The mangkukulam—often translated as “sorcerer” or “witch”—is a staple of the Philippines’ haunted imagination: a mistress of hexes, a brewer of gayuma (potions), a confidante and foe at the same time, and the shadowy keeper of secrets about desire and fate. And among the spells, many trust the mangkukulam to conjure? The love curse—a toxic yet addicting concoction of romance and ruin. A love curse by a mangkukulam is the gothic heart of Philippine folklore, pulsating at the crossroads of pining, power, and moral consequence.

Take note that such a spell is not merely a tale of spooky superstition; it is a cultural mirror.

To understand the mangkukulam’s love curse is to scrutinize how Filipinos—past and present—think about attraction, consent, community boundaries, and the toll of meddling with what should perhaps be left alone.

From Babaylan to Mangkukulam: A Tangled Lineage

The Philippines’ complex spiritual ecosystem predates the crucifixes, Last Supper tapestries, karaoke machines, and intense GameZone Tablegame Champions Cup matches.

Healers and mediums—known as babaylan in the Visayas and katalonan in parts of Luzon—communed with ancestors and spirits, presided over rituals, and acted as community anchors.

Colonial disruption blurred and darkened these roles. Under the Christian lens, spirit-workers were recast into saints or sinners; some healers were embraced as herbalists and hilot practitioners, while others were condemned as demonic.

Out of this friction emerged the figure we now call the mangkukulam: a practitioner of kulam (sorcery), who sometimes acts as a healer or a hexer. Depending on your persuasion, these “witches” have always been a liminal presence.

But here is the catch: not every folk practitioner is a mangkukulam. Many are traditional healers, bone-setters, or prayer leaders.

That said, folklore loves a villain—or at least an antihero—and the mangkukulam slides neatly into that shadowed space, the person you consult when hope gets desperate and when love turns into a dark forest of one’s unrequited desires.

What Exactly Is a Love Curse?

In the folk imagination, kulam manipulates natural and spiritual forces through sympathetic magic. The love curse hinges on symbolic links: strands of hair braided into a single cord, names scratched in candle wax, threads knotted at midnight, candles burned in deliberate patterns, and petitions whispered over water or oil.

Another adjacent element is the gayuma, often romanticized as a love potion. This brew is frequently portrayed as coaxing attention and desire, while a love curse is imagined as something stronger and darker—a compelling obsession that binds someone’s will or wrecks all rivals’ chances.

The logic behind the gayuma is ritualistic: imitate the desired outcome, and the world responds in kind. Knot the thread, bind the heart. Melt the wax, soften the resolve. Name the beloved, and the beloved turns toward you.

Kulam is gothic at its core because the setting matters: a thick rural night, a table of herbs and small bottles, and a cross between prayer and spell.

On the other hand, it is also deeply human because the emotion at its core, wanting to be wanted, is painfully familiar and a reflection of what we might lack within.

The Gothic Allure: Why are Love Curses Captivating?

So, we know that love curses can be dark and detrimental. But why are they still enthralling?

First, it treats love as a force, not just a feeling. For a mangkukulam, love is but a tempest that can be summoned, directed, or disastrously mishandled.

Such a dramatic frame resonates in a culture where romance is a grand, public spectacle and a stubborn personal ache.

In songs, teleseryes, and whispered confidences, love is fated and combustible. Therefore, a curse represents the ultimate plot twist: a love that is predetermined to fail.

Second, a love curse seduces with the promise of control in the most uncontrollable arena. When limerence becomes exhausting, the idea that a ritual could bend destiny is intoxicating.

Gothic literature thrives on precisely this temptation: power that comes at a price. And folklore, conniving as it is, rarely lets anyone walk away unscathed. The story’s moral backbone says, “You can push the river, but it will flood.”

Third, love curses also reflect social anxieties around consent and coercion. They force us to ask uncomfortable questions.

If you could make someone love you, should you? If your beloved’s gaze is spell-forged, is it love at all? The mangkukulam’s craft is thus a philosophical prod—part ghost story and part ethics seminar.

A Mangkukulam’s Tools of the Trade: Herbs, Objects, and Ritual Time

When it comes to a mangkukulam’s tools of the trade, accounts vary by region, but common motifs recur.

Red and black threads for binding; vials of oil, vinegar, or water kept under tables or beds; candles poked with pins at measured intervals; and personal tokens—hair strands, nail clippings, and clothing—are used to tether the spell to a person.

Herbs such as damong maria or lagundi are used for medicinal and ritual smoke purposes. And like their Western sisters, mangkukulam also use orasyon (prayers or incantations) spoken in a cadence that meshes Catholic invocations with elder phrases whose meanings are slightly obscured with age.

Time is also an imperative ingredient. Some rituals are said to be performed on Tuesdays and Fridays, classic “open gate” days in folk calendars; others require the liminality of midnight or the heightened sanctity of Holy Week.

