"Bayu!" Raka shouted instinctively.
The figure did not answer. Its head only tilted a little farther, at an angle impossible for a human neck.
Mbah Wiryo immediately rose from the pavilion.
"Don't call back!"
Too late.
The wind suddenly began to blow hard. The rice paddies flattened all at once, as if pressed down by a giant hand. The sound of gamelan came again from the direction of the forest, faster this time.
Ting... Tung... Ting... Tung... Ting—
The faceless figure slowly backed away. It wasn't walking, but gliding without moving its feet.
Then it vanished among the trees.
The crowd of villagers erupted in panic.
"The gate is open..."
"It's starting again..."
"Get inside before nightfall!"
One by one, they ran from the village hall. Within minutes, the courtyard was almost empty.
Raka stared at the forest, breathing heavily.
"I have to go in tonight."
"No!" Sari immediately grabbed his arm.
"The third night means tomorrow night. I still have time."
Mbah Wiryo slowly shook his head. "You misunderstood."
The old man looked up at the darkening sky.
"Bayu disappeared three nights ago."
It felt as though the blood stopped flowing through Raka's veins.
"So... tonight?"
"The third night."
The sound of the gamelan stopped abruptly.
The silence that remained felt like a hole in the world.
Mbah Wiryo opened his cloth pouch and took out a bracelet made of black roots.
"Put this on."
Raka accepted it. The bracelet was cold, as if it had just been taken from a well.
"What does it do?"
"It helps you remember."
Raka frowned, but still put it on his left wrist.
Sari looked increasingly worried. "Mbah, don't let him go in alone."
"I'll go with him as far as the gate."
"And after that?"
Mbah Wiryo did not answer.
Night fell faster than usual. Fog began creeping from the direction of The Forest of Lost Souls, winding along the rice-field embankments and slipping between the villagers' homes. Doors were shut tight. Lights were turned off early.
The village was like a dead city.
Raka returned home to get a flashlight, a small knife, and Bayu's notebook. When he opened his father's old wardrobe, he found something he had never seen before.
A black-and-white photograph.
In the photo, his father stood in front of the gate to The Forest of Lost Souls with three other people. One of them was Mbah Wiryo, much younger then.
And there was one more figure.
A woman with extremely long hair whose face was blurred, as though it had been deliberately erased from the photograph.
Written on the back of the photo in faded ink were the words:
"Don't let her take the second child's name."
Raka's hands trembled.
Suddenly, a voice came from the living room.
"Mas..."
Raka froze.
Bayu's voice.
Soft. Close.
He slowly stepped out of the bedroom.
The living room was dark. Only moonlight entered through the window.
"Bayu?"
There was no answer.
Then it came again.
"Mas... I'm here..."
The voice came from beneath the dining table.
Raka held his breath. He shone his flashlight beneath the table.
Empty.
But the floor beneath it was wet with black mud.
And across that mud, words slowly took shape, as though traced by an invisible finger.
DON'T TRUST MY FACE
Raka quickly backed away.
The writing moved again.
New letters appeared.
THEY'RE USING MY VOICE
The flashlight in his hand flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
Total darkness.
From the corner of the room came the sound of breathing.
Not one person.
Many.
Raka groped around for a match. His heart pounded wildly.
Then whispers came simultaneously from every direction in the house.
"Mas..."
"Mas..."
"Mas..."
Dozens of Bayu's voices called out at once.
Raka covered his ears.
The whispers changed into soft laughter.
Hehehe...
Hehehe...
A cold hand touched his shoulder from behind.
Raka spun around.
There was no one there.
But a family photograph now hung on the living-room wall.
The photo that had been in the bedroom moments ago.
And Bayu's face in the photograph slowly began to fade.
First, his eyes disappeared.
Then his nose.
Then his mouth.
Until only a blank face remained, like the figure at the edge of the rice field.
The front door suddenly opened by itself.
White fog rolled inside.
Outside, Mbah Wiryo stood holding an oil lamp.
"It's time," he said softly.
Raka glanced once more at the family photograph.
Bayu's face had vanished completely.
And from within the fog outside the house came the sound of gamelan playing a single, sustained note that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Mbah Wiryo raised his lamp.
"If we're late getting there before midnight," he said quietly, "the one who comes home may no longer be your little brother."