Penanggalan

The air was thick with fog, a blue haze that stank of vinegar and strange flowers. Phineas was standing with his back flat against the trunk of a tree, eyes closed, trying to determine where it was. The fact that it didn’t have legs and could fly without touching its surroundings made it very difficult to detect, even with his heightened senses.

He peeked out from behind the tree. Nothing. As dense as this jungle was, she could have been anywhere. On the other hand, he could be just as quiet as she was. He didn’t have a heartbeat, for which he was grateful, and didn’t have to breathe. The jungle was silent, even peaceful—until he heard a low, raspy rattle of breath behind him.

The scent of vinegar grew strong enough to make his nostrils sting, but there was something else hidden beneath—not decay, but raw meat and bile, the stink of the entrails that dangled beneath its disembodied head. He slowly turned around, face to face with it.

It looked like a woman’s face, but a nest of long hair flowing around it in tangled waves made it hard to tell. It had a long nose that fit with its long face, and dark bags under its eyes as though it had never seen a night’s rest. Beneath its neck dangled its spine, its lungs, its trailing intestines, wet with fluid. They locked eyes for a long second. Its tongue snaked out between a mouthful of fangs, impossibly long with a sharp, probing tip that tasted the air between them.

Phineas raised a hand, gave it a shaky smile, and bolted between the trees.

It let out a wail that made his ears bleed and gave chase.

Phineas tended not to associate with humans unless he needed to, but they had something he needed. It had been a simple enough request on the surface—to bring her a particular blue flower—but they only grew in one place. Unfortunately, that one place was a small church in the middle of the cemetery. It was an easy job for someone who could tread on consecrated ground. It got a little more complicated for a vampire.

He’d wound up in the little village nearest the cemetery. It was a tiny, run-down place of rusted aluminum and repurposed driftwood with less than one hundred people to call it home. A thick fog laid over the area, even at the peak of day; it was a great place for the sun-intolerant, like himself, to hang out, but it was hard to find a meal. The smaller the town, the more superstition and paranoia tended to flourish. Strangers were mistrusted even without strange deaths. He’d just have to do his best to pass as human. Whatever that meant nowadays.

He’d found company, at least. Phineas had been invited into the home of an elderly woman by the name of Sofia. She was as wrinkled as a hound and had an even worse bite. In a time when the family should have been rejoicing over the pending arrival of a new child, a melancholy hung in the air like the overpowering scent of incense and flowery perfumes.

“Penanggalan!” she howled, shaking her cane in the air. “It’s the curse of the penanggalan!”

“Don’t yell,” demanded the nurse, a middle-aged woman who could have been her daughter. She patted the forehead of the mother-to-be with a damp cloth. “You’re not helping your granddaughter by causing such a stir. She needs to rest!” She placed her hand gently upon the young woman’s arm. “Can I make you something to eat?”

She shook her head slowly. She was wasting away; she looked to be hours from death.

“You must eat something, Farah,” the nurse said sadly. “You must keep your energy up. For your baby!”

Lavender? he wondered. It wasn’t a good perfume, and she wore enough to make his keen nose itch.

“She is not hungry, Putri! She cannot eat until the curse is broken.” Sofia poked Phineas with her cane. “What are you going to do about this?” she asked.

It was the kind of matter he wouldn’t normally involve himself in, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. “I’ll find your penanggalan,” he said. He forced a bit of meekness into his voice, a hint of hesitation. “I just need—”

“Yes, yes,” Sofia growled irritably, rolling her eyes. “We will get you your stupid flower. Why you cannot get it yourself, I will never know. The cemetery is only a few days’ travel.”

“I told you,” he said, laying on the desperation. “My wife. They’re for her. But she doesn’t like me being away for too long. It might not be a long journey from here, but it’s even farther from home. No excuse would save me if I go missing for so long.” It was a ridiculous story, a story full of holes, but he hadn’t had the time or the motivation to find a better one. At least the idea of tending to his wife during the day gave him an excuse to show up at night.

To his relief, it was a good enough answer for Sofia. “I feel for you,” the old woman sighed, “if you would rather face the penanggalan than your own wife. But who am I to tell you how to live your life?”

Her saliva sprayed across the back of his neck. Her long hair thrashed and writhed like serpents in the wind as it flew at his heels. He wouldn’t tire the way a human would, but he knew he couldn’t keep running forever either. The longer he ran, the better chance he had of falling into one of the game traps that dotted the jungle floor. He’d hopped over three already, and had to duck under too many prickly vines that could have snared him like spiderweb.

Suddenly he remembered the windows of Sofia’s family home. He hadn’t cared to listen at the time, but they’d placed those vines along the windowsill for a reason. He grinned and pushed on, deeper into the jungle.

The trees grew thicker and the brush grew thorns, slowing him down just enough for her to edge closer. He could feel her hair whipping at his ankles as they sped through the overgrowth. Something like adrenaline washed over him and he crowed with excitement. Her face appeared in his peripheral vision. He turned to grin at her as they approached a thick patch of thorn bushes. He didn’t slow his pace. He leapt, arms forward as if diving into a lake. The thorns tore at his face and arms and drew lines across his ribs and thighs.

The penanggalan wailed again, this time in furious pain. He kicked and clawed and dug his way deeper, out of the way of her flailing guts and lashing tongue, nestling into the heart of the thorns. She tried to follow but the thorns tore at her organs, spilling blood and bile along the branches. She howled and retreated, watching with poison in her eyes.

Phineas laughed in surprise. It was almost too easy. He wormed his way down to the earth beneath the bushes and dug into it, burying himself in a shallow grave between the roots. The penanggalan screamed all the while like a cornered beast in a snare, circling the bushes in futility. In time the howling ceased. She had given up.

As he lay in the earth beneath the thorns, waiting for his cuts to heal, an idea came to him, an aha moment if there ever was one. He cursed himself for not figuring it out sooner. Dawn was soon approaching, and while he found it unlikely that the sun would be able to penetrate through the trees—if it bothered to show up at all that day—he found himself too cozy to abandon his dirt nap so soon. The rest could wait until sundown.