I Lied To My Aunt About Albularyo Healing — After Skipped Checkups and Drained Savings, I Confessed
“Don’t move, Lina. The spirits are listening.” Candles filled the room like a restless forest, and sage smoke mixed with molten wax on my tongue. Kamangyan incense clung to the air, and it pressed sweetly and heavily against my breath. Aunt Mercy whispered chants, and her hands hovered above my head as if she pulled a thread from my mind.
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Her skin felt fever-hot, a dry, radiating heat that brushed against my forehead and made my skin crawl with an instinctive, primal terror. "Auntie, please, this is going too far. You're burning up. We need to stop this," I choked out, the acrid smoke stinging my eyes and making my throat constrict until I could barely swallow.
She gripped my hair suddenly, her fingers twisting into the roots with a strength that forced my head back. Her voice dropped to a terrifying, guttural growl that didn't sound like the woman who had raised me.
"Be silent! The healer said you’re the reason the headaches won't stop! He said your hidden secrets are the poison in my blood!"
"He’s lying to you, Auntie! He just wants the money!" I cried, tears finally breaking through. "No, Lina," she whispered, her face inches from mine, her eyes reflecting the red embers like a demon’s.
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"You’re the one who found him. You told me he had the sight. Are you calling yourself a liar now?" I felt the floor drop out from under my life as she began to weep, a jagged, hollow sound. That night, the lie finally stopped being a comfort and became my cage.
Aunt Mercy didn't just raise me; she anchored me when the world felt fluid and uncertain.
Source: UGC
After my parents moved to Milan for work, she became my entire universe, a woman of sharp wit and even sharper devotion.
She traded her youth for my education, working long shifts at the market to ensure I never lacked a single notebook or a warm meal.
"You are my daughter in every way that matters, Lina," she would often say while braiding my hair on the porch. The smell of sun-dried laundry and sampaguita always seemed to follow her, a scent that meant safety.
"I don't need a husband or a fancy house as long as you're studying hard," she told me once, her eyes twinkling. I promised her then that I would take care of her forever, a vow I took with the gravity of a sacred oath.
When the headaches started six months ago, she refused the local clinic with a stubborn wave of her hand. "Those doctors just guess and charge you for the privilege of being a lab rat," she grumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Source: UGC
"But Auntie, your blood pressure might be high," I argued, reaching for my purse to check our savings. She just laughed, a dry sound that lacked its usual warmth.
"It's not my blood, it's my soul," she insisted, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've been nabati; someone looked at me with envy at the market, and now my spirit is misaligned."
I watched her suffer for weeks, her vibrant personality wilting like a flower in a drought. Desperation is a dangerous architect, building exits where there should be walls.
"I spoke to an albularyo in the next village, Auntie," I said one evening, the words slipping out before I could weigh them. "He said your headaches aren't a sickness of the body, but a spiritual weight that needs gentle lifting."
She stopped rubbing her temples and looked at me, as hope broke through her exhaustion. She covered her mouth with a small smile and asked, “He saw that, even without meeting me?” Her voice carried fragile wonder and quiet disbelief.
Source: UGC
"Yes," I lied, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "He said you just need rest and the right intention, and the pain will simply fade away."
The immediate change in her demeanour was intoxicating, a false spring that blinded me to the coming frost. For the first week, Aunt Mercy seemed transformed; she smiled more, her movements regained their fluid grace, and the kitchen once again smelled of sautéed garlic.
"You see, Lina? The healer was right," she said, stirring a pot of sinigang with newfound energy. "I've been drinking the herbal infusions you suggested, and the pressure in my skull has almost vanished."
I leaned against the doorframe, watching the golden afternoon light dance across the steam rising from the stove. The sound of the bubbling broth was rhythmic and soothing, a domestic lullaby that momentarily quieted my conscience.
"I'm just glad you're feeling better, Auntie," I replied, ignoring the prickle of guilt at the back of my neck.
Source: UGC
I truly believed my small deception was a mercy, a psychological placebo that had cured what medicine couldn't touch.
However, the peace was short-lived, as the human mind always seeks to codify its miracles. "Take me to him, Lina," she commanded one morning, her Sunday dress already pressed and laid out on the bed.
Panic flared in my chest, a cold splash of water that woke me from my comfortable delusion. "He... he travels a lot, Auntie, he might not be there," I stammered, frantically searching for an exit.
