The night fog swallowed the yard.
Raka stepped outside with a small bag on his back, a flashlight in his right hand, and a black-root bracelet wrapped around his left wrist. The air felt far colder than before, as though the temperature had dropped along with the arrival of the fog.
Mbah Wiryo stood at the start of the path, carrying an oil lamp. Its flame was small, yet strangely, it did not flicker despite the wind.
“Don’t look back if you hear your name being called,” he said.
Raka nodded.
“Don’t answer anyone’s voice from inside the fog.”
“I understand.”
“And most importantly…” Mbah Wiryo stared sharply into his eyes. “If you start forgetting Bayu’s face, tell me immediately.”
Those words made Raka’s chest tighten.
They walked away from the village. Behind them, the houses looked dark, without a single light. There wasn’t a human sound anywhere. Even the crickets seemed to have stopped singing.
Only their footsteps sounded on the wet road.
Sari followed behind them, carrying a cloth bag.
“I’m coming.”
Mbah Wiryo immediately shook his head. “No.”
“If Raka enters the forbidden forest, he’ll need someone who still remembers him.”
The old man fell silent for several seconds.
Then he nodded slowly.
“All right. But you stop at the gate.”
The three of them walked across rice paddies covered in knee-high fog. Every now and then, Raka felt something moving among the rice, following their steps.
When he swept his flashlight over it, there was nothing there.
Yet the sound of additional footsteps continued.
Four feet.
Then six.
Then back to three.
Raka quickened his pace.
Mbah Wiryo suddenly stopped.
“We’re close.”
Ahead of them, the trees of the Forest of Lost Souls stood packed together like a wall of blackness. No moonlight could penetrate it.
And between two enormous mahogany trees stood an old wooden gate.
Exactly like the picture in Bayu’s book.
The words ALAS LALI JIWO were carved into the beam overhead, but the letters looked wet, as if they had just been written in mud.
Sari hugged herself.
“Why does it smell like a graveyard?”
Raka only noticed it then. A damp smell mixed with a faint, fishy odor drifted from the gate.
Mbah Wiryo raised the lamp higher.
“Don’t touch the gate.”
Raka stared at the old wood. Its surface was covered in long cracks resembling the veins of human skin.
Then something moved.
The cracks slowly widened.
Contracted.
Then widened again.
Like a chest breathing.
Raka took half a step back.
“That gate… is it alive?”
“Not alive,” Mbah Wiryo whispered. “Waking up.”
The wind suddenly stopped completely.
The fog around them went still as well.
Then the sound of a gamelan came from inside the forest.
Very close.
Ting... tung... ting...
At the same time, the writing on the gate changed.
The muddy letters slowly flowed into a new sentence.
WHO WANTS TO BE FORGOTTEN?
Sari held her breath.
Raka felt his throat go dry.
“Don’t read it out loud,” Mbah Wiryo said quickly.
But it was already too late.
From inside the forest came the whispers of dozens of voices, repeating the same sentence.
“Who wants to be forgotten…”
“Who wants to be forgotten…”
“Who wants to be forgotten…”
The whispers surrounded them from every direction.
Sari covered her ears.
Mbah Wiryo pulled out a handful of coarse salt and sprinkled it on the ground, forming a small circle.
“Get inside the circle!”
The three of them stood inside it.
A moment later, the fog beyond the circle began to writhe wildly. Tall shadows appeared faintly between the trees.
Not one.
Many.
All of them were thin and far too tall.
And none of them had faces.
Raka shuddered.
One of the figures stepped closer until it was only a few yards from the salt circle.
From where its face should have been came the voice of Raka’s father.
“Raka… come home.”
Raka clenched his fists.
Another figure moved forward.
This time, it was his mother’s voice.
“I’m scared…”
Then Bayu’s voice.
“Mas, I’m cold.”
Raka’s eyes burned.
Mbah Wiryo gripped his shoulder tightly.
“That isn’t them.”
The figures stopped at the edge of the salt circle. Their heads moved in unison, tilting to the right, then to the left.
As if they were sniffing out the scent of memories.
Suddenly, the black-root bracelet around Raka’s wrist felt hot.
Scalding hot.
He winced.
Mbah Wiryo looked at the bracelet, and his face grew tense.
“They’re starting to recognize you.”
“What does that mean?”
The old man didn’t have time to answer.
The wooden gate before them opened on its own with a long groan.
Kreeeeek…
From the darkness beyond the gate emerged a dim greenish light.
And from within came the sound of someone’s footsteps.
Slowly.
Drawing closer.
A figure stepped out of the forest.
Its body was thin, its clothes covered in mud, its hair hanging over its forehead.
Raka froze.
“That’s… Bayu.”
His younger brother stood directly in front of the gate.
His face was pale, but whole.
His eyes stared blankly at Raka.
Then his lips slowly moved.
“Mas…”
Tears nearly fell from Raka’s eyes.
But Mbah Wiryo instead took one step back.
And in a voice Raka had never heard sound so frightened, he whispered:
“Don’t go near him.”
Raka turned to him in confusion.
“Why?”
Mbah Wiryo stared at Bayu’s feet.
They weren’t touching the ground.
And behind Bayu’s body, within the darkness of the gate, dozens of pale hands could be seen gripping his back from inside the fog.