Jasmine at Midnight

The clock on the dashboard read 12:47 AM as Marisol paid the cab driver and stepped out into the humid Manila night. The neighborhood was a maze of narrow streets lined with old houses, their wrought-iron gates locked tight, and the only sounds were the distant wail of sirens and the hum of crickets. She clutched her bag, remembering the time she’d been held up at knifepoint two years ago. That fear never really left; it just waited for moments like this.

She quickened her pace, her flip-flops slapping against the cracked pavement. Her family’s compound was at the end of the street, past her Auntie Lourdes’s house, a two-story structure with peeling paint and a small garden that her aunt lovingly tended. As she approached the gate, a scent hit her—cloying, sweet, and unmistakably familiar. Jasmine. But not just any jasmine; it was the heavy, almost sickly perfume of jasmine garlands used at wakes. It hung in the air like a physical presence, thick enough to taste.

She paused, frowning. No one had died in the compound recently. Her aunt was very much alive, as were her cousins. Maybe a neighbor had passed, but the scent was coming from inside the compound, not from the street. The gate was slightly ajar, which was odd. Her aunt always locked it by nine. Marisol pushed it open, the creak of the hinges loud in the silence, and stepped inside.

The courtyard was bathed in pale moonlight, but the shadows around the edges seemed to shift and breathe. The jasmine smell was stronger here, almost suffocating. She walked past her aunt’s house, glancing at the windows. All dark, but behind the sheer curtains, she thought she saw a flicker of movement. Probably just a curtain stirring in the wind, she told herself. But there was no wind.

The walk to her own house was maybe fifty meters, but tonight it felt like a mile. Every step seemed to crunch too loudly on the gravel. She could feel eyes on her, the prickle of being watched. She tried to rationalize it: the sirens had made her nervous, the late hour, the smell—it was all just her imagination feeding on fear.

Then she saw it. On her front door, someone had hung a wreath made of white jasmine, just like the ones they put on coffins. Her heart hammered. Who would do that? A prank? But no one in the compound would be so morbid. She reached out to touch it, and the petals were cool and waxy under her fingers. As she did, she heard her aunt’s voice from behind her, soft and wrong.

‘Marisol, you’re home early.’

She spun around. Her aunt stood at the edge of the courtyard, wearing a white shift dress, her hair loose. In the moonlight, her face looked pale, almost translucent. But her eyes were dark, too dark, and they seemed to glitter with something unfamiliar.

‘Just on time, actually,’ Marisol managed. ‘Why is this here? And why does it smell like… like a wake?’

Her aunt tilted her head, a slow, unnatural motion. ‘Because there’s a wake, dear. Yours.’

Marisol’s blood ran cold. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’ve been gone for three days, Marisol. The funeral is tomorrow.’

Her aunt stepped closer, and Marisol saw that her bare feet left no marks on the dust. ‘We thought you’d been taken by the snatchers,’ her aunt continued. ‘When they found your bag near the river, we assumed the worst. Your body hasn’t been recovered, but we had a memorial anyway.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Marisol stammered. ‘I just got off work. I’m here. I’m alive.’

Her aunt reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were ice cold. ‘Are you, dear? Look behind you.’

Marisol turned, and through the window of her aunt’s house, she saw a casket, flanked by candles, and in it—a figure in a white dress, her face serene, her features unmistakably her own. The world tilted. She stumbled backward, but her aunt held her fast.

‘You can’t be here,’ Marisol whispered. ‘This isn’t real.’

‘But it is,’ her aunt said, her voice now a hollow echo. ‘You didn’t make it home that night. The snatchers got you after all. You just refused to accept it.’

The jasmine scent intensified, filling her lungs, making it hard to breathe. The courtyard began to blur, the houses melting into shadows. Her own house, the one she’d been so desperate to reach, was gone. In its place, a procession of figures in black filed toward her, their faces hidden.

‘Come, Marisol,’ they intoned in unison. ‘It’s time.’

She wanted to scream, but no sound escaped. Her body moved on its own, following the procession, her aunt’s cold hand still gripping hers. They led her toward the casket, and she looked down at the placid face of her own corpse. The eyes flickered open, and they were black, bottomless, and they stared at her.

‘Now you know,’ the thing in the casket said with her voice. ‘You can rest.’

The jasmine smell was everywhere, and it was the last thing she registered before the darkness claimed her. And in the morning, the neighborhood woke to the sound of wailing. Marisol’s body had been found, tangled in the river reeds, a garland of white jasmine still looped around her neck. They said she had been dead for days. But those who lived in the compound knew the truth: she had come home that night, and she had never truly left.