Curious Encounter

I was in a small room somewhere in Baguio City, trying to get some rest. Something about the place made me uncomfortable, as if an unsettling energy was lingering. But I brushed off that feeling and went on a stroll. Having lived here for quite some time, I knew the city well enough to find comfort in its familiar streets and alleys. That night, though, I didn’t care much about the place itself, just needed sleep.

I turned on my portable speaker and let music fill the room, hoping it would drown out the unease. I had no idea what time it was when I finally drifted off. But just as sleep began to wrap me in its embrace, something, someone, woke me.

In the dim light at the corner of my bed stood a woman. She held a child close to her chest, like any mother would. She said the child was two, though I couldn’t tell if she meant two months or two years old, or whether the child was a boy or a girl. The child didn’t move. Its eyes were open, staring blankly, cold and lifeless.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me, and I leapt out of bed, fumbling for the light switch. My heart raced, but surprisingly, I didn’t feel afraid. More than anything, I felt curious.

I stood in the light, staring at the now-empty corner, every sense on high alert. The room felt colder than before, the air thick with questions I couldn’t answer. I didn’t sleep at all that night. Instead, I sat on the bed, music still playing softly in the background, wondering about the woman and her child.

I wasn’t sure if it had been a dream or some kind of semi-sleep encounter, somewhere between dreaming and waking. The feeling was too vivid, too real to dismiss, yet too surreal to fully believe.

Days passed, and I shared the story with my colleagues. They listened intently, and one of them told me that South Drive has long been known as a place where spirits linger. They said the area has carried a heavy energy ever since the devastating earthquake that struck Baguio City in July of 1990.

That earthquake, one of the most destructive in Philippine history, struck on July 16 with a magnitude of 7.8. It reduced buildings to rubble, severed roads, and claimed more than a thousand lives. Baguio City was one of the hardest-hit areas, with hotels, schools, and homes collapsing in seconds. Many people were trapped under debris for days, and the aftermath left a deep scar on the city’s heart, a scar that some say never fully healed.

Maybe it wasn’t fear that kept me awake that night. Maybe it was the weight of history, the remnants of lives once lived, and the silent echoes of the city's past, lingering like forgotten memories.