And the logic behind this schedule? Thresholds thin the veil between light and dark—and so does yearning.

Present-Day Perceptions: Between Skepticism and Soft Belief

Walk around any Philippine city today and you will find a modern, skeptical populace. Most Filipinos code, commute, and caffeinate on schedule.

Yet, despite modernization, belief does not vanish so easily—it shape-shifts. Many now treat kulam stories as cultural heritage, symbolic narratives rather than literal threats.

Others still hold a soft belief: they would not swear by curses, but they would not mock them either. With that, you will likely hear someone say “sabi nga nung mga matatanda”—and anecdotal advice passed down by the elderly.

Among the words of wisdom these elderly would say are “Do not carelessly share your comb” and “Do not tempt jealousy with public boasting.” It sounds like common sense draped in superstition, but the latter still offers something precious: a pattern in the noise.

There are also living traditions of healing—hilot, herbalism, and faith healing—operating in clinics, barangay centers, and private homes.

Practitioners may be devoutly Catholic or syncretic in practice, blessing oils, reciting prayers, and laying on hands. Understand that many draw a line between healing and harm: to heal is a calling, while to curse is a trespass.

And when accusations of sorcery surface, communities often respond with social mediation, seeking reconciliation rather than witch hunts.

In cities, supposed love potions may appear as novelty items in markets, online shops, and, ironically, in stalls erected at the church plaza, occupying the same shelf as crystals and candles.

Legally, there is no contemporary Philippine statute criminalizing sorcery per se; what’s punishable are acts that constitute fraud, coercion, or injury under ordinary law.

So the public conversation has transitioned from metaphysics to ethics: it’s less of “Does kulam work?” and more of “Is it right to manipulate someone’s will?”

That said, the answer from most corners is a clear no.

Love Curses in Popular Culture

Pop culture keeps the mangkukulam’s silhouette elegantly lit. Taking examples from ‘Dracula’ and ‘The Craft,’ films and TV anthologies have a penchant for a curse-gone-wrong story, where desire escalates into obsession, and the very spell that catches the beloved soon ensnares the caster.

Contemporary fiction reimagines the mangkukulam as a complex entity, perhaps a morally gray heroine navigating tradition and autonomy.

They could also be interpreted as a queer healer reclaiming ancestral power. Music videos and fashion editorials flirt with the aesthetic: rosaries layered over black lace, candles dripping on vintage plates, and the domestic altar as a runway set. The gothic allure here is less horror than glamour with thorns.

In romance narratives, the love curse becomes a metaphor for the ways we self-sabotage—the little manipulations we rationalize and the ghost of expectations inherited from family and folklore.

In some way, the mangkukulam is not just a character; it is a question mark we carry into our relationships.

The Ethics of Desire: A Quiet Counterspell to Kulam’s Dark Clutches

What, then, is the responsible counterspell to the love curse’s temptation? It is, unironically, real love. Call it old-fashioned wisdom, but the remedy is traditional in spirit and forward-looking in practice.

Real love is an offering, not a taking. It requires time, clarity, honest boundaries, and a respect for the other person’s freedom.

The rituals that truly work are embarrassingly mundane: communicate, show up, be kind, maintain self-respect, and keep your promises.

Sure, it might not be nearly as cinematic as midnight knots, but it is sturdier and truer than the dark binding hex.

Communities have their gentle countermeasures: blessings instead of bindings, cleansing baths, prayer circles, and healing oils intended not to trap a heart but to soothe a wounded one.

If we scrutinize curses under a modern sense, it might be our cultural habit of romanticizing possession and mistaking control for security.

With that, the best antidote is a mature definition of love—free, mutual, respectful, and accountable.

Tradition Without Terror

To cherish our folklore does not mean we have to live in fear of it. We can still honor the mangkukulam as a literary and cultural artifact—evidence of our ancestors’ creative attempts to narrate the mess of love and power.

We can still visit Siquijor for its sunsets and healing festivals without vilifying every herb seller we see in town. We can still listen to elders’ cautionary tales and sift out the wisdom: that jealousy corrodes, that intention matters, and that secrets have a way of staining what they touch.

In that sense, the gothic allure is a doorway rather than a dungeon. Step through, admire the candlelight, learn the stories, and return to daylight with a few truths in your pocket.

Final Word: Handle Love With Care

The mangkukulam’s love curse persists because it dramatizes a perennial human wish—to bend the heart’s currents when they refuse to flow our way.

It wraps that wish in velvet shadows and gives it a ritual script. But every story in our tradition—even the darkest facets—points back to responsibility.

Cast if you must in fiction, but in life, choose consent over compulsion, healing over harm, courage over shortcuts, and respect over manipulation.

After all, the most potent spell we have ever known is neither written on parchment nor knotted into thread.

It is the steady, unfashionable magic of character—quiet habits that earn trust, long conversations that build understanding, and a genuine love that stands on its own without needing to be bewitched or forced.