Chapter 1: The storm that opened old wounds
Indonesia, 1974
The thunder began before sunset.
A deep, crawling rumble rolled across the countryside as if the sky itself was dragging heavy chains across the clouds. By nightfall, the world outside the small wooden house had turned wild—rain slashed the windows, wind screamed through the trees, and the earth shook with every roar above.
Inside, a dim oil lamp flickered in the corner, its flame dancing with every gust that slipped through the cracks. The warm glow barely held back the darkness pressing in from all sides.
Near the window sat an old woman, her silver hair untamed, her eyes sharp and unreadable. She watched the storm silently, her thin fingers tapping the armrest in a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
At her feet, two children huddled together—a girl of ten and her seven-year-old brother. Their parents were in the next room listening to the radio, but the children didn’t care about the storm warnings echoing through the house.
“Grandma,” the girl whispered, tugging at her shawl,
“tell us a story. A scary one.”
The old woman didn’t look at them at first.
She kept her gaze fixed on the window, as if searching for something beyond the chaos outside.
Then slowly, she spoke.
“You want a scary story… on a night like this?”
The children nodded eagerly.
Something unreadable flickered in her eyes—fear or memory, no one could tell.
Finally, she sighed.
“Very well. But remember… once you hear this story, you will never forget it.”
The little boy crawled closer. The girl held her breath.
Outside, lightning split the sky.
The grandmother leaned back, her voice low and steady.
---
“It happened many years ago… in 1888… in a village not far from here. There lived a girl named Naida.”
The children leaned forward, caught instantly.
“She was beautiful—beautiful enough that the entire village admired her. But beauty can be dangerous. Naida loved her reflection more than she loved people. Hours she would spend in front of her mirror, whispering that no one in this world was fairer than her.”
A violent gust hit the wall, making the lamp flicker.
“One night, while Naida was admiring herself as usual… her house caught fire.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“The flames spread quickly. People shouted, her parents screamed her name, but Naida didn’t hear anything. She was too lost in her mirror… too enchanted by her own face.”
The grandmother’s voice softened.
“By the time the smoke reached her room, she was trapped. No one could reach her.”
Lightning lit the room in a harsh white flash.
“When they found her… she was gone. Burnt beyond recognition.
Her beautiful face—destroyed forever.”
The children swallowed hard.
“The village leader—her father—was broken. His wife could not bear the loss and took her own life soon after. In his grief, he did something forbidden… he sought a witch in the deepest parts of the forest.”
The girl held her breath.
“He begged her to bring Naida back. And the witch gave him instructions—cruel ones. But no matter what he tried… Naida never returned. But after some times the witch came to the lake put some dark spells into the lake. None noticed that."
The girl asked, " Then what happened ?"
For a long moment, the room fell silent.
Then the grandmother whispered:
“But a month later, the Village leader took his life himself.
people began hearing a lullaby near the lake.”
The boy trembled. “A lullaby?”
“Yes. A lullaby sung by a voice that was no longer alive.”
Her eyes darkened.
“They say Naida wanders there now, half-burnt, her reflection stolen forever. And when she sees someone—
she sings to them… and drags them into her world.”
A chair creaked in the next room. The father stepped out, face rigid.
“Mother,” he snapped,
“don’t scare them with these old village stories.”
The old woman didn’t turn to him.
She kept looking at the storm outside, her voice barely a whisper now.
“These are not stories, son.
They are warnings.”
