A short queer thriller story by Alaric Cabiling

Content Warning: This short story was not written for children. Reading discretion is advised for ages 18 and below.

My name is Carmichael Agoncillo, and I am a mystic with a PhD in philosophy from the University of the Philippines in Quezon City, which gives me the title Dr. Agoncillo, although Carmichael is fine, since I find philosophy boring now. I loved dark art, music, and books about the esoteric. Back in my late teens, I played traditional Filipino instruments in clubs, describing my music as an integral part of shamanic healing, before I gigged as an amateur illusionist at carnivals, where I also blended potions for the heartbroken and desperate. After living in a moldy, dingy apartment building in crowded Quezon City since starting college, I boldly joined the rat race to get ahead.

Being a lanky thirty-year-old with a mustache and goatee didn’t help me stand out in a crowd. My slicked-back, mobster-looking hair and long-sleeved T-shirts and denim made for an awkward match. My soft, delicate, effeminate features gave me a homely appearance, even at night when I typically dressed up and looked more flamboyant. My shoddy, old apartment contained the most obvious signs of mysticism: Filipino instruments like bangibang, precious stones and crystals, Philippine tarot decks featuring mythological creatures and demons, and strange figurines. What I truly wanted was an apartment with space downstairs for a shop, to give the place an ethnic Philippine motif, replete with sculptures and symbols scrawled on the walls and floors, fancying myself the leader of a shamanic cult.

I worked at a hospital pathology lab as a research assistant, using my writing and editing skills to assist academics with their scientific research papers. Red, brown, and black pulpy masses of flesh swam in jars of formaldehyde inside the lab. Some were recognizable: decapitated heads with hair strands floating in the liquid like jellyfish tentacles, fingers with entire portions of fingernails torn off, mutilated vaginas sectioned off from pelvic areas, bisected labrums, tattered heart muscle excised after massive cardiac arrests, and soles of feet cut from muscle and bone. Many jars came and went. Some were evidence from crime scenes, while others were excised to investigate the true causes of death. Either way, I thought that the environment suited me. I loved telling stories to friends during drinking sessions: the body party story about one patient’s specimens numbering in the hundreds, the jaws of death story about shreds of human meat found caught between a patient’s teeth, a love story of conjoined twins and their shared heart, etcetera. I liked my job if not loved it. Still, I wished I made more money.

 I was queer but single, taking out my loneliness on ambition. I couldn’t find another gay man with similar interests, finding most mystics sharply attuned to yoga and astrology. I had just gotten over my one-time fling, Theo, a surgical technician across town who had ghosted me.

I didn’t have trouble making friends who identified as spiritual but not religious, but I was unsuccessful meeting men who were intently curious about esoteric occult practice and paranormal phenomena. I secretly found it wickedly devious and sexy for gay men to consider themselves diabolists—despite having no experience of my own. 

Philippine General Hospital’s Department of Pathology’s Department Chair, Dr. Hilario de Dios, was my boss. He was a quiet man who busied himself with work. He headed a family of four: his spouse, Emily, was a housewife, and his two children were also physicians. He didn’t consider my preoccupations cumbersome to my profession, although he did tell peers it was odd.

Part of my routine included reporting to Dr. de Dios first thing in the morning. Next, I assisted Dr. de Dios’s secretary during meetings and presentations. I collaborated with de Dios’s colleagues to complete their many research papers, serving as my boss’s liaison. Finally, I spent the rest of the day splitting time between the lab and my desk, correcting and editing reports. Although I was grateful to have independence at my job—answering only to Dr. de Dios—I was in a holding pattern, waiting for the next blue whale to come out of nowhere. After workdays, I shared stories with friends over beer, despite starting to find the weekends dull. My apartment felt too small and familiar, and my being single had become a deterrent to experiences both refreshing and stimulating. 

Since I helped edit and fact-check the scientific articles penned by my boss, I had many stories to tell my friends, since many of my own life details were too boring to mention.

Just like Korean heartthrob Theo, the boyfriend who broke up with me after finally sleeping with me and then ghosting me, I didn’t have much good news to share with curious companions. Getting out of the long rut was painful and exhausting.

