The Smile of the Weeping Woman

I was nine when it happened, in the summer of ’87, at my lola’s house in a small town in Pangasinan. The town was quiet, nestled between rice paddies and a river that ran brown after the rains. Our house was made of bamboo and nipa, with a dirt floor that my lola swept religiously every morning. There were no fences then, just low bushes marking each property line, and the neighbors’ kids would run through our yard chasing stray dogs or playing tag under the mango tree. It was the day of the town’s fiesta, and the air smelled of roasting pork and frying bananas from the makeshift stalls by the church. I had been feeling sickly all morning, a slight fever and a cough that wouldn’t go away. My lola had given me some bitter herbal tea and told me to rest. I fell asleep in the afternoon, the sounds of the fiesta—the band, the laughter, the calls of ‘Merienda!’—fading into a hazy dream.

When I woke, the house was silent. The sun was low, casting long shadows through the gaps in the bamboo walls. I called for Lola, but no one answered. I remembered then that she had said something about visiting my Tita Nena, who lived a few barangays away, to help with the cooking. I was alone. The house felt bigger without the noise of people. I got up, my legs shaky, and walked to the small window that looked out onto the dirt path leading to the main road. No one was outside. Even the stray dogs were gone. It was as if the whole world had been hushed, waiting for something. I was about to go back to my sleeping mat when I saw her.

She was standing in the doorway of my room, a girl about my age, with long black hair that hung straight down her back. She wore a white dress, the kind they wore for First Communion, but it was faded and wrinkled, like it had been soaked in water and dried without ironing. Her skin was pale, almost gray, and her eyes were dark, too dark, as if they had no whites. She was smiling, but it was a wide, sickly smile that showed too many teeth, and they were small and pointed, like a fish’s. She didn’t move, just stood there, watching me. I felt a coldness creep up my spine, and my breath caught in my throat. She spoke in a voice that was soft, like the rustle of leaves, but also wrong, as if it was coming from a long distance. ‘Sino ka?’ she said. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just stared at her, my heart pounding.

She took a step closer, and I noticed her feet were bare, and they didn’t quite touch the ground. The tips of her toes hovered a centimeter above the dirt floor, and there was a faint wetness around her, as if she had just come from the river. She repeated, ‘Sino ka?’ I managed to whisper, ‘Ako si Miguel.’ She tilted her head, and her smile widened, if that was possible. ‘Miguel,’ she said, tasting the name. ‘I have a message for you.’ I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the fever. I wanted to run, but my legs were like water. I clutched the edge of the window sill to steady myself. ‘From who?’ I asked, my voice cracking.

She didn’t answer immediately. She walked around my sleeping mat, her eyes never leaving mine. There was a strange grace in her movement, like a puppet on strings, and each step made a faint squishing sound, as if the floor was wet. She stopped by a small wooden table where my lola had placed a glass of water. She reached out a pale hand and dragged a finger across the surface of the water, leaving a rippling trail. ‘From the one you left behind,’ she said. ‘The one who calls your name at night.’ I had no idea what she meant. I thought of my parents, who were working in Manila and had not been able to come for the fiesta. I thought of my cousins who had gone to the other side of the town. There was no one who would call my name at night. I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand.’

She turned to face me fully, and for the first time, I saw that there were tears streaming down her cheeks, but they were black, like ink. Yet she was still smiling. ‘You will,’ she said. ‘Tonight, when the moon is high, you will hear a voice calling your name from the river. Do not answer. Whatever you do, do not answer. She will call for you, and if you answer, you will be hers.’ I felt a surge of terror, and a name surfaced in my mind—a story my lola had told me about a girl who drowned in the river years ago, a girl who had gone mad because her sweetheart left her for someone else. The girl was said to appear when people were alone, smiling and crying at the same time, and if you spoke to her, she would drag you to the river and keep you forever.

I stared at the girl before me, and I noticed that her dress was wet, clinging to her thin frame. Her feet were not just hovered; they were dripping water, and the water was dark, almost black. ‘Is… is it you?’ I stammered. She did not answer. She simply raised a hand, and pointed at me, her finger long and thin, and then she began to fade. The smile remained last, hanging in the air like a Cheshire cat’s, but her voice echoed in the room, ‘Remember, Miguel. Do not answer the call.’ And then she was gone.

I must have fainted. I woke up to my lola’s shaking, her face frantic, the smell of burnt garlic from the kitchen. I told her what I had seen, expecting her to comfort me, but instead she grew pale and made the sign of the cross. She had that look, the look of fear that I had never seen on her face before. She made me drink a potion of ginger and anise, and she prayed over me for hours. But that night, I could not sleep. I lay on my mat, listening to the crickets and the distant sounds of the fiesta winding down. The house was quiet again, my lola in the next room, snoring softly. Then, just as the girl had said, the moon rose high, casting a silver light through the window. I heard a voice from outside, coming from the direction of the river. It was soft, and it called my name, ‘Miguel… Miguel…’ It was not the voice of the girl in the white dress. It was a beautiful, melodic voice, like the voice of a woman singing, but there was a sadness in it that made my heart ache. I felt an overwhelming urge to go to the river, to see who was calling me. My body began to move, as if I were sleepwalking, but I was awake.

I fought it. I remembered the girl’s warning. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, and I began to whisper Hail Marys, the only prayer I knew. The voice grew louder, more insistent, and I could feel a cold presence in the room, as if something had entered. I opened my eyes a sliver, and I saw her again—the girl in the white dress—standing by the door, this time with a sorrowful expression, her black tears falling silently. She shook her head slowly, as if urging me to stay. I continued to pray, my throat raw, and after what felt like an eternity, the voice faded, and the presence left. The girl in the white dress gave me a small nod, and then she was gone.

I never spoke of it after that, not even to my lola, because I was afraid of seeing that look of fear in her eyes again. But from that night on, I changed. I would never sleep alone without a light. I would never stay silent when something called my name. And I would never forget the smile of that girl, or the voice from the river. Years later, when I was older, I returned to that town for a visit, and I asked about the legend. My lola told me that the girl in the white dress was not the vengeful spirit—she was a guardian, a child who had drowned in the river a few years after the tragic woman, and she had stayed to warn others, but she could only speak to those who were not yet tainted. She said that the guardian appeared only to children, and that when she smiled, it was her way of showing she was not a threat, but her tears were for the ones she could not save. I might have been one of the lucky ones, she said.

I often wonder about the girl in the white dress. Who was she? What was her name? And why did she choose to warn me? I never saw her again, but sometimes, when I am near water at night, I feel a presence, and I hear a faint whisper of my name. I always walk away quickly, and I remember her smile—that wide, wet smile that told me to beware. To this day, I have never answered a call from the dark. And I pray I never will.