Prologue: The Woman Beneath the Banyan Tree
The first time the village of Mae Rin heard the woman crying beneath the banyan tree, nobody knew that she had already been dead for forty-seven years.
It was two seventeen in the morning.
The village slept beneath a heavy August rain.
Water slid from the tiled roofs of wooden houses and gathered in muddy streams along the narrow roads. The rice fields beyond the village were almost invisible beneath the mist. Mountains surrounded Mae Rin on every side, their dark silhouettes disappearing into clouds.
At the center of the village stood an old Buddhist temple.
Its golden roof was barely visible through the rain.
A single bell hung beneath the temple pavilion.
The wind moved it.
Dong.
The sound traveled through the sleeping village.
Then silence.
A few seconds later—
Dong.
Again.
Most villagers slept through it.
They were used to the temple bell.
They were used to the rain.
They were used to the strange noises that sometimes came from the forest.
But there was one place in Mae Rin where people never became accustomed to the sounds.
The old Vejjaporn estate.
It stood beyond the rice fields, hidden behind a wall of trees.
For decades, nobody had lived there.
The house had once been one of the grandest residences in northern Thailand. Three stories of dark teak wood rose above a wide stone foundation. Its balconies were carved with delicate patterns. Its windows were tall and narrow. A great banyan tree grew beside the eastern wall, its roots twisting into the earth like the fingers of an enormous buried creature.
Children were warned never to go there.
Adults avoided talking about it.
And everyone in Mae Rin knew one rule.
Never approach the banyan tree after midnight.
Especially when it rained.
Especially if you heard a woman crying.
That night, seventeen-year-old Niran was drunk.
Very drunk.
He had been drinking cheap whisky with three friends behind a small shop near the village road. They had spent the evening telling ghost stories.
The Vejjaporn woman.
The white dress.
The dead bride.
The woman beneath the banyan tree.
Niran had laughed at every story.
He had laughed loudly.
Perhaps too loudly.
“You don’t believe any of this,” his friend Kiet said.
Niran lifted his bottle.
“Of course I don’t.”
“Then go to the house.”
The others laughed.
Niran stared at them.
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Kiet pointed toward the road.
“Walk to the banyan tree. Touch it. Take a photograph. Then come back.”
Niran laughed.
“That’s your challenge?”
“You said ghosts aren’t real.”
“They aren’t.”
“Then prove it.”
The other two boys began chanting.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Niran stood.
His legs were less steady than he expected.
“Fine.”
He grabbed his flashlight.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“Ten.”
Niran shook his head.
“You idiots.”
They laughed.
He started walking.
Behind him, his friends shouted one last thing.
“If you see the woman, tell her we said hello!”
Niran raised one hand without turning around.
The laughter slowly disappeared behind him.
The rain grew heavier.
His footsteps became the only sound.
At first, he wasn’t afraid.
The village was still close.
He could see lights through the rain.
But as he walked farther, those lights disappeared one by one.
The road narrowed.
Trees leaned over it from both sides.
The air became colder.
Niran switched on his flashlight.
The beam cut through the darkness.
Leaves.
Mud.
Branches.
Nothing else.
He continued.
Five minutes.
Seven.
Ten.
The old stone wall appeared ahead.
Niran stopped.
Even drunk, he felt something change inside him.
The wall was covered in moss.
Several sections had collapsed.
Beyond it stood the Vejjaporn estate.
He had seen photographs of the house.
He had never seen it in person.
It was enormous.
Much larger than he had imagined.
Three floors rose above the trees.
The roof was broken in places.
Vines covered the walls.
Several windows were shattered.
The entire house seemed to lean toward the forest.
Niran swallowed.
“Still just a house.”
He stepped through the broken wall.
A gust of wind moved through the trees.
Something struck the side of the mansion.
Bang.
Niran jumped.
“Calm down.”
He laughed nervously.
“Just a branch.”
He continued toward the banyan tree.
It stood near the eastern side of the house.
Even during the day, villagers said it looked frightening.
At night, it looked enormous.
Its trunk was wider than a car.
Its roots rose from the earth before plunging downward again.
Long strands of roots hung from its branches.
They moved in the wind like wet hair.
Niran stopped several meters away.
“Here.”
He pulled out his phone.
The screen was wet.
He raised it toward the tree.
The camera refused to focus.
“Come on.”
He wiped the screen.
The image sharpened.
For one second, he thought he saw someone standing beneath the tree.
A woman.
Niran lowered the phone.
Nothing.
He raised it again.
Nothing.
“Stupid camera.”
He laughed.
Then he heard it.
A woman crying.
Niran’s smile disappeared.
The sound was soft.
Almost delicate.
A quiet sob coming from somewhere behind the tree.
He stood completely still.
The rain continued falling.
The woman cried again.
Niran’s hand tightened around the flashlight.
“Hello?”
The crying stopped.
Niran waited.
Nothing.
He took one step toward the tree.
“Is someone there?”
Silence.