It was Christmas season. The hospital was decked with holly and mistletoe. I was ready for another day at work when a curious specimen found its way into the lab.

“It’s called the third eye, Carmichael,” Dr. de Dios said. I was puzzled. Humans had what was called the pineal gland, the mother of all glands. It was also referred to as the third eye, the all-seeing eye. It was considered the most crucial chakra—the meeting point between mankind’s healthy physical functioning and their cosmic spiritual energy. It was the seat of divine consciousness.

“So, it’s a pineal gland, Doctor. Understood,” I said in acknowledgment. No, I shouldn’t have been surprised. It must have been any regular human pineal gland in a jar of formaldehyde. Nothing more, I thought. Dr. de Dios smiled like he’d caught me asleep on first watch.

“No, Carmichael. Not just any pineal gland. You’ll have to see for yourself. There’s a reason we’ve excised it from the patient’s body. A unique reason.”

I debated whether to question Dr. de Dios’s excitement regarding the specimen. I often allowed Dr. de Dios to retain the upper hand in discussions to preserve my job security. Without speaking at length (and at liberty), I acknowledged the specimen’s possible value to research. Still, when most called for, I would save the day and remind my boss that he was merely too excited to see my point. Nothing special here. Moving on.

“I wonder if it’s a tumor then, Dr. de Dios. Pineal glands are typically excised and biopsied due to inoperable tumors that can cause death. Could this be large enough for the record books, then? Could that be it?”

“Fine guess, Carmichael,” the doctor answered. “But you’ll have to see for yourself. I’ll give you one tidbit of information to further enliven your curiosity. The reason why this patient’s pineal gland was excised was that…”

I waited. The moment seemed to last for eternity while my mouth gaped open ever so slightly. What is it? Come on.

“Because the patient was a renowned psychic,” Dr. de Dios said.

* * *

I didn’t rush to the lab. I took my time, walking down the corridors, getting snacks from the cafeteria, and taking them to my desk. A presence watched over my shoulder. I felt the hair on my neck stick up, my skin crawl, and goosebumps.

But lots of people die in hospitals, I thought. I’d heard plenty of stories: staff members following patients out of the elevators only to find the latter gone in the hallways; passersby finding patients in bed peering at them from inside their rooms, only for the former to circle back and find the rooms empty. I was used to it. As a mystic, it made me feel connected to the spirit world.

I was at my desk when the new report came in from the lab. Dr. de Dios’s pathology report was ready for me to scrutinize, so I trotted downstairs to get the report finalized for the billing department.

When I descended the steps and opened the door to the basement hallway,  plenty of media crews were working the scene. This wasn’t new. Too many glitzy crime cases made the news, and the pathology lab gave clues as to the guilty party. I parted the crowd of reporters, and they let me pass after briefly hounding me for comments.

 When I entered the lab, the staff members were visibly anxious. I suited up and approached Dr. de Dios’s secretary, Marsha, who was busy typing reports at one of the desks.

“Marsha, what seems to be the problem here? Mukhang natatakot yung mga staff. It looks like the staff members are spooked,” I asked.

Marsha faced me with a worried look of her own.

“Yung mata, Carmichael. The eye! It’s in the specimen room.”

I laughed. Kita mo tong matandang ‘to. Takutin, I thought. Look at this superstitious woman. She gets scared so easily.

Marsha was in her early sixties, nearing retirement age. She wasn’t known as someone superstitious. She was soft-spoken and worked without complaining. She’d never reacted that way before.

“You mean the pineal gland, Marsha?” I said, eyebrow raised, half-grinning. “I’ll take a look…with my third eye!”

Marsha had a parting shot.

“Mag-ingat ka, ha? Be careful. Don’t make it angry!” she said. She didn’t look like she was kidding, and she very rarely did.

I walked away, annoyed.

“That’s bullshit, Marsha. We work for a hospital,” I said under my breath. I decided to be the strong one. I punched the large button on the wall, and the specimen room doors opened.

