Babaylan of Pasig

Chapter One: The Babaylan in Pasig

Some doors stay closed not because they’re locked, but because I’ve spent so many years answering "Thank you for calling" that I’ve forgotten my own name. My mind might be fried, but apparently, my blood still has the receipts.

The heat in Pasig wasn't just weather; it was a personal attack. It felt like a wet, heavy blanket of tricycle fumes and humidity clinging to me like a toxic ex. The air above the asphalt shimmered, smelling like a chaotic mix of frying garlic, exhaust, and mangoes that had definitely seen better days.

I stood in front of the Espiritu ancestral house, watching a bead of sweat do a slow-motion parkour run down my temple. I adjusted my faux-leather satchel—which was mostly holding my chargers and a sense of impending doom—and felt that familiar, damp circle forming on my back. I stared at the house. The house stared back, looking like it wanted to ask for my supervisor.

The place was an architectural relic drowning in a sea of modern concrete. Two stories of graying concrete and dark narra wood, seemingly held together by pure spite and some very aggressive vines. The capiz windows upstairs were shut tight, looking like the clouded eyes of a Lola who’s about to tell you your haircut is "sayang."

I told myself this was a "one and done" transaction. Sign the papers. Claim the title. Sell the lot to the developers who’d been ghosting my personal boundaries for months. The figures they offered sounded like salvation to a guy with exactly three thousand pesos in his BPI account and a Gmail inbox full of "We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates."

I exhaled, squared my shoulders, and stepped toward the gate.

The thing hadn't just rusted shut—it had gone full "quiet quitting." Five years of monsoon rain had given it a texture like a scab, but the silence around it felt intentional. Like it was holding its breath.

I did what any rational, frustrated Millennial-Z cusp would do. I kicked it.

Thud.

The gate didn't even rattle. Instead, a shockwave of "Absolutely Not" shot up my shin, sharp and burning. It felt like I’d kicked a solid wall of pressurized air instead of iron bars. I stumbled back, scraping my shoe and whispering a very colorful Tagalog curse under my breath.

"Ay, sus! Careful, boy! You'll break your leg before you even get your pamana."

The voice was sharp enough to cut through the humidity. Across the street, parked on a red plastic throne under a striped tarp, was Ninang Josie. She was fanning herself with a folded BDO flyer with the kind of rhythmic precision you only see in people who have mastered the art of neighborhood surveillance.

"It’s emotionally locked, Ninang," I called back, rubbing my shin. "I’m just trying to match the energy."

Ninang Josie chuckled—a sound like dry leaves in a blender. She reached into a glass jar and tossed me a flat, orange candy. "You look thin, Pepito. Manila doesn't feed you?"

"Manila eats people, Ninang. It doesn't provide snacks." I unwrapped the candy, the artificial orange flavor hitting me with a wave of childhood nostalgia. "Anyway, I’m just here for the deed. In and out. No drama."

Josie stopped fanning. The silence that followed was heavier than the 2:00 PM sun. She lowered her sunglasses just enough to show eyes that were way too sharp for a woman her age. "You think rust is what’s stopping that gate? You think an Espiritu house opens for a real estate agent?"

"It’s just wood and stone, Ninang. It doesn't have a LinkedIn profile."

"It is a lungga," she corrected, her voice dropping to a serious register. "Your Lola Ynez didn't build walls to keep thieves out. She built them to keep things in. If she’s watching, she’ll open it when she’s ready. Not when you’re in a rush to meet a developer."

I looked back at the house. The vines seemed to pulse, which was great, because I definitely needed hallucinations on top of heatstroke. "Maybe she’ll just throw a tsinelas at me from the afterlife. For old time's sake."

Ninang Josie didn't laugh. Her hand drifted to a blackened pendant—an agimat—hanging from her neck. She muttered something that sounded like a mix of a Latin prayer and a "Keep Out" sign.