Then—
“Help me.”
Niran froze.
The voice was barely louder than a whisper.
It sounded like a young woman.
He looked around.
“Where are you?”
No answer.
He moved around the banyan tree.
Nothing.
Only roots.
Only darkness.
Then the voice came again.
Closer.
“Please.”
Niran turned.
A woman stood on the road.
He dropped his flashlight.
It landed in the mud.
The beam pointed upward.
Illuminating her feet.
She was barefoot.
Her toes were covered with mud.
Water dripped from the hem of her white dress.
Niran couldn’t move.
The woman stood perhaps ten meters away.
Her long black hair covered her face.
The dress looked old.
Not old like something bought twenty years ago.
Old like something that had been buried.
The fabric clung to her body.
Water streamed from it continuously.
But the rain was not falling directly on her.
Niran’s breathing became shallow.
“Are you okay?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Do you need help?”
Slowly, she raised her head.
Her hair moved.
Niran saw her face.
She was beautiful.
That was the first thing he thought.
Beautiful.
Young.
Pale.
Her skin was almost white.
Her lips were blue.
But her eyes—
Niran stumbled backward.
Her eyes were completely black.
No whites.
No pupils.
Nothing.
Just darkness.
The woman smiled.
Niran screamed.
He turned and ran.
Branches slapped his face.
Mud splashed beneath his shoes.
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t look back.
Behind him, he heard footsteps.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Bare feet striking the wet earth.
“Niran.”
He ran faster.
“Niran.”
The voice followed him.
He didn’t know how she knew his name.
He didn’t care.
He ran toward the village.
The road seemed longer than before.
Trees surrounded him.
His flashlight was gone.
He couldn’t see.
He stumbled.
Fell.
Scraped his palms against the ground.
He got up again.
The footsteps stopped.
Niran froze.
Silence.
He looked behind him.
Nothing.
The rain fell.
He could see the broken wall of the estate.
Far away.
He had somehow run in a circle.
“No.”
He backed away.
“No, no, no.”
The woman’s voice came from directly beside his ear.
“Niran.”
He spun around.
Nothing.
He ran again.
This time he saw the old bridge.
The village was beyond it.
Lights.
Houses.
People.
Safety.
He sprinted toward it.
He was almost there.
Then something grabbed his wrist.
Cold fingers wrapped around him.
Niran screamed.
He looked down.
A woman’s hand.
Pale.
Wet.
The fingers were unnaturally long.
He tried to pull away.
The grip tightened.
“Niran.”
He looked up.
The woman in white stood directly in front of him.
Her hair moved aside.
Her black eyes stared into his.
“Why did you come back?”
Niran didn’t understand.
“I’ve never been here.”
The woman smiled.
“You always say that.”
“What?”
“You always forget.”
Her fingers moved toward his face.
Niran screamed.
Then—
The temple bell rang.
Dong.
The woman’s hand disappeared.
Niran collapsed.
The rain stopped.
For a moment, the entire forest became completely silent.
Then a second bell sounded.
Dong.
Niran crawled backward.
He looked around.
The woman was gone.
He stumbled toward the bridge.
He crossed it.
He reached the village.
He ran toward the nearest house.
He pounded on the door.
“Help!”
Nobody answered.
He hit the door again.
“Please!”
A light came on upstairs.
An elderly man appeared at the window.
He looked down.
His expression changed.
He didn’t open the door.
Instead, he shouted:
“Go back!”
Niran stared at him.
“What?”
“Go back!”
“There’s a woman—”
The old man slammed the window shut.
Niran stood in the rain.
Confused.
Terrified.
Then he noticed something.
His wrist.
There were five dark fingerprints around it.
Five perfect fingerprints.
As though someone had burned them into his skin.
He ran.
He didn’t know where.
He only knew he had to get away from the bridge.
He ran toward the temple.
The doors were open.
Candles burned inside.
An old monk sat beneath the Buddha statue.
Niran fell to his knees.
“Help me.”
The monk looked at him.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his eyes moved to Niran’s wrist.
His face became pale.
“Where did you go?”
Niran began crying.
“The house.”
The monk closed his eyes.
“You went to the house.”
Niran nodded.
“She was there.”
The monk whispered:
“Of course she was.”
“Who is she?”
The monk stood.
He walked toward the temple doors.
He looked toward the forest.
“She has been waiting.”
“For me?”
“No.”
The monk turned.
“For someone else.”
Niran didn’t understand.
“Who?”
The monk’s expression was filled with fear.
“Risa.”
The next morning, villagers found Niran beneath the banyan tree.
He was dead.
His body was lying on its back.
His eyes were open.
His mouth was filled with black flower petals.
There were no footprints around him.
No signs of a struggle.
No explanation.
The police came.
They asked questions.
They searched the house.
They searched the forest.
Nothing.
The official report stated that Niran had likely suffered an accident after drinking.
The villagers knew better.
Nobody went near the estate.
For forty-seven years, the story remained a warning.