Inside, I adjusted to the brighter lights and frigid temperatures while also realizing the place was empty. No one was working. Huh? I found the enshrouded object on the bottom shelf between the microscope and dictation machine. All the other specimens were on the top shelves, exposed in their glass jars. Entire colons. Excised livers. Nicotine-and-tar-filled sets of lungs. Discolored kidneys. Ruptured appendices. 

But down on the bottom shelf sat the stately object that looked like a raven’s cage in a mad scientist’s mansion on a hill, concealed by a mortuary drape to keep faring eyes away. 

I decided to put a stop to the madness.

“Okay, let’s unwrap our little Christmas present,” I said to the jar. “I wonder why the other staff members are playing Grinch.”

Without further ado, I pulled back the covers, exclaiming, “Voilà!”

* * *

I was left speechless.

It didn’t look like any regular pineal gland. Stalactites of flesh floated in the formaldehyde like an alien creature’s extremities. In the very center was an orb, an eyeball. The retina extended from the eyeball down the trail of pulpy pink flesh, as if the pineal gland had belonged to a cyclopean-eyed creature—a one-eyed giant human. I read the operative report on the shelf, which said the patient had stood over seven feet tall; the orb had been formerly hidden beneath skin, subcutaneous tissue, and bone. Are you kidding? I stared at the specimen and found the eye now gazing back at me. The pupil had even moved, dilating open.

Feeling the goosebumps and meeting the eye’s gaze, I tried to see whether it would move this time, remembering what Dr. de Dios had said. Struck by how odd it was to be alone in the room, I realized that last observation no longer seemed true: I wasn’t alone. I was in the presence of the eye. I swallowed hard and decided I was being infantile.

I struggled to remember what Filipino shamans had said about the pineal gland. The idea of the third eye, the all-seeing eye, was one shared by Filipino Indigenous tribes. Like yogis who recommended meditation to stimulate the pineal gland, Filipino shamans suggested that people close their eyes and focus on the space between their brows, play native Filipino music, and burn natural oils to produce stimulating scents. The ceremonies were designed to enhance hormonal balance and normalize sleep patterns, thus helping maintain good health. Because the pineal gland was the mother of all glands, it was interpreted to be the seat of physical and divine power, the mechanism that controlled most bodily functions. 

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was Theo. Shocked, I answered.

“Hello?”

“Carmichael, how are you? It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has,” I replied, unwilling to be friendly just yet.

“It just occurred to me that you might be lonely,” Theo said.

“No. I’m at work, Theo. I’m good.”

“Are you sure? We can get together later if you like?”

“Huh?”

I wasn’t certain what to say. Theo was my old flame. But Theo was a loser. And I had clung to my job out of despair after he had ghosted me. Why was Theo calling me out of the blue? 

“Theo, I’m busy, and anyway, you left me hanging after sleeping with me one night and never speaking to me again, even after I’d called you many times. You embarrassed me. How dare you call so suddenly!”

He reasoned. “Look, it just wasn’t right. I wasn’t ready. I’ve been thinking about you all this time, and I’m lonely too. I’ve been lonely the whole time. Let’s meet for dinner, okay?”

My stomach turned. Wasn’t ready? Was Theo crazy? At least tell me that personally right after the sex. Not two years after the incident, like you just want second helpings. I daydreamed of a scene where I was getting back at Theo, but I dropped it immediately and thought of dismissing his invite instead. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Theo.”

“I’ll make you dinner. At my place.”

I briefly thought of something to say to Theo to twist the dagger. Hurt him. You know? Badly.

You can’t even make fishcake. Your kimchi tastes rotten. So does your cock.

I couldn’t. But I was curious about leaving Theo on the spot after the sex—a little tit for tat.

“Yes, why don’t we meet for dinner?” I said.

“Excellent. I’ll make stuffed peppers and trotters. Mwah! Ciao, baby!”

“Uh…ciao, Theo.”

I returned my attention to the eye in the jar and felt the urge to run out of the room fast.