"Then we will find his house and wait," she insisted, her eyes burning with a zeal that frightened me. "I need to thank the man who saved my life, and I need a proper cleansing to ensure the darkness stays away."
I couldn't confess then; the weight of her gratitude was already too heavy to lift. Instead, I pointed her toward a small, weathered hut in a distant barangay where a known healer lived, someone I had only heard of in passing.
Source: UGC
When we arrived, the air was thick with the scent of burning copra and dried herbs, a heavy, earthy aroma that seemed to coat the back of my throat. The healer, a man with eyes like polished stones, seemed to sense my terror and Aunt Mercy’s desperation instantly.
"The girl told me you knew," Mercy said, bowing her head as she entered the dim, smoke-filled room. I stood in the shadows of the doorway, my skin crawling as I watched the man take her pulse with a knowing, predatory smile.
"Your spirit is indeed burdened, mother," the healer intoned, his voice a low vibration that seemed to make the very floorboards hum. "The headaches were just the beginning; there are deeper blockages, shadows cast by those who envy your light."
I wanted to scream, to grab her hand and pull her back into the sunlight, but I was anchored by my own lie. Aunt Mercy reached into her purse and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills—money she had been saving for a new refrigerator.
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"Whatever it takes," she whispered, her voice trembling with a terrifying devotion. "Lina told me you were the only one who could see the truth, and I believe her."
The weeks that followed felt like watching a slow-motion shipwreck from the shore. Aunt Mercy stopped visiting the local clinic entirely, tearing up her appointment cards for the hypertension specialist.
"They only see the flesh, Lina, but Mang Rojo sees the soul," she argued when I tried to intervene. Every Tuesday, she made the long trek to the distant barangay, returning with small vials of clouded oil and pouches of bitter-smelling bark.
Each visit grew more expensive, the prices shifting from a few coins to significant portions of her monthly pension.
"The healer says my luck is being choked by a jealous neighbour," she whispered one night, her face illuminated by a single flickering candle. The power had been cut because the utility bill money had gone toward a 'spiritual shield' ritual.
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The room was deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic thump-thump of her rubbing her temples. "He says that if I don't cleanse the house, the headaches will turn into a stroke."
"Auntie, that’s just fear-mongering," I snapped, the frustration finally boiling over. "We are sitting in the dark because of these rituals!"
She looked at me with a cold, piercing intensity I had never seen before. "How can you say that? You were the one who told me he was the only one who understood!" she cried out. "You opened my eyes to the truth, and now you want me to go back to being blind? You’re the reason I’m finally fighting for my life."
The irony was a physical weight, a stone in my stomach that grew heavier with every word. I watched her sell her gold wedding band—the last physical link to her late husband—to pay for a three-day 'deep soul extraction'. She began to isolate herself, refusing to speak to our cousins who questioned her spending.
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"They have bad energy, Lina," she told me, her voice hollow and thin. "Mang Rojo says they are the ones feeding the shadows in my head. I've cut them off to protect us." I realised then that my small, 'peaceful' lie had built a wall around her, and I was trapped inside it with her.
The breaking point arrived on a Tuesday evening when the air felt thick and humid, heavy with the scent of an approaching storm. I returned from work to find Aunt Mercy sitting in the middle of the living room, surrounded by dozens of white candles.
The wax was dripping onto the floor, creating pale, ghostly stains on the wood that looked like weeping sores. The smell of cheap paraffin and heavy incense was so thick I could almost taste the soot on my tongue.
"Lina, come here," she said, her voice sounding strangely distant and metallic. "Mang Rojo says the source of the blockage isn't just the neighbours. It's closer. He says someone in this very house has been harbouring a great deception that acts like a poison."
My heart stopped, then resumed with a frantic, uneven rhythm that made my vision blur. I felt a cold sweat break out across my shoulder blades, the fabric of my shirt clinging to my skin like a shroud.
Source: UGC
"What are you talking about, Auntie?" I asked, my voice barely a squeak. I reached for the light switch, but she slapped my hand away with surprising strength.
"He says I need a final, ultimate cleansing," she continued, her eyes wide and glassy, reflecting the dancing orange flames. "It costs fifty thousand pesos. I’ve already spoken to the cooperative about a loan against the house title. It is the only way to save my life."
