MISTERYOSA

( I ) MISTERYOSA

I followed her. She walked so fast. By the time my feet landed on the last step of the staircase, the only thing my eyes caught was her faint, dissolving shadow.

It was a Friday evening, almost seven o'clock, when I went up to the third floor of the Technology Building to return a book I had borrowed from the library. Honestly, I rarely read books, much less borrow one, but I needed it for a class report. The library, of course, had already been closed—I realized too late how foolish I was.

By Fridays, the school is nearly deserted. Nine out of ten students are gone, traveling back to their provinces, and only a few guards remain. That night, aside from them, I saw one student. And she was the reason I forgot my original errand.

She was striking—pale, even in the dim light. Her long black hair fell freely down to her waist. Her uniform was crisp and perfectly fitted, her figure impossible not to notice. She looked like she had walked out of a commercial—graceful, flawless... but something about her was off. She walked quickly, as if rushing away from something, and there was a heaviness in the way she moved.

Curiosity took over me. I followed her, thinking maybe she was also heading to the library. I wanted to see her face. I even made my footsteps louder, hoping she'd turn around. She never did. Instead, she only quickened her pace.

And then—she vanished.

The last I saw was her shadow slipping into the Female Comfort Room. But I never heard the door open. And I never heard it close.

The air suddenly grew cold, brushing against my skin like invisible fingers. My body felt heavy, as if unseen weights had latched onto my ears. Panic washed over me, and in my mind flashed the twisted faces of every ghost from every horror film I had ever watched—especially The Conjuring, which my friends and I had seen just the night before.

I don't consider myself someone who fears ghosts, but that moment... I felt the fear of those who do. A cold, sinking dread.

I turned back. My feet carried me quickly down the stairs, the urge to escape overwhelming me. The thought gnawed at me: what if she wasn't human at all? What if she pulled me into the dark from that third floor?

Still shaken, I decided to wait outside—to confirm if she would ever come out. I told myself: things look different face to face. I had to see her, this "Miss Teryosa."

I sat near the guardhouse of the building across from the gate, my old battered cellphone in hand. The screen had no backlight, but I managed to check the time—8:30 p.m. The lights in the classrooms of both the Academic and Technology Buildings were nearly all extinguished. Yet not once did the girl emerge from the restroom where I had seen her enter.

Questions swirled in my mind: Why am I wasting my time on a stranger's business? Why do I care who she was, or what she was doing in there?

I finally stood to leave, my body exhausted from days of sleeplessness with my friends. But as I turned away, I caught something in the corner of my eye—

a pale silhouette at the third-floor window.

She was standing there. Still. Watching.

And then, the lights of the building went out.

(II) PERFUME

For days, the mysterious student haunted my thoughts.

For nights, she lingered in my dreams.

I searched for her, imagined her face among the crowd...

Until eventually, she faded.

Forgotten.

Like a dream that slips away with the morning light.

One month later...

Everyone was busy preparing for finals—everyone except me and my group.

Seven reckless guys from our section (I always claim I'm the "nicest," but who am I kidding, hahaha).

We were alike in many ways: lazy, careless, bound together by bad luck and too much idleness.

We were hanging out by the benches, teasing classmates who were cramming for exams, when suddenly—

tik... tak... tik... tak...

there she was.

The senior every guy in school fantasized about. Beautiful, confident, walking past as if the hallway belonged to her. My group froze, jaws dropping in unison like fools.

Fast forward—my friends decided to chill at our usual hangout. We were heading out of the building when it hit me.

A scent.

Familiar. Too familiar.

The fragrance of freshly cut roses.

The world slowed. My steps faltered.

That smell pierced through me, soft yet heavy, pulling something out of my memory. I knew I had encountered it before. Once. On a night I swore I'd never forget.

But whose was it?

And when?

I searched my mind, but nothing came back. Just emptiness.

Around me, the lobby was crowded, dozens of students moving in every direction. Too many faces. Too many possibilities. I couldn't just go around sniffing people, could I?

And yet—what unsettled me most—

the scent followed me.

It clung to the air around me, trailing my every step.

My skin prickled. My heartbeat raced. I hadn't realized I'd fallen behind the group. I was alone now.

One name echoed in my head. Her.

I quickened my pace, pushed my way out of the building. But even outside, the scent lingered. Like something unseen walking just a step behind me.

And then the thought crawled into my mind—

What if it wasn't just a scent left behind?

What if she had followed me all along?

(III) FRIEND REQUEST

Maybe I'm haunted...

That's the only way I could explain this strange feeling. Like something was always waiting for me—watching me from a corner I couldn't see. Or worse... maybe someone had cursed me.

But why? What sin had I committed for anyone to bother doing this to me?

It was Saturday. The end of the lazy students' weekly ordeal. And of course, like every weekend, my friends and I had our own secret hideouts. I'll let you figure that part out.

I hadn't been on Facebook for days—Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. So as soon as I walked into the internet café near school, I logged in. The place was the usual chaos, the air heavy with sweat and noise. The endless shouting of DOTA addicts filled the room, my group among the loudest, voices hoarse from hours of trash talk.

"One hour on number 24!" I shouted to the server.

The screen lit up. My account loaded.

Five friend requests.

I didn't know any of them, so I ignored them all. Instead, I scrolled through comments on the ridiculous photos my friends and I had taken. Then—another friend request appeared.

This time, I froze.

The name: "Teressa Reyes."

Profile picture: a single white rose, perfectly matched with the cover photo above it.

The scent of roses rushed back into my memory. Yesterday. The hallways. That same fragrance that refused to let me go.

Curious, I clicked her profile.

It was almost empty.

No posts.

