Sometime during the third consecutive night spent huddled over the  toilet, insides heaving and shuddering as I vomit forth seemingly  everything I’d ever eaten, I realize what’s happening: He’s trying to  poison me. It’s all so elegant, so perfect, and so clear, that I almost  laugh, but another barrage of retching forces me into silence.

The next morning I threw everything in the kitchen away, wrapping  it three times in black plastic and burying it deep in the apartment's  communal trash cans, to prevent an unfortunate transient from the  crossfire of His wrath. I am out the door of the complex and halfway to  the corner store when I realize: He knows, must know, where I would  shop.

I pick a direction and walk, enjoying the chill winter air that  soothes the ragged shreds of my inside. I turn at random intervals,  following an improbable path out of my familiar neighborhood, until I  find a small shop with an unfamiliar name. Once inside, I hurriedly fill  a small plastic basket; brands that I never have eaten, strange tins of  ethnic ingredients I don't recognize, foods that I’d never thought of  buying. Soy milk. Tofu. I can feel my stomach reborn in anticipation of  an untainted meal.

Sometime during the third consecutive night spent huddled over the  toilet, insides heaving and shuddering as I vomit forth seemingly  everything I’d ever eaten, I realize what’s happening: He’s trying to  poison me. It’s all so elegant, so perfect, and so clear, that I almost  laugh, but another barrage of retching forces me into silence.

The next morning I threw everything in the kitchen away, wrapping  it three times in black plastic and burying it deep in the apartment's  communal trash cans, to prevent an unfortunate transient from the  crossfire of His wrath. I am out the door of the complex and halfway to  the corner store when I realize: He knows, must know, where I would  shop.

I pick a direction and walk, enjoying the chill winter air that  soothes the ragged shreds of my inside. I turn at random intervals,  following an improbable path out of my familiar neighborhood, until I  find a small shop with an unfamiliar name. Once inside, I hurriedly fill  a small plastic basket; brands that I never have eaten, strange tins of  ethnic ingredients I don't recognize, foods that I’d never thought of  buying. Soy milk. Tofu. I can feel my stomach reborn in anticipation of  an untainted meal.

This story happened, in October of  2004. Back when I was still a 3rd-year high school student. My friends  and I, stuck around the school, late at night, after our annual  Halloween Party. We had agreed to try out my friend's Ouija Board. It  wasn't the brightest idea, but we needed a thrill.

We  found a nice spot under a huge Narra Tree and proceeded with our  half-assed ritual. There were 5 of us, 2 boys and 3 girls, we were all  expecting some kind of paranormal contact. Rumors had it our school was  haunted, but we've never really experienced anything first hand, and it  was Halloween when all the spirits came out to play, we all wanted to  get spooked. Also, we've never seen a Ouija Board first hand before, so  we were pretty excited.

Our school  was an old Spanish Colonial House, built in the 1800's when the  Spaniards still occupied the Philippines. We were in a section of the  school that doesn't get used often. Located beside a creepy old Jesuit  House, people only go there when they needed the use the restroom, store  equipment on one of the sheds, or make out with their boyfriends or  girlfriends.

So you want to take a walk on the wild side, huh?

My dad and I, we're kind of junkies for this sort of thing. Now,  don't get me all wrong or misled here — you want to actually see and  touch the supernatural, right? You're not those kinds of people who just  "talk" about it and then chicken out. You see a horror film, you think  of plans on how to observe it and beat it. Or even use it to your  advantage. You're the kind of person who would enjoy seeking a hunt.

Unfortunately, I can't tell you how many times my father and I  went out to find nothing. It happens, you know. Can't ask the  supernatural to appear on a whim.

Everyone in San Antonio area knows the story of La Llorona and  any child could tell you that La Llorona walks the banks of a river,  crying and seeking out the children she drowned before she can enter  Heaven. I'm pretty sure, after hearing all the stories, she's not a  particularly vengeful spirit.

If you don't know La Llorona, you need to research her story for  yourself. You personally need to make a decision. I am not going to type  out her backstory for you because it takes away your choice on whether  or not you want to pursue the hunt. So stop right here if you're a  Yankee from the North or need a refresher on the spooky tale. You'll  only fool yourself into thinking you're ready when you're really just  unprepared.

“I’m… not sure what’s happening to me. I just… started to like it… the...”

He  was visibly shaking now, holding his hands up to his face to see the  earthquake that was erupting inside him, as well as making sure that it  was truly him. He shoved the next word out in an almost unintelligible  stutter. “P-pain.”

The  winter-spring night transition confused me, humidity licked the air,  and as soon as it was finished waving its tongue around, the cold night  air froze my body, keeping me alert. However, I didn’t need it. I felt  my jaw hug the floor as my friend slowly dipped his mind into the pool  of madness. When he dragged me outside, away from the party (much to my  displeasure), I was propping myself up against the railing of my porch,  but at this point I manned up and stood straight up to face my friend.

Every day on the bus ride to school through the country, I would see  it: the Mommet. That’s what we all called it, but no one seemed to know  who had called it that first.

The Mommet was an old scarecrow, sitting atop the shallow valley  my bus route cut through. The field it was intended to guard had long  ago been abandoned, surrendered to grass and weeds and wild-growing  Indian corn. Backdropped against it was an old woodlot filled with too  many dead trees to count, long overdue for felling. Perpetually perched  in those naked branches was a murder of crows, inexplicably indifferent  to the insidiously imposing scarecrow beneath them.

The first thing that most people would probably notice about the  Mommet was that it had been deliberately and irreverently placed on a  life-sized cross. Its outstretched arms had been bound at the wrists to  the horizontal beam, its body sagging under its own weight in an  undeniable mockery of Christ’s crucifixion.

Even more bizarre was the fact that the Mommet’s head had been  made from a leather plague doctor’s mask topped with a wide-brimmed  black hat. Combined with dark gloves and a tattered black cloak on its  outstretched arms, the Mommet had apparently been made in the image of  the crows it was meant to fend off.

Every day on the bus ride to school through the country, I would see  it: the Mommet. That’s what we all called it, but no one seemed to know  who had called it that first.

The Mommet was an old scarecrow, sitting atop the shallow valley  my bus route cut through. The field it was intended to guard had long  ago been abandoned, surrendered to grass and weeds and wild-growing  Indian corn. Backdropped against it was an old woodlot filled with too  many dead trees to count, long overdue for felling. Perpetually perched  in those naked branches was a murder of crows, inexplicably indifferent  to the insidiously imposing scarecrow beneath them.

The first thing that most people would probably notice about the  Mommet was that it had been deliberately and irreverently placed on a  life-sized cross. Its outstretched arms had been bound at the wrists to  the horizontal beam, its body sagging under its own weight in an  undeniable mockery of Christ’s crucifixion.

Even more bizarre was the fact that the Mommet’s head had been  made from a leather plague doctor’s mask topped with a wide-brimmed  black hat. Combined with dark gloves and a tattered black cloak on its  outstretched arms, the Mommet had apparently been made in the image of  the crows it was meant to fend off.

It started with the wood splinters on the porch.

It  was a new apartment, in a new town; the aftermath of a death in the  family followed by a rough break-up. I suspected I was already paying  over the odds to stay there, so naturally, learning that the place  mightn’t be structurally sound left me less than impressed.

I  called the Landlord immediately, asking him if he could send a  maintenance guy out to check for necessary repairs. But when I told him  about the wood splinters I’d found, the line went quiet. When he finally  spoke again, he made some excuse about being busy and offered to call  me back later.

Only he didn’t, and I couldn’t get him to answer my calls.