The Guest at the Balete Tree

It was the summer of 2019 when I found myself in the sleepy coastal town of San Vicente, Palawan, for a survey assignment. My colleague, whom I’ll call Mara, and I had been traveling for hours, and by the time we reached the municipal hall, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The local officials were gracious, offering us lodging at a beachfront resthouse owned by one of their barangay captains. The place was a converted ancestral home, its wooden floors and capiz-shell windows exuding a nostalgic charm. We had a room with two beds, a small washroom, and a window facing the sea.

After a hearty dinner of grilled fish and rice, Mara and I retired to our room. I was exhausted, but Mara was restless, flipping through channels on the old TV. I decided to take a quick shower, and as the water ran over me, I felt a sense of peace. When I came out, I saw Mara had turned off the lights and was already in bed. I climbed into mine, facing the window that looked out onto the beach. The gentle sound of waves lulled me into a light sleep.

I woke up sometime in the dead of night. The moon was full, casting a silver glow across the room. I was parched, so I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. As I sipped, my gaze drifted to the window, and there, under the large balete tree that stood at the edge of the property, I saw a figure. It was a woman, or something shaped like one, draped in a white, flowing gown that seemed to billow despite the still air. Her long, dark hair covered her face. She stood perfectly still, facing the house.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I tried to convince myself it was just a local out for a late-night stroll, but something felt wrong. The way she stood, unnaturally straight, her feet not quite touching the ground. I wanted to wake Mara, but fear rooted me to the spot. I watched, paralyzed, as the figure began to move. She didn’t walk; she glided, her steps making no sound on the sand. She stopped at the window, close enough for me to see that her feet were indeed hovering an inch above the ground. Then, slowly, she lifted her head, and I saw her face. It was pale, almost translucent, with hollow, black eyes that seemed to bore into my soul. Her lips moved, but no sound came out, only a faint whisper that seemed to cling to the air: ‘You are not welcome here.’

I wanted to scream, but my throat was constricted. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it was a nightmare. When I dared to open them again, the figure was gone. I don’t know how long I lay there, trembling, before I finally drifted into a fitful sleep. The next morning, I told Mara what I had seen, but she dismissed it as a bad dream. Yet, as we packed our things, I noticed the old caretaker staring at me with a strange expression. When I asked if there had been any sightings of a white lady on the beach, he crossed himself and muttered, ‘You saw her? That’s the ghost of Doña Elisa. She was the wife of the original owner. Some say she was murdered by her husband, and her body was never found. She still walks the beach, looking for justice.’

We left soon after, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the ghost had followed us. Back in my apartment in Puerto Princesa, I began to have nightmares. In each one, the woman from the beach would appear, her voice a raspy whisper: ‘You are not welcome here.’ And each time, she would point a long, bony finger towards the balete tree, as if showing me something. I started researching Doña Elisa’s story, and I found an old article in the town library. It said that Doña Elisa had been accused of witchcraft and was hanged from the balete tree. The article claimed that her spirit still lingered, and that anyone who saw her would be cursed.

As the days passed, I grew paranoid. I would see her reflection in mirrors, or hear her voice in the wind. My health began to deteriorate, and I knew I had to go back to the resthouse to confront whatever had latched onto me. When I returned, the caretaker was surprised to see me. I told him everything. He sighed and led me to the balete tree, where he had me perform a simple ritual: I would plant a white rose at the base of the tree and apologize for trespassing on her territory. As I did, I felt a cold breeze, and the sound of faint singing. When I looked up, I could have sworn I saw Doña Elisa’s spirit, but this time, she was crying. She mouthed the words, ‘Thank you,’ and then dissolved into mist.

I left the resthouse, and the nightmares stopped. But sometimes, on moonlit nights, I find myself gazing at the balete trees in my neighborhood, and I wonder if Doña Elisa is still watching. Perhaps she found peace, or perhaps she’s just waiting for the next unwary traveler to stumble upon her resting place. And I am reminded that some places are not ours to enter, and some guests never truly leave.