That night, rain had been falling since just after evening prayer.
It wasn't the kind of downpour that could make the roof tiles tremble, but a long, steady drizzle hanging like a thin curtain over Karangjati Village. The dirt roads between the villagers' homes turned to mud. Porch lights cast yellowish reflections across puddles, while in the distance, frogs called back and forth from the rice fields beginning to flood.
At the edge of the village stood an old house whose paint had almost entirely peeled away.
It was known as Mr. Wiryo's house.
Since his wife had died three years earlier, the fifty-two-year-old man had lived alone with his daughter, Laras. They lived simply. Mr. Wiryo worked as a farm laborer and occasionally helped repair the villagers' roofs. Laras worked at a corner grocery in the district market.
Their family had never gone without.
But over the past two years, everything had changed.
The rice fields they cultivated had suffered repeated crop failures. Fertilizer prices had risen. Debt had piled up. The roof had begun to leak. Laras's school fees had even fallen three months behind.
That night, Mr. Wiryo sat in the living room, counting the money left in his wallet.
Five ten-thousand-rupiah bills.
That was all.
He let out a long breath.
“I have to pay my debt to Mr. Seno tomorrow,” he muttered.
From her room, Laras heard her father's voice.
“Dad?”
Mr. Wiryo hurriedly put the money back in his wallet.
“Go to sleep, Ras.”
“You haven't eaten.”
“I have.”
“Liar.”
Mr. Wiryo fell silent.
A few seconds later, Laras came out carrying a plate of rice and fried eggs. She set it on the table.
“Eat.”
Mr. Wiryo looked at his daughter. The guilt grew heavier every time he saw Laras's face.
“You eat.”
“I already ate at the store.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Laras smiled, though it looked forced.
At last, Mr. Wiryo picked up his spoon.
But before he could take a bite, a sound came from the yard.
**Crack... crack... crack...**
Like a branch breaking.
Mr. Wiryo froze.
Laras turned toward the window.
“What was that?”
“Probably a cat.”
They fell silent again.
Then another sound rang out.
**Thud... thud... thud...**
Like something heavy walking across the muddy ground.
Mr. Wiryo set down his spoon.
His heart suddenly began to pound faster.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sound was drawing closer.
Laras stood up.
“Dad?”
“Don't go near the window.”
“But—”
“Don't.”
Mr. Wiryo rose and turned off the light in the living room.
The house suddenly went dark.
They were lit only by the faint moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtain.
The footsteps stopped right in front of the house.
Silence.
Mr. Wiryo held his breath.
Then came the sound of snorting.
**Hrrr... hrrr...**
Laras covered her mouth with her hand.
“Dad...”
Mr. Wiryo signaled for her to be quiet.
Several seconds passed.
Then came the sound of something scraping across the ground.
**Scrape... scrape... scrape...**
As if sharp claws were digging through the mud.
Mr. Wiryo slowly approached the window. He lifted the curtain slightly.
And that was when he saw it.
A black pig stood in the yard.
Its body was huge.
Its fur was soaked by the rain.
Its eyes reflected the moon's pale light.
But what made Mr. Wiryo feel as though the blood had stopped flowing through his veins wasn't the pig's size.
It was the prints it had left behind.
The pig's footprints were clearly visible in the mud.
But the tracks could only be seen up to three meters from the house.
After that...
there were no tracks at all.
As if the creature had come out of thin air.
Mr. Wiryo quickly closed the curtain.
“What did you see, Dad?”
“Nothing.”
“A pig?”
Mr. Wiryo looked at his daughter.
Laras had gone pale.
“Why did you say pig?”
Laras swallowed.
“Because... I saw it too.”
They stared at each other.
Suddenly, something fell behind the house.
**Crash!**
Laras flinched.
Mr. Wiryo grabbed the machete he usually used while working in the garden.
“Where are you going, Dad?”
“To check the back.”
“Don't!”
“I'll only be a moment.”
“Don't go outside!”
Mr. Wiryo stopped in front of the door.
For some reason, a strange feeling made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
As if something out there was waiting for him to open the door.
He abandoned the idea.
They didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, the rain had stopped.
Karangjati Village returned to its usual activity.
But when Mr. Wiryo opened the front door, he froze.
Footprints covered the yard.
Not one or two.
Dozens.
Pig tracks encircled his house in a ring.
Laras stood behind her father.