No photos.

No friends.

Only two details stood out:

Joined Facebook: one hour ago.

Birthday: March 28, 1974.

Something about it clawed at me. Out of unease, I opened a new tab and searched the name.

And there it was.

An old news article. Yellowed photos scanned into the archives.

A young woman—Teressa Reyes—had died in 1994.

At my school.

Inside the Reading Center.

Cause of death: Suicide. The report said she was found late in the evening by a janitor making his rounds. A bottle of sleeping pills was discovered beside her, along with scattered pages of what seemed to be a personal journal.

Investigators noted she had been under "severe emotional distress." Friends described her as quiet but often overwhelmed — struggling with pressure from her studies, her family's expectations, and a relationship that had recently ended. See more. . 

My throat closed. My hands went cold, stiff against the mouse. I stared at the monitor, forcing myself to breathe, when suddenly—

The fragrance filled my nose.

Not faint. Not memory. Real. Roses. Lingering in the air around me, weaving into the sweat and dust of the café.

I froze.

And though every computer around me buzzed with voices and laughter, at that moment, I felt utterly alone.

(IV) PANYO

"What day is it? My head's pounding again. A hangover. At least... I made it home. But wait—how did I get home?"

Examination week.

Damn it.

I scrambled out of bed, threw on my clothes, skipped breakfast. I ignored my mother's questions—where I'd been, who I was with, why I hadn't come home. My mind throbbed. I couldn't think.

Fast-forward through the exams. Nothing new. The same blank page, the same desperate eyes wandering upward for answers. "Look up," as always.

But behind the jokes and noise of the day, something pressed at me. The last thing I remembered last night was vomiting at the bus terminal, too drunk to stand. After that, nothing. Blank. As if my memory had been cut away.

By afternoon, I couldn't take the noise of my group's teasing anymore. I wandered off while they played basketball. My feet carried me without thought. Before I realized, I was already on the third floor of the Technology Building.

The air was cool there. Quiet. Too quiet. My mind fogged with exhaustion, and I sat by the library, my eyelids sinking.

I must have fallen asleep.

Because I remember a dream—

a woman, her face hidden by the light, leaned down and handed me a handkerchief.

"For the drool on your lips," she said softly.

I woke to darkness. Evening had already fallen.

I laughed at myself, embarrassed by the absurdity. But as I walked downstairs, reaching into my pocket for bus fare, my fingers brushed something soft.

I froze.

A handkerchief.

Not a dream.

I pulled it out slowly. White, delicate, embroidered with a single name in careful thread: TERESSA.

My stomach turned. My chest tightened.

The faint scent clung to it—roses. That same fragrance. The same one that had followed me, haunted me, seeped into my nights.

I held it in my hand, staring at the stitched name. My mind scrambled for answers, searching for meaning, for connection. But the only truth I felt was this:

It wasn't a dream.

She was here.

(V) THE ENCOUNTER

Six months.

That's how long I tried to bury everything—the roses, the handkerchief, the shadow.

Then one afternoon in the canteen, a student approached me.

"Someone's looking for you," he said.

"Where?"

"The Reading Center."

He walked away before I could ask more.

The walk from the canteen to the Reading Center was long. The further I went, the quieter it became. The school felt deserted. Most of the classroom lights were off—the kind of silence that hums in your ears and makes every footstep sound too loud.

I swallowed hard and continued walking.

And then I saw someone sitting at the corner table, half-shrouded in shadow. Long black hair spilled down her shoulders. A familiar figure—the same girl I had seen months ago at the stairwell. Miss Teryosa.

For a moment, excitement flared in me. Finally, I thought. Finally, I'll see her face. Finally, I'll know.

But then... the perfume.

That same fragrance from before—the roses. Sweet, cloying, almost intoxicating. My chest tightened.

The air itself seemed to shift. Heavier. Colder. It gripped at my shoulders, pressing me forward, as though invisible hands were guiding me closer. My excitement drained into unease.

Every step made the scent stronger, wrapping around me, burrowing into my lungs. My skin prickled. The hairs on my neck rose. The closer I came, the more it felt like the room itself was holding me—like she wasn't waiting for me to approach, but rather drawing me in.

That's when the horror began.

She spoke without turning.

"You drew me."

My blood ran cold.

Her voice was both a whisper and a scream, echoing inside my skull. I wanted to deny it, but the memories clawed their way up—me, scratching idle lines into that wall, shaping a face that didn't exist. A girl who wasn't real.

"You gave me a name," she said. "You called me Teressa."

And then she turned.

Her face was the same one I had drawn. Familiar and alien all at once. A creation that had pulled something ancient, something broken, into itself.

Visions tore through me—hers, not mine.

A woman abandoned. Love turned to betrayal. Her body collapsing in this very place, pills, tears mingling with blood. She died here. Her sorrow imprinted itself on the walls. And when I sketched her... I gave that sorrow a body. A face. A way back.

Her hand reached for me, cold as stone, dragging me toward the wall. My eyes widened in horror—she was carving, no, engraving me into the vandal itself. My body stiffened, frozen, my chest burning. If she succeeded, I would be trapped—etched forever next to her, another ghost bound to this place.

Summoning everything left in me, I pulled away. My scream ripped through the silence. The air snapped. She staggered back. For a moment, her face twisted—not beautiful now, but hollow, ruined.

And then she vanished.

I collapsed, gasping.

When I lifted my eyes to the wall, the drawing was still there. The face I had doodled years ago, now sharper, almost alive.

And beneath it, new words had appeared, scrawled in jagged black strokes that hadn't been there before:

"I'LL WAIT FOR YOU."

The rose scent clung to me all the way home.