The Offering That Stayed

The first thing I noticed about Hana’s boarding house was the smell—clove cigarettes and frangipani, with something sour underneath, like old milk. The house itself was a narrow two-story building wedged between a warung and a thicket of banana trees. The walls were painted a faded green, and the windows had wooden shutters that never fully closed. My room was on the second floor, at the end of a hallway that always felt colder than the rest. There was a small balcony overlooking the back garden, where the Balinese owner, Made, placed tiny palm-leaf offerings every morning.

I had moved to the island two months ago, after my visa in China fell through. I was drawn to the spirituality, the ceremonies, the idea of living among gods and spirits. The locals said every inch of land was sacred, every foot had spirits. I wanted to feel that. In the beginning, I did. The mornings were filled with the sound of temple bells and the smell of incense. Made would greet me with a smile and a ‘Selamat pagi,’ her eyes crinkling at the corners. She was a small woman with grey hair tied back in a bun, and she always wore a sarong and a kebaya, even when she was sweeping.

But after a week, I noticed something odd. The offerings in the garden were always gone by noon, but there was one particular offering—a small woven basket with rice, flowers, and a cracker—that never disappeared. It sat at the base of a frangipani tree, just beyond my balcony. Made would place a new one every morning, but the old one remained, untouched, the flowers wilting, the rice turning hard. After a few days, I asked her about it. She looked at me with a strange intensity. ‘That one is for the one who stays,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Do not touch it.’

I tried to ignore it, but the offering began to haunt me. At night, I would dream of a woman in white standing under the tree, her face hidden, her hand reaching out to the basket. I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding. A few times, I thought I saw a figure from my balcony, but it was always just the rustling leaves. Sleep became difficult. The nights were suffocatingly hot, and the air in my room grew thick, as if someone was breathing beside me. I started leaving the window open, but that only made it worse—I could hear soft whispers in the wind, sounds that almost formed words but never quite.

One night, I decided to confront it. I took a flashlight and went down to the garden. The offering was there, glowing faintly in the moonlight. I knelt down, my heart racing. ‘Who are you?’ I whispered. The air grew cold. The frangipani tree seemed to lean towards me. I reached out to touch the basket, but as my fingers grazed the edge, I felt a cold hand wrap around my wrist. I yanked back, stumbling. When I looked up, a figure stood before me—a woman, tall and thin, her skin pale, her hair black and wet, sticking to her face. Her eyes were empty, but her mouth moved as if speaking. I couldn’t hear a sound, but I felt the words in my mind: ‘You took my place.’

The next morning, I told Made what I had seen. She sighed, a deep, weary sound. ‘She was a guest here, long ago. She died in that garden, under that tree. Her family could not afford to bring her body home, so they buried her there. But she never left.’ Made paused, her gaze fixed on the tree. ‘She is not evil, but she is lonely. She waits for someone to offer her company. When you arrived, she saw you as a visitor. She wants you to stay with her.’ A chill ran down my spine. I wanted to leave, but the thought of packing and finding a new place seemed impossible. I had already paid for three months.

Weeks passed, and the offerings multiplied. Now there were three baskets at the base of the tree, and the woman appeared more often. She would stand at the edge of my vision, in the hallway, at the foot of my bed. I grew thin, dark circles under my eyes. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Made brought me herbal teas and tried to perform a cleansing ritual, but she shook her head after it was done. ‘She is too strong,’ she said. ‘She has attached herself to you.’ The last time I saw Made, she looked at me with pity. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have warned you.’

I decided to leave. I started packing my bags, throwing clothes haphazardly into a suitcase. But as I reached for the door, it slammed shut. I tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. A cold breath whispered against my neck. ‘You cannot go,’ a voice murmured. I turned around. She was standing in the corner, her head tilted, a sad smile on her lips. ‘I have been waiting so long for someone to talk to. Please, stay a while longer.’ I felt a coldness seep into my bones, a deep helplessness. I sank to the floor, tears streaming down my face. The woman knelt beside me, extending a hand. I flinched, but she gently brushed my cheek. ‘It is okay,’ she said. ‘You will not be alone anymore.’

Now, I sit on the balcony, watching the frangipani tree sway. Made still comes every morning, placing new offerings, but I no longer need to ask why. I am the one who stays now. I see the new guests arrive, their laughter, their curiosity. And I wonder if they see me, standing under the tree, waiting for a friendly face. The island is beautiful, but it is not just the gods that linger here. Some of us, we become part of the land, part of its sorrow. I have found my place. I have found my peace.