The Third Eye of Sampaguita Street

In the heart of Iloilo City, where the old houses stood like weathered sentinels along Sampaguita Street, lived the Salazar family. They were a tight-knit clan, known for their strong faith and even stronger superstitions. Among them was Lola Pacing, a frail woman in her seventies, who possessed what the neighbors called ‘the sight.’ She could see the lingering souls of the departed, their whispers carried on the wind, their forms flickering in the corners of her vision. It was a gift she never wished for, but one she bore with quiet resignation.

Her niece, Rosa, had recently passed away in Manila after a long battle with an illness that no doctor could fully explain. Rosa had been the artist of the family, always sketching the faces of strangers she claimed she saw in her dreams. She had lived with her sister, Marites, in a small apartment in the bustling city, far from the quiet provincial life of Iloilo. When word of Rosa’s death reached them, Lola Pacing’s heart felt heavy, not just from grief, but from an eerie premonition that Rosa’s spirit would not find peace easily.

One evening, a week after the funeral, Lola Pacing was staying at her niece’s house—Marites’s sister, Fe, who had never left Iloilo. The house was an old Spanish-era structure with thick adobe walls and creaking wooden floors. The family had gathered to pay their respects, and after the last candle was blown out, the house fell into an uneasy silence. Lola Pacing lay in the guest room, her eyes wide open in the darkness, listening to the rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan. Then, she heard it—a soft, murmuring voice, like someone speaking to themselves in a language she couldn’t quite place.

The voice seemed to come from the direction of the old sewing room, a space that had been unused for years. Her heart raced, but she was no stranger to the supernatural. She quietly slipped out of bed and padded down the hallway, her bare feet cold on the wooden planks. The door to the sewing room was ajar, and a faint glow emanated from within. She pushed it open and saw a figure—a young woman in a white dress, her back turned, hunched over an old sewing machine. The woman was muttering, her voice trembling with a sorrow that seemed to seep into the very walls. ‘She’s not here… she’s not here…’ the figure repeated, over and over.

Lola Pacing recognized the voice. It was Rosa’s. But Rosa had always been cheerful, her laughter infectious. This Rosa was different—her hair was disheveled, her movements jerky, as if she were a puppeteer’s doll. Lola Pacing called out softly, ‘Rosa, anak, what are you doing here?’ The figure froze, then slowly turned. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow, and she stared at Lola Pacing with a mixture of confusion and desperation. ‘I can’t find her,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I’ve been looking for her everywhere. She promised she would meet me here, but she’s gone.’

The figure pointed to the sewing machine, where a faded photograph lay—a picture of twin sisters, Rosa and her other sister, whom she had lost in childhood. Lola Pacing understood then. Rosa’s spirit was trapped, searching for the sister who had died young, unable to move on because she believed a promise had been broken. Lola Pacing felt a chill run down her spine. She knew she had to help Rosa’s soul find the peace it needed, but how? She tried to speak to the spirit, but Rosa’s form flickered and vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of jasmine—the same perfume Rosa had always worn.

For the next few days, Lola Pacing worked with a local albularyo to perform a ritual to guide Rosa’s spirit to the afterlife. During the ritual, Lola Pacing fell into a trance and saw a vision: Rosa, as a child, holding hands with her twin sister, running through a field of sampaguita flowers. They had made a pact that if ever they were separated, they would find each other again. But the twin had died of a fever when they were both eight, and Rosa had forgotten the pact as she grew older. Now, on the brink of death, the memory had returned, and her spirit was obsessed with fulfilling it.

Lola Pacing knew that the only way to free Rosa was to help her sister’s spirit come to her. She performed a séance, invoking the name of the dead twin, and the room grew cold. A specter appeared—a young girl, transparent and serene, holding a handful of soil. She walked toward the sewing machine where Rosa’s ghost had reappeared, and the two spirits embraced, their forms merging into a soft, white light. The light rose and faded, and with it, the oppressive weight that had hung over the house lifted. Lola Pacing collapsed, exhausted, but she knew she had succeeded.

The next morning, the family found Lola Pacing asleep in the sewing room, clutching the old photograph. They questioned her, but she simply smiled and said, ‘They’re together now.’ As the weeks passed, the house on Sampaguita Street felt lighter, and the strange murmuring was never heard again. But Lola Pacing knew that Rosa’s spirit had been added to the countless others she had seen over the years. And she understood that death was not always the end of a promise—sometimes, it was the beginning of a long, desperate search for the ones we love. She once told me, ‘The dead are not so different from the living. They just have more time to remember the promises they made.’