The Red Shoes (Philippines – The White Lady of Balete Drive)

The asphalt of Balete Drive in Quezon City doesn’t just hold the heat of the Philippine sun; it holds secrets that bleed into the night. It is a narrow stretch of road, flanked by ancient, towering Balete trees whose massive, strangling roots look like petrified limbs reaching out from the soil. Local legend says these trees are gateways for the Engkanto, but the commuters who brave the drive after midnight fear something much more human—and much more dead.

The night was unusually thick with a humid fog when Ricardo, a veteran taxi driver who prided himself on his iron nerves, turned his steering wheel onto the infamous road. He didn't believe in the "White Lady." To him, she was a story told to keep children indoors.

Then, his headlights caught a glimmer of white.

Standing beneath the largest Balete tree was a woman. She was slender, dressed in a sheer, high-collared Maria Clara gown that seemed to glow with its own sickly luminescence. Her hair was a river of obsidian, flowing down to her waist, obscuring her face entirely. Ricardo felt a primal instinct scream at him to keep driving, but his foot acted on its own, pressing the brake. In the silence of the night, the hiss of the tires on the damp road sounded like a warning.

She didn't wave. She didn't move. But when Ricardo looked into his rearview mirror to check his surroundings, she was already sitting in the backseat.

The temperature inside the cab plummeted. The smell hit him a second later—not the scent of flowers, but the cloying, sweet stench of jasmine mixed with the metallic tang of old blood and wet earth.

"Straight ahead," she whispered. Her voice didn't sound like it came from a throat; it sounded like the friction of dry silk.

Ricardo’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. He tried to focus on the road, but the atmosphere in the car was suffocating. He stole a glance at the mirror. Her head was bowed, the long black hair veiling her features.

"Is... is the air conditioning too cold, Ma'am?" he stammered, his voice cracking.

She didn't answer. Slowly, the woman began to lift her head. Ricardo watched, paralyzed, as the hair parted. There was no face—only a raw, weeping mess of red tissue where features should have been, as if the skin had been meticulously peeled away. Where her eyes should have been, two hollow, dark pits stared back, leaking a thick, dark ichor.

Ricardo slammed on the brakes, the car skidding sideways. He screamed, shielding his eyes, waiting for the impact or the cold touch of a ghost. Silence followed. When he finally mustered the courage to look back, the seat was empty. The door was still locked.

He gasped for air, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Just a hallucination," he lied to himself, his breath hitching. "The fog. The tiredness."

He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down to put the car in gear. That’s when he saw them.

Placed neatly on the floor mat behind his seat were two small, elegant red high-heeled shoes. They were beautiful, made of fine silk, but as Ricardo stared, he realized they weren't dyed red. They were saturated. A dark, viscous puddle was spreading from the heels, soaking into the carpet of his taxi. The shoes were overflowing with fresh, warm blood.

A sudden, wet slap hit the driver's side window.

Ricardo turned. Pressed against the glass was the same skinless face, her jaw unhinged in a silent, jagged howl. Her long, pale fingers—shredded at the tips as if she had been clawing at the asphalt—dragged down the window, leaving streaks of red.

He didn't wait. He floored the accelerator, the engine roaring in protest. He didn't look back until he reached the bright lights of the city. When he finally stopped, the shoes were gone. But to this day, no matter how much he scrubs, the scent of jasmine and the faint, copper smell of blood never truly leaves his car. And sometimes, when he drives alone at night, he hears the soft, rhythmic click-clack of high heels on the pavement, right behind his head.