Ban Nong Lom was the kind of village that disappeared from maps once the wind blew the dust too hard. Nestled between thick forests and rice paddies that shimmered silver under the moonlight, it had a quiet eeriness that no traveler could quite describe. Fog hugged the ground like an ancient spirit reluctant to leave, and the air always smelled faintly of burnt herbs, smoke, and secrets. The trees whispered in the breeze, their skeletal branches scratching at the sky like the claws of unseen creatures.
Chanthira stood barefoot in the soft earth behind her grandmother's stilted wooden house. The sky was bruised with twilight, fading from fiery orange to deep violet. In her hands was a worn flashlight with a cracked lens, though she hadn't dared turn it on. Something in her blood pulsed in rhythm with the dusk, a silent warning she could not ignore.
Her grandmother, Pimjai, had died three days ago, and since then the house had been wrapped in funeral cloth, the scent of incense lingering heavily in every corner. But it wasn't just death that lingered here. It was memory, thick and alive. Chanthira had always felt something strange about the old house. The way the floorboards creaked like whispered warnings beneath her steps. The way the mirrors had been carefully covered not just for mourning—but for protection, or so her grandmother had hinted in quiet moments.
As she stood silently near the banana grove, the humid air prickling her skin, she saw it.
A lantern.
Not the typical oil lantern carried by villagers. This one floated. No one held it. It bobbed gently a few feet above the ground, casting an eerie orange glow that pierced the creeping mist. It moved unnaturally slow, as if weighed down by a dreadful purpose.
Chanthira's breath hitched. She crouched slightly, hiding behind a gnarled tree, watching through the dense fog.
["What in the world…?"] she whispered, voice trembling.
The lantern passed between the trees, revealing what floated behind it.
A face. No body. Just a woman's head. The skin was pale and stretched thin over sharp cheekbones, almost translucent in the lantern light. Her eyes glowed faintly red, burning with a cold hunger. Long black hair floated like tendrils underwater, drifting silently in the still air. From beneath the neck dangled entrails—glistening, bloody organs that shimmered in the flickering light like twisted jewels.
Chanthira didn't scream.
She couldn't.
Her limbs froze, her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
The head floated closer. The jaw unhinged slightly, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth stained with old blood.
Chanthira's hand crept to her cracked flashlight. Her bare feet pressed into the soft mud, cold and sticky.
Suddenly—
["Chanthira!"]
The voice shattered the silence. It came from the other side of the grove.
It was Krit.
She turned just as the lantern light vanished, swallowed by the mist. The floating head disappeared into the fog as if it had never existed.
Krit came running toward her, panting heavily, his slingshot clenched in one hand, a small knife strapped to his belt.
["You saw it, didn't you?"] he gasped, eyes wide with fear.
Chanthira nodded slowly, still unable to speak.
["We have to go back to the house. Now."]
They moved quickly through the banana trees, shadows chasing them as the fog thickened.
Inside the house, candles flickered nervously on the altar. A garland of jasmine wilted in the humid air. The portraits of ancestors stared with blind eyes from cracked frames. Krit bolted the door, sliding heavy wooden planks across it, each scrape sounding like a death knell.
["It's started again,"] he muttered darkly.
["What has?"] Chanthira finally found her voice, trembling.
["The curse. The Krasue is back."]
Chanthira sank slowly onto the bamboo mat, her fingers tracing the worn patterns in the floor.
["You're not making sense. That thing—what was it?"]
Krit pulled an old, folded paper from his pocket. It was yellowed and brittle, the edges curled and stained. A sketch of the floating head lay on the page, with handwritten notes in Thai scrawled around it. Symbols circled the drawing like a protective ward.
["It comes from the old stories, but it's not just a tale. Your grandmother knew. That's why she covered the mirrors. The Krasue haunts women—especially those from her bloodline."]
Chanthira looked up sharply. Her heart thundered in her chest.
["Why didn't she tell me?"]
["She tried. She was going to... but she died before she could."]
Suddenly, the light flickered violently. The flame on the altar danced wildly though no wind stirred. Shadows stretched long, crawling like living things across the walls.
Krit grabbed a pouch from his belt and scattered dried herbs across the floor.
["Salt and lemongrass," he explained. "It keeps her from entering."]
Chanthira whispered, ["Is it trying to get in?"]
Krit's jaw tightened. He didn't answer, only stared at the door.
Outside, the fog thickened to a suffocating blanket.
A faint scraping sound echoed against the wooden slats.
Wet. Dragging.
Krit motioned for her to stay low. He moved silently to the window and peered through a crack.
["She's looking for something... or someone."]
Chanthira crawled beside him and looked through the narrow opening.
Her blood ran cold.
The Krasue floated just outside the house. Its head tilted unnaturally, as if listening for a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. Entrails dangled beneath like a jellyfish made of nightmares.
Krit whispered, ["Don't move. Don't make a sound."]
They held their breath.
The Krasue drifted closer to the door.
The wood groaned under her presence. Then silence.
A loud knock.
[Knock.]
[Knock.]
Chanthira's whole body tensed.
Then a whisper.
A woman's voice, soft and almost sweet, came from outside.
["Chanthira... open the door. It's me. Pimjai."]
Chanthira's heart sank into her stomach.
Krit gripped her arm tightly.
["It's not her. Don't believe it."]
Tears welled in Chanthira's eyes.
["But that's her voice..."]
["It's the Krasue. It remembers her voice. It mimics... to confuse you."]
Outside, the voice continued.
["My sweet girl... it's cold outside. Let me in. Just for a moment."]
Chanthira shut her eyes tight.
["I won't... I won't open it..."]
The voice shifted, low and guttural.
["You... will... BLEED... like the others."]
The candles snuffed out. Total darkness.
Then silence.
Chanthira and Krit did not move.
Minutes passed.
Then, a faint scratching sound retreated into the night.
The lantern's glow faded into the forest.
Krit finally exhaled, ["She's gone. For now."]
Chanthira sat frozen, hands trembling.
["What does it want?"]
Krit looked at her grimly.
["It wants blood. It wants to return. And you... you're part of the key."]
The silence was shattered by a sudden crack.
Chanthira's eyes darted to the altar.
Her grandmother's photograph now had a faint crack running across the glass.
Outside, in the trees, something giggled.
Low.
Inhuman.
To be continued...