents. I hadn't even thought about where we were actually going to stay until, of course, I saw our dorm at Teachers Camp. The camp was huge, with a lot of dorms to stay in. But out of all the dorms we were assigned to, White Hall was the oldest and in the worst shape. The floor creaked with every step, and through the gap between the ceiling and the wall you could hear everything from teachers talking to other people's bags being dragged across the floor. Our toilets didn't even work properly. So every day I was afraid to go back to that dorm at night.
The long awaited first night in our room finally arrived and as usual I didn’t sleep well, I always have trouble falling asleep, whether at home or in the dreaded camp. Room 109 was our assigned place, four other girls stayed in the room with me and they were comfortable in this place, only a little disgusted by the counterproductive toilet. Anyway, as I said, I didn’t sleep well at all. I was awake until eleven o’clock, desperately trying to fall asleep, of course I left the delicate on, afraid that something might happen that night. Finally I fell asleep for about four hours and woke up again at 3:00 in the morning. “To hell with sleep” I thought. Luckily I had brought an captivating book from my sister. I read without interruption, but I was still a little suspicious for a few minutes. Until I heard something.
Footsteps. Faint, but getting closer. I stopped reading and waited to see if they would actually get louder. They did. Before anything got louder, I peeked outside the window of the room, but I couldn’t find anything, but the footsteps kept coming. Louder and closer as they came down the stairs and through the room. I went back to bed and just stayed there, sitting up straight, my ears eager to hear the footsteps. I was nervous, trying to serene myself down by saying that there were slow guests. But then the footsteps reached the entrance to the room, so abruptly that I could feel the bed moving as soon as the sounds came. I panicked and hid my head under the blanket. I hurriedly said my prayers while my friends slept soundly. I was afraid I would see something that I would remember for the rest of my life. The footsteps seemed to be approaching my bed. Then they stopped. I gathered my courage to look up from the blanket. I saw a white, murky figure with a slightly bloody face. It only lasted a few seconds, until I felt the need to hide from it. I hid under the blanket again. The footsteps came, but this time they became fainter and fainter until they disappeared, just like the figure. I was so scared I could barely sleep. Nothing more happened in room 109 for the next few days.
I told my friends about this ghost experience and they laughed about it. I know what I saw, whether it was a ghost or just my mind playing paranoid tricks on me. I still go to Teachers Camp and still hear stories of hauntings, even ones like mine, but hearing or reading a ghost story can never compare to the thrill of experiencing one.
