The guest house was colder than the dusk outside. It wasn't just the absence of warmth—it was a type of chill that felt layered, as if every generation that had once entered the room left behind a sliver of its fear, its regret, its silence. Kliwon stepped in, closing the wooden door gently behind him. The latch clicked, muffled like a whisper swallowed by thick air.
A single oil lamp rested on a low table, its flame wavering despite the lack of breeze. The furniture was simple—mat-covered floors, a teak bench, and a carved cabinet with a cracked mirror. Against the far wall, a folded note waited. Its envelope was sealed with a smudge of dried red wax that crumbled as he touched it.
"To the Blood of Penangsang."
He sat cross-legged, fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded the yellowed paper. The handwriting inside was rigid and deliberate, each stroke shaped by a hand unused to forgiveness.
> "If you are reading this, then the blood has returned.
> That means the wind has died in the east.
> That means the fields have begun to whisper again.
> That means you will be tempted to continue what was begun in hunger.
>
> Do not eat after sunset.
> Do not accept food from a child with no name.
> Do not open the door if you hear wings.
> Do not sleep with your feet pointed toward the fields.
>
> Above all, do not roast what flies.
> The smoke is not seen by the living alone.
>
> You are being watched. Even now."
Kliwon reread the note three times. The logical part of him dismissed it as local superstition—a fading echo of belief that had sustained its power through fear. But another part, buried deeper, stirred with something more primitive. The part that remembered his mother's eyes when she'd said, "You were born on a night the crows didn't stop screaming."
He folded the letter and slipped it into his notebook. Then, setting up his camera on a tripod, he began to document the space. His voice was steady, professional.
"Guest lodging used for visiting kin and outsiders. Structure approximately seventy years old, though some beams appear older. Air is damp. Evidence of daily cleaning despite no clear sign of inhabitants. I am alone."
He paused.
"I think."
Click. The shutter snapped.
The screen blinked. The captured image looked different. The chair in the corner had moved, slightly angled. A faint blur at the edge of the frame. He zoomed in.
A feather.
But when he turned to the corner—nothing. No feather. No blur. The chair was where it had always been.
He chuckled under his breath.
"Nerves. Just tired."
Outside, the gray sky darkened not into night but into ink. No moon. No stars. Just black.
Something knocked.
Not the door.
The window.
Three times.
He froze. The camera's LED blinked once, then died. The oil lamp flickered, struggling against something unseen.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
From the back wall now.
Then silence.
He stood slowly. The lamp hissed low. The air turned pungent, like feathers soaked in rot.
He approached the window. A soft brush of something scraped the other side. He drew the curtain back in a sudden motion—
Nothing.
But the window was smudged. Three marks like clawed fingers. And a single black feather rested on the sill.
He didn't touch it. He didn't speak.
Instead, he sat down in the middle of the room and whispered a prayer he barely remembered. Not because he believed in it, but because something inside him felt the weight of being remembered by something older than language.
He kept his eyes open until morning.
But morning never came.
The light remained gray, like dusk that had given up.
When he stepped outside, the village had changed.
Or rather—revealed itself.
Villagers stood in their doorways. Silent. Watching him. Some held offerings—bowls of ash, feathers, old coins. No one spoke. No one moved. Their faces were blank, but their eyes glimmered like mirrors.
And in the distance, just beyond the rice fields, a shape stood among the stalks. Still. Tall. Bent like a broken scarecrow. Wrapped in something that pulsed like skin.
It was waiting.
Kliwon knew, without being told, that it had waited for him.
That it would wait no longer.