The room seemed to tilt on its axis; the flickering candlelight stretched her shadow into a distorted, towering monster on the wall. "No! Auntie, you can't do that! That's our home! That’s everything we have!" I screamed, the sound echoing harshly in the small, oppressive space.
I could feel the heat from the candles radiating against my shins, a physical manifestation of the hell I had built for us.
"I have to!" she shrieked back, her face contorting in a mask of pure, unadulterated agony. "The headaches are back, Lina! They’re worse than ever! It feels like hot lead is being poured into my ears and eyes! If I don't pay for the ritual, the healer says I’ll be dead by the new moon! He saw the darkness in your heart, Lina! He said you brought me to him because you knew I was fading!"
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She grabbed a heavy bowl of 'blessed' water and threw it against the wall in a fit of manic terror. The sound of the ceramic shattering was like a gunshot in the cramped room, shards of pottery flying past my face.
"He knows everything! He even knew you were the one who found him first! He said your intuition was a gift from the ancestors to save me from the lies of the world!"
I looked at her—gaunt, terrified, and willing to lose our very roof for a lie I had whispered casually months ago. The healer hadn't just taken her money; he had used my own lie as the foundation for his entire, parasitic scam.
He had weaponised my 'intuition' and my 'discovery' of him to bypass her natural scepticism. I had handed him the keys to her mind, and now he was burning the house down. I wasn't her protector; I was the architect of her ruin.
"I made it up!" I roared, the truth tearing out of my throat like a jagged shard of glass. The silence that followed was absolute, heavier than the storm clouds gathering outside. Aunt Mercy froze, her hand still raised to rub her throbbing brow.
Source: UGC
"What did you say?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"There was no healer, Auntie," I sobbed, sinking to the floor amidst the spilt water and wax. "I never spoke to anyone. I was just tired of seeing you in pain and hearing you refuse the doctor. I told you a spiritual healer said it was 'nothing serious' just to make you stop worrying. I lied."
She didn't scream. She didn't throw anything. She simply sat down on the wooden bench, her shoulders sagging as if the bones had turned to sand. "I spent my savings," she whispered to the empty air. "I insulted our family. I sold my ring. Because you told me... You told me he was the truth."
The coldness in her gaze was worse than any fire. When she finally looked at me, the warmth that had defined my childhood was gone, replaced by a clinical, distant appraisal. "I’m going to the hospital tomorrow," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
"And you are going to work every extra hour you can to pay back the cooperative. But don't you ever—ever—tell me something is 'for my own good' again."
The medical diagnosis was a chronic sinus infection and severe hypertension, both easily treatable with cheap, daily tablets. The 'spiritual blockages' were nothing more than inflamed tissue and high blood pressure.
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But while her body healed, the bridge between us remained broken. She began to fact-check every small thing I said, asking for receipts, looking up information herself, and treating my words with the suspicion one reserves for a stranger.
The intimacy of our diary-like life had been replaced by a formal, transactional existence. I had saved her health, but I had murdered her trust.
I used to think that the truth was a luxury, something we could withhold to protect the people we love from unnecessary stress. I believed that a 'white lie' was a tool of compassion, a way to smooth the jagged edges of a harsh reality.
I was wrong. A lie told for the sake of peace is not a gift; it is a debt that eventually comes due, usually with a ruinous rate of interest.
By lying to Aunt Mercy, I stripped her of her agency. I treated her like a child who couldn't handle the truth, and in doing so, I pushed her into the arms of someone who exploited her vulnerability.
Source: UGC
I learned that when you provide someone with a false map, you are responsible for every wrong turn they take, every cliff they fall from, and every cent they lose while trying to find their way home.
We are still living in the same house, but the air between us is different now. It is no longer filled with the scent of sampaguita and easy laughter. Instead, it is sterile and quiet. I am paying back the money, peso by painful peso, but I know some things can never be refunded.
I sit in the kitchen now, listening to the hum of the refrigerator we almost lost, realising that peace bought with a lie is just a temporary loan. I thought I was being kind, but true kindness requires the courage to be honest when things are difficult.
Every time she looks at me with that shadow of doubt in her eyes, I am reminded that my silence would have been better than my fabrication. If a single sentence can dismantle a lifetime of devotion, was the comfort it provided ever actually real?
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
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