"Careful how you knock, iho," she said. "Some doors remember more than you think. And they get offended when you forget."

I blinked, unsettled. But a second later, she was back to swatting flies. "Buy a Coke if you're staying. I’m not running a lounge for lost boys."

I dropped a coin on her counter and turned back to the gate. Up close, the iron smelled like ozone—that weird scent in the air right before a transformer blows or a storm hits.

I shoved.

Nothing. The air around the gate felt like gelatin. The house felt like it was leaning forward, watching me struggle like a comedy skit. I gritted my teeth. "Open up. It’s me. It’s Pepito. I have the bloodline and the student loans to prove it."

My palm slipped on a patch of slick rust. My hand jerked, scraping violently against a jagged edge of the metal frame.

"Ah—putres!"

I pulled my hand back. A thin, bright red line bloomed across my palm. A single drop of blood, heavy and dark, fell onto the rusted iron mechanism.

The moment it hit, the world went on Mute.

The tricycle engines, the distant karaoke, the barking dogs—all gone. A low hum vibrated through the metal and straight into my teeth. The temperature spiked to "Hell" before dropping to "Walk-in Freezer."

Ka-thunk.

The gate creaked open just wide enough for me to squeeze through. I stood there, cradling my hand, looking back at Ninang Josie. She wasn't fanning anymore. She was smiling a secret, satisfied smile.

“Welcome home, Apo,” she mouthed.

I swallowed hard and stepped inside.

The silence here had a texture—thick, smelling of wet earth and crushed sampaguita. The driveway was a graveyard of wilted petals, but the path was weirdly clear. The house loomed over me, looking less like a haunted mansion and more like a predator that had finally caught its prey.

I climbed the stairs. The wood creaked in a way that felt like a formal protest. When I reached the main door, I didn't even touch the handle. The heavy narra door just... sighed open.

Inside, the living room was a sea of furniture covered in white sheets. They looked like a bunch of ghosts waiting for a meeting to start. The air smelled of mothballs and, weirdly, fresh sampaguita.

"Lola?" I whispered.

The silence swallowed my voice. I saw the scuff on the floor from my old toy car—the one I’d slammed down during a tantrum when I was seven. I could almost hear her voice: "Apo, you drive like your Ninong after three San Miguels! Gentle, gentle!"

I shook my head. She’s gone, Pepito. Don't let the vibes get to you.

I headed straight for the one door that was always off-limits: Lola Ynez’s room. I turned the tarnished brass knob.

Click.

The scent hit me first: dried flowers, church incense, and sea salt. It was freezing in here, but there was no AC. The room was disturbingly neat. The bed was made. A rosary hung from the bedpost, swaying as if someone had just walked past.

And then there was the aparador.

This wardrobe was way bigger than I remembered. It looked deeper, the dark wood pulsing in the half-light. The carvings weren't just flowers; they were geometric symbols that made my brain itch if I looked at them too long.

I reached for the handles. They were ice-cold. I pulled.

WHOOSH.

The cabinet didn't just open; it exhaled a gust of wind that smelled like a thunderstorm. Inside, there were no mothballs or old dusters. There was... a nebula. Violet and silver light swirled in a bottomless void where the back of the wardrobe should be.

"What the hell is this? I definitely didn't see this in the virtual tour."

I slammed the doors shut. Bang.

I stood there, panting. "Okay. Heatstroke. Low blood sugar. I’m having a stroke. This is fine."

I opened them again. Still a galaxy. Still impossible. The wind tugged at my shirt like it was trying to pull me in. My gaze dropped to the bedside table. Four items were laid out like a starter kit:

* A leather pocketbook.

* A braided bracelet with a dark stone.

* An abaca coin purse.

* And a SIM card that was literally glowing with an iridescent oil-slick coating.

Under them was a letter. Para sa mahal kong Apo, Pepito.

I tore it open, my hands shaking.

