Kliwon had never seen a road that began with silence.
Not quiet, but absolute silence. No birds. No wind. Not even the rustle of leaves. Just the steady crunch of gravel under his shoes, a sound so loud against the stillness that he felt as if he was intruding on something ancient. Something that didn't want to be found.
The directions had come from the back of his mother's letter. Written in her trembling hand, they described turns and rivers that didn't exist on any map. He had used satellite imagery, searched for the outlines of a village, even cross-referenced old colonial archives. Nothing. Rawasedep, according to the world, was just forest. Green and empty.
But now, the forest parted.
The air was heavy. Not hot—just thick, like it had weight. Like it had memory. Kliwon walked through it with his backpack slung tight and his camera swinging from his neck. He checked the GPS one last time. No signal. The last bar had disappeared hours ago.
A footbridge crossed a narrow river, the planks warped but intact. On the other side, the trees thinned, and the sky took on a pale, dust-gray color that made it impossible to tell the time. And then, without fanfare, the village appeared.
Houses stood like stone memories—timber frames, steep thatched roofs, windows with no glass. No one came to greet him. No children ran through the dirt paths. No smoke rose from the chimneys. Yet the village was not abandoned.
Ropes of garlic hung from doorways. Chickens clucked in the distance. Footprints marked the ground, freshly pressed. Somewhere, a bamboo chime clattered faintly.
He took a step forward.
Immediately, every rooster in the village screamed.
Not crowed. Screamed. High-pitched and unnatural, like something being strangled. The sound stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Kliwon froze.
The silence returned, but this time, it had a shape. Like something listening.
He forced his legs to move. Focus, he told himself. You're here to record a disappearing culture, not fall for village theatrics. Yet the back of his neck prickled. His fingers trembled as he raised the camera, more to shield himself than to document.
He took his first photo.
Click.
The image displayed on the screen—a crooked path, an empty bench, a tree with bark too dark to be natural. Normal. But when he looked up, the bench was gone. The path curved differently.
He blinked. Looked again. The bench was back.
He laughed to himself. "Nerves," he muttered. "Just nerves."
A door creaked open to his right.
An old woman stood in the threshold. Her eyes were milky, blind or nearly so, but they locked on to Kliwon like she could see through his skin. She said nothing. Only raised one hand and pointed to a house at the end of the lane.
Then she closed the door.
He followed the direction of her gesture.
The house was older than the rest. Blackened walls. Roof patched with bark and bound twine. A small sign hung on a wooden peg near the entrance. The letters carved into it read:
**"Pendopo Tamu."**
Guest Hall.
Inside, the house smelled of burnt rice and camphor. Sparse furniture. A mat. A kettle. A calendar from a decade ago. And a folded note on the table, addressed:
**"To the Blood of Penangsang."**
He read it slowly.
> "You are here. That means your mother is dead. That means you will try. That means we must warn you.
>
> Do not eat anything given after sundown.
> Do not sleep with the window open.
> Do not walk into the fields after midnight.
> And above all—if you hear wings at your door, do not open it.
>
> They remember.
> And they know who you are."
He set the letter down, chest tightening.
The sun was beginning to drop behind the hills, but the sky never changed color. Still that lifeless gray. Time here was broken, or twisted, or simply ignored.
He stepped back outside.
The villagers were watching him now. Silent. Not hiding, but not welcoming either. Just standing. On porches. Behind trees. Between slats of old wood. Men with lines carved deep into their faces. Women with eyes like dried wells. Children who did not smile.
He nodded. No one responded.
He turned back to the guest house and shut the door.
Night came without warning. One moment there was light. The next, everything went dark. No transition. No twilight. Just a switch flipped by unseen hands.
Kliwon lit his flashlight. The beam was thin. Weak. It barely reached the walls.
Then he heard it.
**A knock.**
Not on the door. On the window.
Three times.
Slow.
Measured.
He froze.
Another knock. This time from the back wall. But there was no door there. Just wood and silence.
He checked his watch. 11:58 PM.
The letter said: **Do not walk into the fields after midnight.**
But it said nothing about what to do if something came to you.
He stepped toward the window. Slowly. The knocking stopped.
He waited.
Something pressed against the glass. Just enough to make it creak.
Then he saw it.
A beak.
Black. Long. Thin.
Not a bird.
Too big.
The beak scraped against the glass. A whisper followed, not outside his ears but inside his skull. Not words. Just the feeling of something old and hungry saying:
**You lit the road.**
He stumbled back. The window went dark. Silent.
The air shifted. Thickened.
And from the roof came the sound of claws. Dozens. Clicking. Dragging.
He did not sleep that night.
He sat with his back against the wall, the flashlight pointed at the door, the letter clutched in his hand. The shadows twisted. The silence watched.
And outside, the wings waited.