* * *

I didn’t finish the operative report. I planned to leave it for the next day, but I stared straight into the third eye again and daydreamed of winning the lottery. What did I have to lose? If there was no truth to the rumors surrounding the specimen, what could possibly happen? What was there to gain but the satisfaction of ending the workday with a scientific article partially credited to my handywork? Or maybe millions of pesos and an early retirement were waiting, should our research gain worldwide acclaim.

I left for the day, excited to have a date with Theo, not at all mad at myself for agreeing. Still, I was conflicted about planning to sleep with Theo and then ghosting him to get even. Refusing to tell anyone, I watched everyone wish one another a pleasant evening after work was through, not letting my excitement show.

When I arrived at Theo’s place, he greeted me warmly. Theo didn’t look a year over twenty; he looked boyish and cute. He wore trendy clothing inspired by K-Pop bands, the type that suited him. He let me in, and I took a seat at the dining table, finding Theo’s furnishings and fixtures fashionable and much more upscale, if not minimalist and boring. Theo asked how my day went, heading to his bedroom to change.

“Not bad, Theo. Happy to hear from you. What are you doing now? It’s been a long time. What a surprise!”

“Oh, you know. Just looking around. I had my eye on you the entire time.”

“Really? You really thought about me? I thought I’d never see you again.” I said, feigning delight.

“Close your eyes,” Theo said.

I did. The next time Theo spoke, he told me to open them. He was standing in front of me with a mark on his forehead and a scalpel in his hand. He looked different.

I got the creeps. Oh no! He’s morphed into some crazed maniac! Some killer!

“Theo, what the hell is wrong with your face? Why do you have that mark on your forehead like Hindu women? And I know that you’re a surgical tech at your job, but why don’t we use cutlery to eat the stuffed peppers?” I asked.

To my shock, Theo began making an incision down one section of his face, cutting between his brows, above his nose, and bisecting his forehead. He ripped off the very thin subcutaneous tissue and revealed the posterior, dripping blood all over his clothes. I could see the facial muscles, but not the tiny pineal gland beneath the skull connected to nerves across his face and attached to the eyeballs.

Behind Theo, I found his hand drill in plain view. But what was it for?

What the hell? 

Theo grabbed the tool, which was plugged into a wall socket. I wanted to scream, but I froze.

“I am the all-seeing eye,” Theo said in a baritone growl, like a man possessed. “I will grant you your wishes, so you may believe.”

My eyes widened in shock, terror, and amazement. The eye? I remembered. 

Theo raised the drill, somehow planning to use it on his own face. I couldn’t look. I closed my eyes.

And the next thing I knew, I awoke in the specimen lab of the hospital, raising my head from my crisscrossed arms on the desk, where I had apparently taken a nap, having just seen a vision, a nightmare. I took a big gulp of air, glancing at the jar holding the pineal gland, where the specimen had since turned around. I refrained from staring, seeing the large eye no longer peering back at me.

Instinctively, I looked at my phone and saw the caller ID. Yes, Theo had just contacted me. That part had been real.

I ran out of the specimen room, then out of the lab. I ran out of the hospital and looked up at the sky. 

A maelstrom of clouds swirled above me like a torrential rain was about to pour. The eye of the storm was visible. It was not a large void where the clouds were calm, dark, and deep. Instead, I gazed into that void and saw a large eye. I stood aside as a stretcher was lifted off an ambulance parked right by the rotunda. On that stretcher was Theo. He had shot himself between the eyes—not between the eyes, exactly. Between the eyebrows—in his pineal gland.

The End

About the Author

Alaric Cabiling (he/him) is a United States citizen living in the Philippines. He is gay, BIPOC, disabled, and neurodivergent.

Cabiling holds a BA in English from the University of Maryland Global Campus, where he graduated cum laude and is a member of the prestigious Alpha Sigma Lambda and Sigma Tau Delta Honor Societies.

His debut novel, Below, is available on Amazon. It won the DBT award for horror and has been named a finalist for other prizes. His promising queer horror novella, Coffin Lurker, is slated for publication by Twisted Dreams Press in 2027.

As an emerging author, Cabiling is looking to build his writing/publishing resume.

Follow Alaric on Instagram at @alaric_cabiling.