The Candle’s Offering

My sister Liza never paid much mind to our mother’s rituals. She considered them quaint, superstitious holdovers from a rural childhood that had no place in her modern city life. When Mama called her one Tuesday evening, her voice tight with urgency, Liza was in the middle of prepping a presentation for work. She balanced her phone between her ear and shoulder while typing, half-listening.

‘Liza, anak, I did the tawas for you today,’ Mama said, her Tagalog clipped and serious. ‘There is something you need to watch out for this week.’

Liza sighed, tapping a few keys. ‘Mama, I’ve told you, I don’t believe in that. And I’m fine. The baby’s fine.’

‘You listen to me,’ Mama insisted. ‘I warned your Tita Rosa before her husband died. The wax shaped like a coffin. Now it shaped like a bed with a foot underneath. That means a visitor will come to your bed, Liza. A spirit. It will mean you no harm, but you must not accept anything from it. You must not look into its eyes.’

Liza rolled her eyes but promised to be careful. She ended the call and forgot about it immediately, drowning in deadlines and prenatal vitamins.

The week passed uneventfully. Liza worked, ate, slept. Her husband, Marco, was on a business trip, leaving her alone in their two-bedroom condo in Mandaluyong, a new high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. She loved the modern glass and steel, the hum of the air conditioning, the absence of any ghostly old house atmosphere. She felt safe.

But on the fifth night, Liza woke to a strange sensation. She was lying on her back, her hand resting on her small belly. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights through the blinds. She felt a weight on the foot of the bed, a dip in the mattress. She lay frozen, her heart thumping. She tried to move, but her body was heavy, as if drugged.

Slowly, a shape materialized at the foot of the bed. It was a woman, old and hunched, with long grey hair that hung over her face. She wore a tattered white dress, and her feet were bare. She stood there, not moving, just watching.

Liza’s mind screamed: the tawas. The bed. The visitor. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to wake herself, but she was fully awake. She heard the old woman take a step closer. The mattress dipped again.

‘Don’t look into her eyes,’ Mama’s voice echoed in her memory. But Liza’s eyes snapped open against her will. The old woman was now beside her, leaning over her, her face inches away. Her eyes were black, empty pools, and her breath was cold, smelling of damp earth and dried leaves.

‘You are carrying the child,’ the old woman whispered, her voice like rustling leaves. ‘I have come to offer you something.’ She extended a gnarled hand, palm up. In it lay a small, dark seed, no bigger than a pea.

‘Take it,’ she said. ‘It will bring you luck and health for the baby.’

Liza’s mouth went dry. She remembered Mama’s warning: don’t accept anything. She shook her head, but the old woman’s hand remained steady.

‘I don’t want it,’ Liza managed to say.

The old woman tilted her head. ‘You are wise,’ she said. ‘But know this: I will come again when you are weakest. And if you refuse me then, I will take the child instead.’ She pointed a bony finger at Liza’s belly, then slowly faded, like mist dissolving in the morning sun.

Liza woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The room was empty. She turned on all the lights and checked every corner. Nothing. She called Marco, but he was in a meeting and didn’t answer. She spent the rest of the night huddled under the covers, reciting prayers she hadn’t said in years.

The next morning, she called Mama. Mama arrived with her bag of herbs and candles, and performed the tawas again. The wax formed a shape like a cradle, but with a crack running down the middle.

‘She will return,’ Mama said solemnly. ‘You must leave this place. Go to your lola’s house in the province. The old spirits cannot follow you there.’

Liza was skeptical, but she was too terrified to argue. She packed a bag and drove two hours south to her grandmother’s ancestral home in Batangas. It was a old wooden house on stilts, surrounded by coconut palms and rice paddies. It felt peaceful, safe. But as she settled into the room that had once been her mother’s, she noticed a small frame on the nightstand. Inside was a faded photograph of a woman in a white dress, with long grey hair and dark, empty eyes. Her grandmother’s great-grandmother, who had died giving birth.

Liza felt a chill. She turned the photo over. On the back was written: ‘She guards us all.’

That night, Liza slept soundly for the first time in days. But in the early hours, she woke to the sound of tapping on the window. She didn’t move. The tapping grew louder, insistent. Then she heard a voice, soft and familiar: ‘I am still here, child. And I will wait.’

Liza closed her eyes and clutched her belly. She knew that the visitor would never truly leave. It was a part of the land, a part of her family. She had refused the seed, but she had also accepted the legacy. And she would have to live with that choice for the rest of her life.