The Water-Smelling Guest

I never believed in the supernatural, not really. But there are things that happen in the quiet hours that defy logic, and I’ve learned to accept that some mysteries are better left unsolved. This is about our house in the hills of Baguio, a place known for its pine trees and cold winds, but also for its lingering whispers of the past. It was a modest concrete home, inherited from my grandmother, with a damp basement that always smelled of rain, even in the dry season.

The first time I saw her was on a Tuesday night, about three years ago. My wife, Marisol, and I were lying on the living room floor, our newborn daughter, Ana, asleep between us, lulled by the warm glow of the television. It was past nine, and my sister, Teresa, had gone up to her room. The house creaked and settled, as old houses do, but then I heard something different: the soft shuffle of bare feet on the wooden stairs. I assumed it was Teresa coming down for a glass of water. I didn’t look up, just said, ‘Teresa, you want a drink?’ No answer. The footsteps continued, slow and deliberate, across the living room, then stopped. A chill crept up my spine. I turned.

There, by the bathroom door, stood a shadow. It was shaped like a woman, tall and thin, with hair that hung to her waist. But it wasn’t solid; it was a dark silhouette, like a stain on the air, absorbing the dim light. For a moment, I thought it was my mother, who had passed away years ago in a hospital far away. The resemblance was uncanny, from the slope of the shoulders to the way she tilted her head. But my mother was dead, and this thing was here, in my house, standing as if waiting for something. The shadow glided into the bathroom, and the door didn’t even swing. I waited, heart pounding, for her to come out. Minutes passed. Nothing. I called out, ‘Teresa?’ No reply. I got up, my legs shaky, and pushed the bathroom door open. It was empty. The lights were off, and the air was cold, colder than the rest of the house, and there was a faint smell of water, like after a rainstorm. Marisol had her hand on my arm. She’d seen it too, she whispered. Fear took hold.

The second time was last summer, during Holy Week. We had two children now, and life was busy. The kids were tucked upstairs, their rooms in the old part of the house where the floorboards moaned. Marisol and I were lying on the exact same spot on the living room floor, just talking about the old days, when the air changed. It grew heavy, and the temperature dropped. I knew she was there before I even looked. And this time, she was more distinct. Not just a shadow, but a shape with edges, and I could see the outline of a dress, old-fashioned, like my grandmother wore in sepia photographs. But her face was still a void.

She stood at the foot of the stairs, not moving, just watching us. I felt a primal fear, not just for myself, but for my children sleeping above. I whispered to Marisol, ‘Don’t move.’ She didn’t. We lay there, frozen, as the shadow woman began to ascend the stairs. Her feet made no sound, but the stairs seemed to groan under her weight, as if she was actually stepping. She paused at the top, turned her head as if looking at us one last time, then disappeared down the hall toward the kids’ room. Panic surged. I jumped up, sprinted up the stairs, and burst into the kids’ bedroom. They were asleep, peaceful, their chests rising and falling. I checked every corner, every closet, but there was nothing. Just the lingering scent of rain, and a cold draft that shouldn’t have been there.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on the floor by my children, watching the door, but the shadow didn’t reappear. The next day, I asked the neighbors about our house. An old woman, Lola Ising, with a crackling voice, told me that a woman had drowned in the well that used to be where the basement is now, back in the 1950s. She was a bride, left at the altar, and threw herself in. They say she wanders, waiting for someone. I don’t know if that’s true, but I can’t deny what I saw. And every now and then, on quiet nights, I catch a whiff of that water smell, and I know she’s still here. But she hasn’t shown herself to me since that second time. Sometimes, I wonder if she’s watching from the shadows, waiting for the right moment. But until then, I keep my children close, and I never speak of her to anyone who doesn’t believe. The house, after all, is full of secrets, and I’ve learned that some guests never leave.