A ghost story.
A rumor.
A superstition.
Until one morning, a black Mercedes stopped outside the old Vejjaporn mansion.
A young woman stepped out.
She was twenty-eight years old.
Her name was Arisa Vejjaporn.
Risa.
She had returned to Chiang Mai because her grandmother was dead.
She had not seen the house since childhood.
She had forgotten most of what happened there.
Or at least she believed she had.
The driver carried her luggage toward the entrance.
Risa stood still.
She stared at the mansion.
Something about it felt familiar.
Not familiar like a childhood home.
Familiar like a nightmare.
She looked toward the third floor.
One window was open.
A curtain moved behind it.
Risa frowned.
“Is anyone inside?”
The driver shook his head.
“No, Miss.”
“Then why is the window open?”
“I don’t know.”
Risa looked at the house again.
For a moment, she thought she saw a woman standing behind the curtain.
White dress.
Long black hair.
Watching her.
Risa blinked.
The window was empty.
She exhaled.
“Ridiculous.”
She turned toward the driver.
“Take the bags inside.”
He didn’t move.
“Miss...”
“What?”
“I don’t think you should stay here tonight.”
Risa smiled.
“I own the house.”
The driver lowered his eyes.
“That doesn’t mean the house belongs to you.”
Risa frowned.
Before she could respond, a voice came from behind her.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Risa turned.
A woman stood beneath an umbrella.
She was about Risa’s age.
Dark hair.
Warm brown eyes.
A simple white blouse.
Black trousers.
A silver necklace.
She looked completely ordinary.
Yet something about her made Risa uncomfortable.
“Who are you?”
“Mali.”
“Do you work here?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Mali glanced toward the mansion.
“My grandmother used to work for your family.”
Risa crossed her arms.
“And?”
“She told me to come if you ever returned.”
Risa stared at her.
“Why?”
Mali didn’t answer.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Have we met?”
Mali looked at her for a long moment.
Then she said quietly:
“Not in this life.”
Risa’s expression hardened.
“What does that mean?”
Mali smiled faintly.
“Nothing.”
She turned away.
Risa watched her walk toward the road.
Something inside Risa told her to stop the woman.
“Wait.”
Mali stopped.
Risa approached her.
“How did you know my name?”
Mali looked over her shoulder.
“I didn’t.”
“You just said if I ever returned.”
“Your grandmother told me.”
Risa stared.
“My grandmother died three days ago.”
“I know.”
“Then how did she tell you?”
Mali’s smile disappeared.
“She told me before she died.”
Risa felt a chill.
“When?”
“One month ago.”
“Where?”
“The house.”
Risa looked toward the mansion.
Mali followed her gaze.
Then she whispered:
“She knew you were coming.”
Risa’s heart began beating faster.
“Why?”
Mali looked directly into her eyes.
“Because she was afraid of what would happen when you came home.”
Risa didn’t answer.
Mali walked away.
After several steps, she stopped.
Without turning around, she said:
“Don’t sleep on the third floor.”
Risa frowned.
“Why?”
Mali’s voice became barely audible.
“Because she still thinks you’re hers.”
Risa watched her disappear into the rain.
The driver stood beside her.
Neither spoke.
Finally, Risa turned toward the mansion.
The front door was open.
She was certain it had been closed a moment earlier.
A cold breeze moved through the entrance hall.
Risa stepped inside.
Dust covered the floor.
Old portraits watched her from the walls.
She walked deeper into the house.
At the end of the hall hung a large photograph.
Risa stopped.
It showed a young woman.
She was wearing a white dress.
Her hair was long.
Her expression was gentle.
Beneath the photograph was a name.
MALINEE VEJJAPORN
Risa stared.
Something moved behind her.
She turned.
Nobody.
Then she heard it.
A faint sound.
Someone humming.
An old lullaby.
Risa’s face went pale.
She knew that song.
She had heard it as a child.
Her grandmother used to sing it whenever she was afraid.
The humming continued.
From upstairs.
Risa looked toward the staircase.
One floor.
Two.
Three.
The sound came from the third floor.
She remembered the letter.
Her grandmother’s handwriting.
Do not stay in the house after midnight.
And whatever you hear calling your name, do not answer.
Risa slowly stepped toward the stairs.
The humming stopped.
Silence.
Then—
“Risa.”
Her heart stopped.
She didn’t move.
A woman’s voice.
Soft.
Almost loving.
“Risa.”
She closed her eyes.
The voice came again.
Closer.
“Risa...”
A memory flashed through her mind.
A little girl.
A locked bedroom.
Rain against a window.
Her grandmother screaming.
A young woman crying.
And a hand reaching beneath a bed.
Risa opened her eyes.
Someone was standing at the top of the stairs.
A woman in white.
Long black hair.
Pale face.
Black eyes.
Risa couldn’t breathe.
The woman smiled.
Then whispered:
“Welcome home.”
The lights went out.
And somewhere beneath the banyan tree outside, something began to laugh.
