Raka stood frozen in front of his house. The rain had stopped, but the night air felt heavier by the moment. The muddy footprints were clearly visible beneath the oil lamp's light—large, long, and far too deep, as if their owner had an incredibly heavy body.
Sari took a step back.
"Those aren't Bayu's footprints."
Raka squatted and touched the mud. It was still wet.
"They were just made," he murmured.
There were only five footprints. They came from the direction of the forest, crossed the yard, and stopped right in front of the house. There were no footprints leading back.
As if something had come... and then vanished.
A cold wind slipped through the gaps between the trees. In the distance, the sound of gamelan could still be heard faintly.
Ting... Tung... ting...
Raka clenched his fists. "I don't care what the villagers say. Tomorrow morning, I'm going into The Forest of Lost Souls."
Sari stared at him for a long moment. "If you go in, don't ever go alone."
"Why is everyone so afraid?"
Sari didn't answer right away. She went inside and shut the door tightly, then lowered the wooden latch as if afraid something might break in.
"Because that forest doesn't always kill."
Raka frowned.
"Is there anything worse than dying?" he asked.
Sari looked at the family photograph on the wall—an old picture showing Raka, Bayu, and their parents.
"There is."
The night grew later. Sari finally went home, leaving Raka alone in the old house. Before she left, she quietly warned him:
"If you hear someone knocking on the door after midnight, don't open it. No matter who calls your name."
Raka only nodded halfheartedly.
He tried to sleep in his old bedroom. The roof creaked whenever the wind blew. The smell of wet earth mingled with rotting wood and filled the room.
Bayu's notebook lay on the small table beside the window.
Raka opened it again.
The previous pages were filled with drawings of trees, strange circular symbols crossed by broken lines, and dated notes from the past two weeks.
One sentence appeared again and again:
"They forget."
The next page read:
"The Village Head forgot his wife's name."
"Mbah Karto forgot the way home."
"I'm starting to forget Mom's face."
Raka's breath caught.
He turned to the last page.
There was a drawing of a wooden gate bearing the words ALAS LALI JIWO. Beneath the drawing, Bayu had written:
"Don't let them call your name three times."
Suddenly—
Knock... knock... knock...
The sound of knocking came from the front door.
Raka tensed.
He glanced at the wall clock.
12:17 a.m.
Knock... knock... knock...
The knocking was soft and steady, like it came from someone extremely patient.
Then a woman's voice rang out.
"Raka... open the door, sweetheart."
The blood in his veins seemed to freeze.
It was his mother's voice.
Even though she had died three years ago.
Raka slowly rose from the bed. His heart pounded. The voice sounded so real, filled with the tenderness he knew so well.
"Raka... I'm cold..."
Knock... knock... knock...
He stepped out of the bedroom. The hallway was pitch-black. Only moonlight seeped in through the gaps in the windows.
The voice came again, softer this time.
"Open the door..."
Raka's hand was almost touching the door latch when he remembered Sari's warning.
No matter who calls your name.
He took a step back.
From behind the door came a long, drawn-out breath.
Then his mother's voice changed.
Hoarse.
Deep.
Inhuman.
"Raaaakaaa..."
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The knocking suddenly grew louder.
The entire door shook.
Raka stumbled backward. The oil lamp in the living room went out on its own.
Total darkness.
From behind the door came the sound of a long scratch.
Kreeeet...
Like extremely long fingernails scraping across the wood.
Raka held his breath.
The scratching moved slowly from top to bottom.
Kreeeet...
Kreeeet...
Then it stopped.
Silence.
A few seconds later, footsteps could be heard moving away toward the yard.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then there was nothing more.
Raka worked up the courage to peek out the window.
Fog covered the yard.
But in front of the door, a woman's figure stood with her back to the house. Her long hair covered her back. Her white clothes were ragged and dripping wet.
The woman slowly walked toward the forest.
Her first three steps left human footprints.
The fourth step became a footprint that was far too long.
The fifth resembled an animal's paw print.
And on the sixth step, the figure vanished into the fog.
At the same time, the gamelan from the heart of The Forest of Lost Souls began to sound again.
This time, it formed a clear rhythm.
And Raka realized in horror—
The rhythm was following his heartbeat.