The Weeping Lace

In the sweltering summer of 2014, my wife Elena and I secured a lease on a dilapidated but affordable flat in the bustling district of Paco, Manila. The building was a relic of the Spanish colonial era, its facade crumbling and its corridors smelling of damp wood and old secrets. Our unit, a one-bedroom with high ceilings and ornate moldings, was a mere stone’s throw from the garment factory where I toiled as a maintenance engineer. Elena, a quiet woman with a penchant for old novels, stayed home, tending to the dust and the silence.

Our first night was uneasy. The bed sagged in the middle, and the windows rattled with each passing jeepney. I drifted into a restless sleep, only to be jolted awake by a profound stillness. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 11:47 PM. The room was bathed in a sickly yellow light from the streetlamp outside, but the foot of our bed was swallowed by shadow. There, a figure stood—tall, impossibly still, clad in a gown of heavy, dark lace that looked like it had been fished from a forgotten trunk. The fabric rustled as if alive, though the air was dead. I rubbed my eyes, certain it was Elena, perhaps sleepwalking again. ‘Elena?’ I called, my voice a hoarse whisper. The figure did not move. ‘Elena, are you alright?’ I tried again, louder. Still nothing. I reached out, my hand brushing the sheets beside me. It was empty. My heart lurched. I turned my head and saw Elena, curled on her side, her breathing even. When I snapped back to the foot of the bed, the lace figure was gone, leaving only a faint scent of mothballs and roses.

The next morning, I told myself it was a trick of the light, a half-dream. But Elena noticed I was pale and asked if I had slept well. I lied, saying the heat was getting to me. Over the following days, the hauntings escalated. I began noticing small things: a strand of black hair on the pillow that wasn’t Elena’s (hers was chestnut), faint scratches on the inside of the door, and a cold spot near the closet that lingered even in the afternoon. More than once, I’d glance at the mirror in the living room and catch a flicker of lace at the edge of my vision.

One sweltering Sunday, while Elena was at the market, I decided to investigate the apartment’s history. The building’s caretaker, an old man with rheumy eyes named Mang Lito, was reluctant to speak, but I pressed him. He finally confessed that the unit had been occupied by a young woman named Doña Isabela in the early 1900s. She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant who had died under mysterious circumstances—some said she was murdered by a jealous suitor, others claimed she took her own life after being jilted. Her body was found in the very room we slept in, dressed in her finest lace gown, weeping tears of blood. They say her spirit never left, searching for the lover who betrayed her, and that she appears to men who are unfaithful, or to those who remind her of her lost love.

That evening, I confronted Elena about my findings, but she waved it off, saying old buildings had such tales. Yet I noticed she began to avoid the bedroom, claiming she preferred the sofa for reading. I, on the other hand, was now obsessed. I started staying up at night, waiting for the woman in lace. On the fourth night, she appeared again, clearer this time. Her face was obscured by a veil, but I could see the glint of tears on her cheeks. She raised a pale hand, and in her palm lay a silver locket. She opened it, revealing a miniature portrait of a man with a stern jaw and dark eyes. Then she pointed at me, and her lips moved, but no sound came out. I felt a cold dread, as if she was accusing me of something. I shook my head, mouthing ‘No.’ She vanished, but the locket remained, clattering to the floor.

I picked it up, my hands trembling. On the back was an inscription: ‘To my beloved, until we meet again.’ I felt a pang of guilt, though I had no reason. I hid the locket in a drawer, trying to forget. But that night, I dreamt of a wedding, and I was the groom. My bride wore the same lace gown, but when she lifted her veil, her face was a rotting skull, and she laughed with a sound like breaking glass. I woke up screaming, and Elena was there, shaking me, her face contorted in fear. ‘You were crying out another woman’s name,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘Isabela.’

I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. She packed a bag and left that morning, saying she needed time. I was alone, but I wasn’t. The woman in lace appeared more often now, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes at the end of the hall, always weeping, always pointing at the locket. I took to carrying it in my pocket, hoping to appease her. But she grew more agitated. One night, I found the shower running, the water a murky red. The mirror in the bathroom bore the words ‘FOREVER MINE’ written in what looked like blood.

I called Elena, pleading for her to come back, but she said she needed to see a priest. The line went dead. Frustrated and terrified, I decided to get rid of the locket. I drove to a river and hurled it into the murky water. As it sank, I felt a release. That night, I slept soundly for the first time in weeks. But at 3 AM, I was woken by a foul smell—rotting flowers. The room was cold. The closet door was open, and from it hung the lace gown, soaked in something dark. The woman stood beside it, no longer weeping. Her face was twisted in a grin of sheer malevolence. She spoke, her voice a dry rasp: ‘You dare to discard my promise?’ She lunged, and I felt a searing pain in my chest.

I woke up in a hospital bed, a nurse telling me I had a heart attack. Elena was there, her eyes red from tears. She told me the priest had exorcised the apartment, and we could never go back. She showed me a newspaper clipping from 1910: a young woman named Isabela had been found dead in the same apartment, clutching a locket with a man’s portrait. The man was later suspected of her murder but never charged. He had fled to another country. I asked Elena what happened to the locket. She said it was never found, that it had vanished from the evidence room. As she spoke, I felt something cold and hard in my pocket. I reached in and pulled out the locket, unscratched, the portrait inside now bearing my own face.