The villagers scattered in panic.
Some recited prayers in trembling voices, while others pulled their children away from the village hall. The possessed man was still sitting on the bamboo bench, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring straight at Raka.
“Your brother isn’t dead,” the voice repeated softly. “He’s learning to forget you.”
Raka stepped forward before he had time to think.
“Where’s Bayu?”
The smile on the man’s face stretched far too wide, the corners of his lips nearly splitting.
“In the place where names are thrown away.”
Mbah Wiryo slammed his wooden staff against the ground.
“Enough!”
The force of his voice made the air tremble. The old man pulled a black thread from inside his robe and quickly tied it around the man’s wrist.
The man screamed.
His scream turned into the shrill laughter of an old woman.
“Hehehe... still guarding the gate, Wiryo?”
Mbah Wiryo murmured a mantra. Raka couldn’t understand the words, but every syllable sounded heavy, like stones being dropped into a well.
Suddenly, the man’s body went limp.
His neck snapped back into its normal position with a crack that made several villagers vomit in terror.
Silence.
Only the people’s panicked breathing could be heard.
The man opened his eyes and looked around in confusion.
“Why am I here?”
“Sir!” Mrs. Laras immediately threw her arms around him, sobbing.
But a few seconds later, the woman’s face went pale.
“Sir... do you know me?”
The man stared at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded slowly.
“Laras.”
An emotional sob broke out in the village hall.
But Mbah Wiryo didn’t look relieved. Instead, he stared at Raka with an even darker expression.
“Come with me.”
Without waiting for an answer, the old man walked toward the back of the village hall. Raka followed, while Sari came a few steps behind them.
They stopped at a small pavilion that was rarely used. An old, rusted bell hung there, along with the smell of incense that had gone out long ago.
Mbah Wiryo sat down slowly.
“Your father never told you anything?”
“No.”
“About The Forest of Lost Souls?”
Raka shook his head.
The old man stared at the floor for a few moments before saying, “Your father entered the heart of the forest twenty-five years ago.”
Raka froze.
“What?”
“And he came out carrying something that didn’t belong to him.”
Suddenly, wind swept through the gaps in the pavilion walls. The old bell swayed gently without making a sound.
Sari whispered, “Mbah...”
“It’s time he knew.”
Mbah Wiryo looked straight at Raka.
“Your mother couldn’t have children for eleven years. Then your father went into The Forest of Lost Souls. Three months later, your mother became pregnant.”
Raka’s world seemed to shift.
“What did you say?”
“Your father asked for a child.”
“That’s impossible.”
“In that forest, many things that shouldn’t be possible are.”
Raka rose roughly to his feet. “So you’re saying I’m the result of a pesugihan ritual?”
“No.” Mbah Wiryo’s eyes were sharp. “You’re the result of a pact.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Raka could hear his own blood pounding in his ears.
“What kind of pact?”
The old man didn’t answer right away. He drew a long breath.
“Every request made in The Forest of Lost Souls must be paid for with something you love.”
Raka thought of Bayu.
And suddenly, his stomach turned cold.
“No...”
Mbah Wiryo closed his eyes for a moment.
“Your father was given his first child.”
“And the payment?”
The old man opened his eyes.
“His second child.”
Sari covered her mouth in shock.
Raka took a step back.
“That’s a lie.”
“I wish it were.”
“Bayu disappeared because my father made a pact?”
“A pact never truly sleeps,” Mbah Wiryo replied softly. “It only waits for the time to collect.”
Raka remembered everything strange that had happened since he returned: Bayu’s voice, the figure in the forest, the woman at the door, and the creature’s words.
He’s learning to forget you.
“If Bayu isn’t dead,” he said hoarsely, “I’ll bring him home.”
Mbah Wiryo stared at him for a very long time.
“If you enter the forest, there’s a chance you’ll find him.”
Raka immediately looked at him with hope.
“But,” the old man continued, “there’s also a chance that when you return... you won’t remember who Bayu is anymore.”
Those words struck harder than the threat of death.
Late afternoon began to fall as Raka left the pavilion. The sky turned a deep orange, and the forest’s shadow stretched almost all the way to the village hall.
In the yard, a little girl tugged at the edge of Sari’s clothes.
“Kak...”
“What is it, Nduk?”
The girl pointed west.
“That person is back.”
Everyone turned.
At the boundary between the rice fields and the trees stood the tall, gaunt figure Raka had seen the night before.
Its body was too long.
Its head hung at an angle.
And this time, its face was visible.
Blank.
There were no eyes, no nose, no mouth.
Only smooth, pale skin like a wax mask.
The figure slowly raised one hand.
Then pointed directly at Raka.
And from the place where there was no mouth came Bayu’s voice:
“Mas... before the third night, come get me.”