Here’s a story of Pontianak, weaving some of the traditional lore into a haunting narrative.
The Night of the Pontianak
A little village nestled near a dense, dark forest was known for its tranquility. At night, the villagers would share ghost stories, mostly for fun and as a way to keep their children from wandering out too far. Among these tales, none was feared more than the one about the Pontianak, a vengeful spirit of a woman seeking those who had wronged her.
A few decades ago, on a night much like any other, a young man named Arif was returning home after visiting his fiancée, Maya. They were planning to marry soon, and he had spent the evening with her family, receiving their blessing. The night was alive with the hum of cicadas and the scent of frangipani flowers, which grew abundantly near the village, filling the air with their sweet perfume.
As Arif crossed through a patch of dense jungle, he noticed the air growing colder. a chill slither down his spine. The moonlight, once guiding him, now seemed to fade, leaving only eerie shadows cast by the towering trees around him. A sense of unease crept upon him, but he told himself it was just his imagination. After all, he’d traveled this path a hundred times before.
But as he continued, a soft, haunting laughter echoed through the trees. Arif froze. He tried to tell himself it was just the wind, but he couldn’t ignore the faint sound of footsteps crunching on dried leaves behind him.
"Hello?" he called, his voice unsteady. No response. Only silence.
Just as he was about to continue on, he saw her—a woman standing in the middle of the path. She wore a flowing white dress, her long, jet-black hair hanging down to her waist, almost concealing her face. She was beautiful and her pale skin seemed to glow in the dim moonlight. Arif’s heart pounded, but he felt compelled to approach her.
“Are you lost?” he asked, taking a cautious step forward.
The woman tilted her head slowly, and he glimpsed her face—pale, with sunken, hollow eyes. Her mouth twisted into an unnatural smile, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. Arif’s blood ran cold as the woman let out a low, menacing chuckle that grew louder, filling the entire forest with its terrifying echo. He realized with a jolt that he was staring at the Pontianak.
Fear clawed at him, but his legs felt like they were stucked to the ground. The scent of frangipani had turned sickly sweet, mixed with a stench he could only describe as decay. She moved closer, her movements slow and deliberate, her gaze piercing and predatory.
Arif’s mind raced as he remembered the stories his grandmother had told him. A Pontianak seeks vengeance on men, especially those who have hurt or betrayed women. But Arif had never wronged anyone, and he was soon to be married. Perhaps there was a way to escape.
"Please," he whispered, backing away slowly, “I mean you no harm.”
The Pontianak stopped, amused by his fear. Then, with a voice that was both chilling and melodic, she spoke, “Do you know why I am here?”
Arif shook his head, trembling. “No, I don’t. I swear, I haven’t done anything wrong…”
She laughed again, louder this time, the sound echoing through the trees. “You men never think so. You think words are enough, but what about promises? What about broken hearts?” Her voice was filled with rage, making the ground beneath him tremble.
He suddenly remembered the stories his grandmother told him about a girl named Aisha from a neighboring village. She had been promised marriage by a man who later left her for another. The village elders had whispered that she died of heartbreak, some saying she had taken her own life. Others claimed her spirit still roamed, filled with vengeance.
"Are you… Aisha?" Arif stammered, barely able to say the name.
The Pontianak’s eyes glistened with malice. “My name no longer matters,” she said. “Only my pain, my rage. I am here for all men who promise love, only to leave it shattered.”
Arif swallowed, his heart racing. He knew he had to act quickly. In his pocket, he felt the rough bark of the branch he had picked up earlier—a piece of a wild pandanus tree, a plant known in local lore to repel evil spirits. Summoning every ounce of courage he had, he held it up between them, praying it would work.
The Pontianak hissed, recoiling slightly. Her smile vanished, replaced by a scowl of pure hatred.
“Do you think that will save you?” she snarled, her voice a dark whisper that sent shivers down his spine. But her form began to waver, as if the branch was indeed weakening her.
Arif took a step back, then another, keeping the branch outstretched as he began to retreat. The Pontianak's figure began to dissolve into shadows, her haunting eyes burning into him as she faded. Her parting words echoed through the forest.
“You can’t run from promises, Arif. I will be waiting.”
The forest was silent once again. Arif ran all the way back to the village, his heart pounding with every step. He didn’t stop until he reached the safety of his home, where he collapsed, shaken but alive.
From that night on, he never traveled that path again after dark. And although he went on to marry Maya and live a happy life, the laughter of the Pontianak and her chilling words would haunt his dreams for years to come.
And on quiet nights, when the frangipani bloomed and the air was heavy, he would sometimes hear the faint sound of laughter echoing from the forest, a dark reminder of the promises that can never truly be forgotten.
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