I used to study at Far Eastern University. I used to stay late at the Nicanor Reyes Hall, cramming in the library on the third floor. I thought the building was just old—creaky floors, flickering lights, that faint smell of rust near the stairwell. I didn’t know that smell wasn’t just rust.

Very few people ever knew about the 2:43 a.m. phenomenon. Neither did I, honestly. I only found out through an FEU Drummer friend who always had to stay late. He said that every early morning, the CCTV glitched at exactly 2:43 a.m.—one frozen frame filled with silhouettes wearing tattered uniforms. He just laughed about it and said the ghosts of Kempetai were doing their rounds alongside the security guards.

Mang Ben, a night guard, was the loudest skeptic, though. He said ghosts wouldn’t dare show themselves to him. One night, November 1 to be exact, he said he’d finally catch them on camera.

“Para matapos na ‘tong kalokohang ‘to,” he told the rest of the security guards.

He locked himself inside the library before midnight.

At 5:00 a.m., the janitor found him.

The lights were on, buzzing weakly. The air stank of iron, incense, and something else—like wet, burned meat. Mang Ben was kneeling in front of a wall, his flashlight abandoned on the floor beside him. His head was bowed low, trembling. His uniform was soaked dark brown down the front, but there were no reports of any injuries. At least, any they could see.

He was whispering, voice raw and cracked, “sumimasen… sumimasen…”

Over and over. Like he was begging for forgiveness.

When they tried to touch him, he screamed. Not a word, just a sound—hoarse and animalistic. His fingernails were broken, torn down to the quick. Like he had tried digging a hole through the floors. When the medics arrived, they had to sedate him but even sedated, his mouth kept moving, whispering.

The head of security pulled the CCTV data. Everything from that night was corrupted—static, digital noise, warped sounds—except one frame.

2:43:06 a.m.

It showed Mang Ben standing stiff in the same spot they had found him. Behind him, shadows filled the aisles—men in old uniforms, their faces blurred like melted wax. You could see faint glints on their hands. Rings? No, metal hooks. Shackles. One figure looked up at the camera, neck bent in an ungodly angle, and you could see its eyes: sunken, lidless, leaking something rotten.

The file ended there.

The next day, Mang Ben was reported missing from the hospital. No transfer record, no signature, no family to claim him. Just his empty bed, sheets soaked in something that smelled like decomposing fish.

They say if you stay in the library too late, the clock on your phone will jump forward a few hours. It’ll freeze for one minute—2:43—and the air will get thick, heavy.

And you’ll hear a voice behind you. Wet. Broken.

“Sumimasen… sumimasen…”

- Beatrice Diane D. Bartolome

(Illustration by Kamil Gelyzah Celi/FEU Advocate)