“Dad...”
Mr. Wiryo didn't answer.
Among the footprints lay something that sent an even deeper chill through him.
An old gold coin.
Mr. Wiryo bent down and picked it up.
The coin felt warm.
Even though the air had been bitterly cold the night before.
One side of the coin bore the image of a pig's head.
The other showed a strange symbol, like a circle surrounded by claw-like lines.
“Just throw it away, Dad.”
Mr. Wiryo closed his hand around the coin.
“It might belong to someone.”
“If it belongs to someone, why was it here?”
Mr. Wiryo didn't know what to say.
As he slipped the coin into his pocket, someone called from the road.
“Wir!”
Mr. Wiryo turned.
Mr. Seno stood by the gate.
The man was known as a produce merchant and the village's small-time moneylender. He wore a neat shirt, even though the morning was still fairly cold.
“Don't forget your debt,” he said.
Mr. Wiryo lowered his head.
“I remember, Sen.”
“Tomorrow is the deadline.”
“I'll do my best.”
Mr. Seno gave him a thin smile.
“Don't do your best. Pay.”
After Mr. Seno left, Laras looked at her father.
“How much do we really owe?”
Mr. Wiryo didn't answer.
“Dad?”
“Forget it. Don't worry about it.”
“Dad.”
At last, Mr. Wiryo spoke quietly.
“Eighteen million.”
Laras fell silent.
Eighteen million.
To their family, that amount was like a mountain no one could possibly climb.
That afternoon, Mr. Wiryo went to the market to sell some farming equipment. He didn't get much for it. When he headed home near dusk, he walked along the path behind the village cemetery.
That was where he met someone.
An old man stood beneath a banyan tree.
Mr. Wiryo knew him.
Mbah Ranu.
The villagers said Mbah Ranu lived alone in a small house near the forest. Some considered him a mystic. Others said he had been involved in wealth-pact sorcery decades ago.
Mr. Wiryo didn't actually believe stories like that.
But as he passed by, Mbah Ranu suddenly said,
“You took the coin?”
Mr. Wiryo stopped in his tracks.
“What?”
Mbah Ranu smiled without showing his teeth.
“The coin left behind by last night's guest.”
Mr. Wiryo felt the back of his neck go cold.
“How do you know?”
“Because I know who came.”
“Who?”
Mbah Ranu looked toward the forest.
“Not who.”
He paused for a moment.
“But what.”
Mr. Wiryo gripped the edge of his shirt.
“Mbah, I don't understand.”
“Then don't use it.”
“The coin?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Wiryo nodded.
“I won't use it.”
Mbah Ranu gave a soft chuckle.
“Everyone says that.”
Mr. Wiryo began to walk away.
But Mbah Ranu's voice rang out again.
“If you truly can't repay your debt... come to my house after midnight.”
Mr. Wiryo stopped.
“What for?”
Mbah Ranu didn't answer.
He only stared at Mr. Wiryo with unreadable eyes.
“Come alone.”
The following night, Mr. Wiryo couldn't sleep.
Eighteen million.
Mr. Seno's face.
The house falling further into disrepair.
Laras, who might have to stop working to help him.
And the gold coin still hidden in the cupboard.
He had intended to throw it away.
But every time his hand touched the coin, he remembered Mbah Ranu's words.
**If you truly can't repay your debt... come.**
The wall clock showed 12:17 a.m.
Mr. Wiryo got up.
He put on a jacket.
Laras was asleep in her room.
Before leaving, Mr. Wiryo looked at his daughter from the doorway.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
Then he stepped outside.
It didn't rain that night.
The full moon hung in the sky.
Mr. Wiryo walked toward Mbah Ranu's house, the gold coin in his pocket.
He didn't know that ever since he left home, a pair of eyes had been following him from behind a clump of bamboo.
And when Mr. Wiryo entered the path leading to the forest, a soft snort sounded behind him.
**Hrrr... hrrr...**
Mr. Wiryo stopped.
He turned around.
There was no one there.
But on the wet ground behind him, a pair of footprints slowly appeared.
One.
Two.
Three.
The tracks moved closer to him.
Without any body to make them.
Mr. Wiryo began to run.
Meanwhile, from deep within the forest, Mbah Ranu's laughter drifted faintly through the night.
“Come, Wiryo...”
“If you want to be rich...”
“...there's a price you have to pay.”