Safe Spaces

In the Laundry Room

I am a late-thirties landlady of a rental house. A strict one—too strict, perhaps. I would notify my tenants a week before, and if they would not pay on or before the day itself, I would be forced to place their things outside their rented apartments and then install a new lock so they could not enter. I had done this many times, although it never came to a point where the occupant really left the apartment, as they would pay while my workers were removing their belongings or just a day after I place the "Room for Rent" sign. They could not complain as this was part of our notarized written agreement.

A week ago, Theresa, an occupant, begged me to extend the deadline for payment. One, her mother was sick, and two, it was tuition period. I knew she worked part-time while also studying—I think she told me she was a pharmacy student—and that she paid for her college tuition, the rent, and her own needs.

"Why did you allow your parents to let you pay for your own studies?" I asked, intrigued by her situation.

"This is my own decision, Mrs. Talia," she replied. "My parents believed that a high school diploma was enough, and anything beyond that was my own decision."

"So you chose that path then?"

She didn't answer.

"And you have to pay for your mother's hospital bills too?" I continued. "Don't you think they're just milking money from you?"

"I don't think so, Mrs. Talia. They sent me pictures—"

"Then sell your phone. Sell your things. There are ways to make money and pay me, dear. If I would extend yours, then I must extend the others' too, which I won't. I am expecting the payment tomorrow."

I remember her leaving my house, discouraged and weak, but business was business. She wasn't replying to my texts anymore, so I thought she made a way to pay me. But she neither messaged me that she had sent money online nor came to me to give me cash, so I was forced to unlock her space. It was vacant.

When I went upstairs, I saw a notebook on top of the empty desk. It was Theresa's planner. Out of curiosity, I went to the date today and found an entry:

Did laundry today to calm down. But I can't. It was as if Mrs. Talia wanted to ask me, "Then why are you still living?" At that moment, I didn't know what to answer. Unempathetic. Rotten. Selfish. Curse her! I am angry. I am angry. I am angry. I hope she feels my anger until the day she dies.

Weirded out, I took my lighter and burned the page on the spot before deciding to leave. But while going downstairs, I heard flowing water coming from the laundry room. Thinking that she might have left the faucet connected to the washing machine via a hose running, I checked. It wasn't.

Then something from above fell on my neck. Like newly burnt cinders of singed ash. It hurt.

I looked above and over my shoulder, but nothing was burning.

Then I returned my gaze to the faucet . . . and there was Theresa. Her face seemed to fume with rage.

I screamed and ran outside as fast as I could, and when my neighbors asked what was wrong, I frantically explained that Theresa had bad intentions. Instead of pity and worry, however, my neighbors' eyebrows crossed, saying "Theresa left this morning with her things, telling us she didn't reach your deadline."

I hated that I didn't think of my actions and realized that I only brought a negative reputation to my rental spaces. Good thing I got up immediately and dismissed it as a hallucination brought by stress.

The day after was laundry day, so I went to the laundry room and checked if there was still detergent. When I got there, it suddenly felt extremely hot, and my neck stung from something burning. I went inside to bring out the electric fan, and then I heard flowing water. When I turned, I saw Theresa pass by.

A hallucination, I concluded. But this went on for days. I would always see Theresa walking back and forth in the laundry area. When I confessed what I was seeing to my children, they told me to get some rest and treat myself to a vacation. "Maybe you're feeling regret," they told me.

Fast forward to today, I am with parents in San Manuel, Pangasinan. They're old, by they could still bike around the town, my father in particular. They believed me when I told them I saw the hallucinations of my occupant and even arranged a schedule with an albularyo.

After a trip to the city, my parents slept in their living room as I prepared our dinner. While washing the dishes, however, I heard flowing water from their backyard.

"Ma?" I called. "Are you doing the laundry?"

"No," my mother replied.

"I think the hose is open."

"Just close it, dear. I may have opened it. I'm not sure."

So I gently dropped the dishes and proceeded to the back part of the house where their laundry area was. There was no flowing water in the hose, so I thought it could have been from the tank.

Just as I was about to go there, I felt something burning behind me. Fire.

I shouted for help, but no voice came out. When I decided to run toward the tank, I saw Theresa, her eyes staring angrily at me.

Falling to my knees, scared of what I was seeing, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw her in front of me, smiling . . . then burning.

My mother and father ran to me when they heard me crying like a child. I told them what I saw, and they could only look at each other and comfort me.

Another week passed by, but it was all the same for every house I step into—flowing water, scorching feeling, an angry Theresa. My parents and children told me to ask for her forgiveness, and I did try to get in touch, but I could no longer reach her. I even changed my old ways, but no effect. And even though I avoided the laundry room, I hear flowing water, see fire, and feel Theresa's fuming, glaring eyes every time . . . everywhere.

I had many regrets, but Theresa made me regret that day forever. I should have made a compromise. I should have empathized with her. I should have been kinder.

But it is all too late.

Now every time I see her, the cinders do not appear as tiny ashes anymore but gigantic whirlwinds of flame, engulfing me, as if I were being burned alive by her anger for eternity.