In a quiet sitio in Tarlac, where life flowed with the familiar rhythm of a small community, lived Remedios Villarta. At 59, she was a widow, her days spent in the simple, aging house she once shared with her late husband. Her two children, now grown with families of their own, lived in Manila. They had pleaded with her to leave the lonely house, to come live with them, but Remedios gently refused. The house was not just wood and stone; it was a vessel of memories, a place where the echoes of her husband and the children’s youthful laughter still lingered. She was content in her solitude, supported by the monthly allowance from her children and finding peace in visits to the local market and her husband’s grave.

To most, Remedios was a quiet, pleasant figure. She was known to smile at passersby, even those she didn’t know, a simple gesture of warmth. But in the shadowed corners of the community, in the hushed umpukan (gatherings) of neighbors, a different, more sinister image of Remedios was being painted. A whisper, born of jealousy and malice, had begun to circulate: Remedios Villarta was a mangkukulam, a witch.

This poisonous rumor had a name and a face: Carolina Bartolome, a 53-year-old neighbor. The roots of her resentment ran deep, back to the early days of Remedios’s widowhood. It was rumored that Carolina’s husband had once tried to court Remedios. Though Remedios never entertained his advances, the perceived slight ignited a burning hatred in Carolina. It was a hatred she nursed with gossip, slowly and methodically poisoning the minds of her neighbors.

Carolina’s tales grew more elaborate with time. She claimed to have seen Remedios performing rituals, lighting black candles, and sitting in the center of demonic symbols. She blamed Remedios for every misfortune—a sick animal, a failing business, a child’s fever. These were all fabrications, but in a community susceptible to superstition, they began to stick. For a long time, Remedios weathered these rumors in silence. Aware of the stories, she chose not to confront them, arming herself only with prayer and a quiet dignity.

This fragile peace was shattered by the arrival of the Alvarado family. Nicholas “Kulas” Alvarado, his wife, and their children, including their eldest, Gian, were new to the area, having moved from Pangasinan to start fresh. Life was settling into a normal routine—Kulas working as a tricycle driver, his wife at a factory—until tragedy struck.

One sunny afternoon, a group of schoolchildren, including young Gian, passed by Remedios’s home. They spotted her bayabas tree, heavy with fruit, and shyly asked for some. Remedios, delighted by the company, welcomed them into her yard. She not only gave them fruit but also snacks, chatting with them like a doting grandmother missing her own. The children left happy, and Remedios was left with a feeling of warmth. But from a window across the street, Carolina watched, her old resentments churning.

Days later, Gian fell ill. A fever and a cough, which she already had, worsened. As the girl’s condition deteriorated, Carolina saw her opportunity. She fanned the embers of the old rumor, whispering to Kulas that Remedios was the cause, that the widow had “cursed” her daughter. Desperate, Kulas and his wife, lacking the funds for a hospital, took Carolina’s advice and visited a local albularyo (folk healer).

Unbeknownst to them, Carolina had already spoken to the healer, priming him with her lies. The albularyo told the desperate parents that a powerful old woman, one who had taken a lock of Gian’s hair, was draining the child’s life force. The description, vague as it was, fit the image of Remedios that Carolina had already planted in Kulas’s mind. He began having nightmares of an old woman staring at him from the dark. He was convinced.

The healer’s rituals and herbal remedies did nothing. Gian’s condition worsened, and she eventually passed away at the hospital. The doctor’s diagnosis was clear: severe pneumonia. There was no poison, no unexplained phenomena. But for Kulas, his mind gripped by superstition and grief, the medical explanation was meaningless. He was certain. Remedios Villarta had taken his daughter.

In the dark days after the funeral, Kulas was a man consumed by rage. Carolina was a constant presence, stoking his anger, whispering that Remedios was now tormenting Gian’s soul in the afterlife. The grief-stricken father unraveled. He was seen drinking heavily, pacing erratically outside Remedios’s house, stopping to stare for long, unsettling moments.

Then, one cold February night in 2015, two weeks after his daughter’s passing, Kulas, intoxicated and armed, slipped into Remedios’s backyard. He found a wooden window, and under the cover of darkness, he entered the home.

Inside, Remedios Villarta was asleep, unaware of the danger that had been festering just across the street.

It was two days before she was found. The neighbors, alerted by a foul odor, called the police. The discovery inside the home was heartbreaking. Remedios was lifeless. There were no signs of robbery; her children’s allowance was untouched. The state of her body, however, told a story of profound violence, a story of a personal, rage-fueled act.

The investigation immediately pointed to Kulas. He was the only person with a perceived motive and who had shown menacing behavior. He was tracked down weeks later at a relative’s house in Pangasinan. In custody, he was quiet, offering no resistance. He admitted to the act, stubbornly insisting that Remedios was a witch and that he had only done what was necessary to free his daughter’s soul.

The subsequent trial laid bare the tragic anatomy of the lie. The children who had been with Gian that day testified to Remedios’s kindness, recalling how she had invited them all to come back for more food. Remedios’s own children were devastated, telling the court their mother was a kind, gentle woman who had never even mentioned the rumors against her.

In 2018, the court found Nicholas “Kulas” Alvarado guilty. The judge, in sentencing him to reclusion perpetua, made it clear that superstitious beliefs could never justify the taking of a human life. The law, he affirmed, protects all, even those unjustly accused of witchcraft.

And what of the architects of the lie? The albularyo and, most critically, Carolina Bartolome, faced no legal charges. There was no law to hold them accountable for the “arson” of starting the fire, only for the man who “lit the match.” But in the court of public opinion, and perhaps of fate, a different sentence was passed. Carolina, who had quietly denied any responsibility, was diagnosed with aggressive cancer in 2019. In 2021, while battling her illness, she was one of the many who perished during the COVID-19 pandemic.

The story of Remedios Villarta is a devastating reminder that gossip is not harmless. It is a weapon. In a community that chose to believe in superstitions over the quiet kindness of a lonely widow, a few malicious whispers were all it took to load the gun. Remedios was not the victim of a curse; she was the victim of a lie.