The Faint Smell of Sampaguita

It was the summer of 2018, and the heat in the city was unbearable. My two friends, Marco and Jelo, and I were all phone bankers working the night shift in the financial district, and we’d been saving up for a vacation. Originally, we’d planned to hit the beach in Puerto Galera, but the thought of lying on sand under a blazing sun just didn’t appeal. We wanted cool air, pine trees, and the quiet charm of the mountains. So we decided on Baguio City, where the temperature was a merciful escape from the sweltering capital.

We were all in our early thirties—Marco was 34, Jelo was 31, and I had just turned 30. We’d been friends for years, bonded by shared late shifts and the grind of customer service. The night before our trip, we had a few beers, packing our bags with nervous excitement, and clinked bottles to a week of rest. Around midnight, we finally called it quits and tried to sleep. I was lying on my back, listening to the hum of the aircon, when a dream took me.

In the dream, I was standing in a field of tall grass, and the sky was a weird greenish grey. There was an old woman in a flowing white dress, but her face was blurry, like a smudge on a photo. She didn’t move, just stood there, radiating a weight that pressed on my chest. I knew, with a certainty that chill my bones, that she was dangerous. Then I woke up, gasping for air, my shirt damp with sweat. I saw it was still dark, and I tried to shake off the unease, blaming it on the beer and the excitement.

We left at 4:30 in the morning, our SUV packed with camping gear and snacks. The drive was long but pleasant, the urban sprawl giving way to winding roads and lush greenery. As we climbed the mountains, the air grew cooler, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. We checked into a modest inn near the outskirts of the city, a place with wooden balconies and a view of the pine forest. The owner, a wrinkled old man with a kind smile, gave us our keys and said, “Be sure to stay inside after sunset. The woods can be tricky.” We laughed it off, thinking he was just warning us about wild pigs.

The first day was perfect. We walked through the busy markets, bought wool blankets and strawberry jam, and ate at a tiny restaurant that served the best sinigang I’d ever tasted. That night, we sat on the balcony, drinking local beer and listening to the rustle of pine needles. The air smelt of damp earth and woodsmoke. But just as I was about to take a sip, I caught a whiff of something sweet—sampaguita flowers. It was out of place, almost cloying, and it vanished as quickly as it came. I looked around, but the other balconies were empty and dark.

“Did you smell that?” I asked. Marco shrugged, Jelo said he couldn’t, and they went back to their conversation. I tried to dismiss it, but the scent lingered in my memory like a half-forgotten dream.

The next afternoon, we decided to hike a trail that was said to lead to an abandoned chapel deep in the forest. The innkeeper warned us again, saying the trail was not well-maintained and that no one had seen the chapel in years. But we were adventurous, and the day was clear. We packed water and sandwiches, and set off around noon. The forest was beautiful, sunlight filtering through the tall pines, the ground carpeted with needles and fallen cones. We talked and joked, but after about an hour, the path began to narrow, and the trees seemed to close in on us, blocking out the sky. The temperature dropped noticeably.

We came to a clearing, and there it was—a small stone chapel, half-crumbled, with moss covering the walls and a broken bell tower. It was eerie but mesmerizing. I stepped inside, and the air was cold, but it carried that faint scent of sampaguita again. I froze. The others didn’t seem to notice. “Check this out,” Jelo called, pointing to a faded painting behind the altar. It depicted a saint, but the face had been scratched out. I felt a chill run down my spine. We took some photos, but the photos came out blurry, even though the camera was fine.

That evening, we went to a restaurant, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I told Marco and Jelo about the scent, and they teased me, saying I was probably thinking about the local flower garlands. We headed back to the inn, and as we unlocked our door, the smell hit me again—stronger this time, as if someone had just passed by holding a bouquet. I spun around, but the corridor was empty. Marco said, “You’re being paranoid.” We retired to our rooms, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the wind, and I heard a soft, rhythmic creaking, like a rocking chair on a wooden floor. I assumed it was the building settling, but it seemed to come from the wall beside my bed.

The next day, I decided to investigate the chapel on my own. I didn’t tell the others; I snuck out in the early morning, following the trail, but it seemed longer and more twisted than the day before. The trees looked different, gnarled, and the path was overgrown. After a while, I came to a fork where I didn’t remember there being one. The left path led uphill, the right down. I felt drawn to the left, and I walked, my heart pounding. The forest grew darker, and the air grew thick with the sampaguita scent. I finally emerged into a small glade, and there, under a huge pine, sat an old woman on a rock, her face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. She wore a white dress, and she was weaving a garland of sampaguita flowers. I stopped, breathless.

She didn’t look up, but she spoke in a raspy voice, “You came back.” I didn’t understand. I asked who she was. She chuckled, a low, dry laugh, and said, “You saw me in your dream.” I took a step back, fear washing over me. She lifted her head, and I saw her face—it was a hollow, withered thing, with empty eye sockets. I stumbled backward, but my feet felt rooted. She held up the garland, its white petals stark against her grey fingers. “You should leave this place,” she croaked. “You’ve brought me here, so now you must go before the sun sets.” I turned and ran, crashing through the undergrowth, not stopping until I burst out of the forest onto the road, gasping.

Back at the inn, I tried to convince Marco and Jelo to leave, but they thought I had heatstroke or something. “It’s just a story, man,” Marco said. “The locals tell tales to scare tourists.” But I knew what I’d seen. That night, I refused to sleep. I sat by the window, watching the dark line of the forest. Around midnight, I saw a flicker of light among the trees, moving closer. It was a small flame, like a candle, bobbing erratically. I woke the others, but by the time they looked, it was gone. They grumbled and went back to bed, leaving me alone with my growing dread.

The next morning, we were supposed to go to the mines view, but I couldn’t. I had a splitting headache, and I felt a coolness at my temples, like a damp cloth. I looked in the mirror and saw faint white marks on my forehead, as if something had pressed there. Marco noticed and said, “Dude, you look pale.” We decided to cut the trip short and drive back to Manila. I packed my bag, but as I reached for my jacket, I found a sampaguita blossom on the bed, fresh and fragrant. I picked it up, and it disintegrated into dust in my hand.

We drove away, and the city vanished behind us. I half-expected to see the old woman standing by the road, but there was nothing. The drive back was silent, the mood heavy. When we finally reached the city, the heat hit us like a wall, but it felt comforting. I thought we were safe. But as I stepped out of the car, I caught that scent again—faint, but unmistakable. It followed me home, lingering in my apartment for weeks. I started sleeping with all the lights on. My friends thought I was losing it.

One night, about a month after the trip, I woke up at 3:00 AM to the sound of creaking. I saw a dark silhouette at the foot of my bed, a frail figure in white. It raised a hand, and I swear it was pointing at me. A whisper of old dry leaves filled the room, and then, a voice that seemed to come from inside my head: “You brought me here. Now I must stay.” I screamed, but my voice was stuck, and when I blinked, the figure was gone. But I smelled sampaguita, and in that moment, I knew the old woman had followed me, and that from that night on, I would never feel truly alone again. And the worst part? I never told anyone that I had, in the chapel, taken a small stone as a souvenir. I wonder if that’s what tied us together. But it’s too late to go back. So I live now, with the scent always at the edge of my awareness, and the knowledge that something ancient and wrong is sharing my home, waiting for the next time I sleep.