> Apo ko,

> Wag kang matakot. Trust your blood.

> The inheritance is yours. Put the SIM in your phone. It will explain what I cannot.

> Do not wait. I am waiting.

> — Lola

>

"Trust my blood? Lola, I’m anemic," I muttered, looking at the cut on my palm.

I pulled out my cracked smartphone. With trembling fingers, I swapped my Globe SIM for the glowing chip. The screen went black immediately.

"Great. I just bricked my phone with enchanted malware."

Then, a pixelated icon of a tampipi basket appeared.

"Biometric interface active," a female voice said from the speaker. It sounded professional, like a high-end AI with a "don't mess with me" attitude. "DNA verification required. Please provide a blood sample."

"Excuse me? I don't even give blood at the clinic without a cookie."

"Blood sample required to initialize legacy protocols," the voice repeated, sounding impatient.

I looked at my hand. The same blood that opened the gate. I sighed and pressed my palm against the screen. The phone hummed, vibrating through my wrist.

"Sample acquired. Lineage confirmed. Welcome, Sixto Pepito Espiritu."

I yanked my hand back. The blood was gone—absorbed into the glass. "Did you just... eat my blood? What kind of app is this?"

"I am not an app," the voice replied dryly. "I am the Babaylan Enhancement Protocol. BEP, for short. Your grandmother bound me to this frequency."

I sat on the bed, feeling the weight of the universe pressing down. "This is a hallucination. Ninang Josie’s candy was definitely laced."

"If this were a hallucination," BEP said, "your subconscious would be much more creative. Point your device at an object. Command it to ‘Store’."

I pointed the camera at a tarnished silver spoon. "Store."

ZAP.

The spoon vanished into a flash of blue light. My screen blinked: [Item 001 – Lola’s Spoon. Class: Sentimental Junk.]

"Oh my God. I’m a digital hoarder now."

"Precisely," BEP said. "Lola Ynez crafted a legacy of prayer and data. And you’re the only one left to manage the account."

"Why me? BEP, I’m a screw-up. I can’t even handle a 'disputing a charge' call without sweating."

"Because the Lagusan—the rift in that wardrobe—is destabilizing. If you don't bind it, Pasig becomes a crater or a buffet for astral entities. Your grandmother trusted you."

The house trembled. Dust fell like snow.

"Worst case?" I asked.

"Total dimensional collapse. Best case? You do your job. Faith scales, Pepito. So does responsibility."

I looked at the swirling light in the aparador. I thought about my empty apartment and my mounting bills. Then I thought of Lola Ynez, standing alone against a literal cosmic storm in her duster.

I picked up the bracelet. It snapped onto my wrist, fitting perfectly. I grabbed the coin purse. It beat like a heart.

"Your blood remembers the way," BEP whispered.

I took a deep breath. It smelled like home and danger. "Lola," I murmured, "if this is my pamana, please let me have enough mana to survive it."

I squared my shoulders and stepped into the silver light. The world folded. The stars moved.

Outside, Ninang Josie crossed herself. "Go with her, Anak," she whispered. "She’s been waiting for a hero. Even a burnt-out one."

The light swallowed me whole, and for the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about my KPIs.

I’ve leaned into that "I'm too tired for this magic" vibe. Would you like me to walk you through the "Tutorial Phase" on the other side?

---

Author’s Note:

Welcome to the weird side of Pasig! If you’ve ever suspected your Lola’s antique cabinet was a portal to another dimension, or that your erratic mobile data was actually spiritual interference—you’re in the right place.

The Espiritu Inheritance is a love letter to Filipino folklore, Urban Fantasy, and the absolute chaos of inheriting a magical responsibilities when you can barely pay your bills.

Pepito needs your help (and mana)!

If you enjoyed the chapter, please hit that Follow button, drop a Rating, and tell me in the comments: What is the weirdest object in your grandparents' house that you suspect is magical?

See you in the rift!

- Author