The Shadows of Bukit Hujan | Chapter 2: The Watchers in the Trees

The rain had softened to a mist, clinging to Daniel’s glasses and blurring the shapes of the jungle ahead. The dense foliage towered over the trio, the shadows between the trees growing longer as the canopy swallowed what little sunlight made it through the storm clouds. Pak Leman walked slightly ahead, his wooden stick tapping against the muddy ground. Behind him, Daniel glanced at Nurul, who had gone unusually quiet.

“You okay back there?” Daniel asked, his voice cutting through the hum of insects.

Nurul nodded, her eyes scanning the trees. “It feels... different. Like the jungle is watching us.”

Daniel chuckled, trying to break the tension. “I think that’s just your imagination. Jungles are noisy places; everything feels alive.”

“No,” she said sharply. “It’s not the noise. It’s the silence between it. Like it’s waiting for something.”

Pak Leman stopped suddenly, his stick pressing into the soft earth. He turned to face them, his weathered face etched with worry.

“Don’t make light of this place,” he warned. “The jungle remembers. Every step you take, every word you speak—it notices.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow but chose not to argue. Instead, he adjusted the strap of his bag and pointed ahead. “So, where exactly are these carvings you mentioned?”

Pak Leman gestured with his stick toward a faint trail winding deeper into the jungle. “You’ll find them soon enough. But I warn you, Dr. Daniel, some truths aren’t meant to be unearthed.”

Daniel smirked. “That’s the thing about truth—it doesn’t care if we’re ready for it.”

---

The trail narrowed as they moved further, the jungle closing in around them. Vines hung low, brushing against their faces, and the ground squelched beneath their boots. The air grew colder, and the light dimmed, casting everything in shades of green and gray.

Pak Leman suddenly stopped again, this time pointing to a tree on their right. Its massive trunk was covered in moss, but beneath the green was something unmistakable—carvings. Deep, jagged symbols cut into the bark, forming an intricate pattern that seemed almost deliberate.

Nurul stepped closer, running her fingers lightly over the carvings. “What does it mean?”

“They’re warnings,” Pak Leman said grimly. “The people who lived here long ago—they marked these trees to keep others away. It was their way of saying: don’t go further.”

Daniel pulled out his notebook and began sketching the symbols. “Warnings or not, these are remarkable. They could be centuries old.”

Pak Leman didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes darted toward the trees, his grip tightening on his stick. “We need to move. Lingering isn’t wise.”

But Nurul remained frozen, her gaze fixed on the carvings. Her breathing quickened as she leaned closer, her fingers tracing one particular symbol—a spiral etched deep into the bark.

“What’s wrong?” Daniel asked, noticing her sudden stillness.

Nurul’s voice was barely a whisper. “This symbol... I’ve seen it before.”

“Where?”

“In my grandfather’s journal.”

---

As they continued, the jungle grew eerily quiet. The usual buzz of insects and distant calls of birds faded, replaced by an unsettling stillness. Daniel tried to focus on the trail ahead, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched.

“Do you hear that?” Nurul asked, her voice trembling.

“Hear what?” Daniel replied, stopping to listen.

Pak Leman turned, his face pale. “The whispers,” he said. “They’ve started.”

Daniel frowned. “Whispers? I don’t hear anything.”

But Nurul did. It was faint at first, like the rustling of leaves, but it grew louder with each step they took. The voices were indistinct, overlapping, but they all seemed to say one thing—her name.

“Nurul...”

She froze, her heart pounding. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Daniel asked again, his frustration growing. “There’s nothing there!”

“Nurul...” The voice came again, louder this time, and unmistakably familiar. It sounded like her grandfather.

She spun around, her eyes searching the shadows. “It’s him. I heard him!”

Pak Leman grabbed her arm. “You didn’t hear your grandfather. You heard the jungle. It’s testing you.”

“But—”

“No!” His voice was firm. “You must not follow it. No matter what it says, no matter how real it sounds. Do you understand?”

Nurul nodded reluctantly, her breathing shallow. But as they continued, the voices persisted, growing louder, more insistent. And in the shadows of the trees, faint lights began to appear—eyes watching them from the darkness.

Daniel finally stopped, unable to ignore the oppressive atmosphere any longer. “Okay, I’ll admit this place is... unsettling.”

Pak Leman turned to him, his expression grim. “This is only the beginning.”

---

They reached a clearing just as the rain began to pick up again. In the center of the space stood a cluster of stones, half-buried in the muddy ground. Each stone was marked with carvings similar to those on the trees, but these were more intricate, more deliberate. Daniel knelt to examine one, his hands brushing away the dirt and moss.

“This isn’t just a burial ground,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “It’s a monument. A record of something.”

Pak Leman stepped back, his eyes scanning the treeline. “A record of betrayal,” he said softly. “And punishment.”

Daniel looked up. “What do you mean?”

But before Pak Leman could answer, the whispers returned, louder than ever. And this time, they weren’t just calling for Nurul. They were calling for all of them.

The Shadows of Bukit Hujan | Chapter 1: Arrival in Bukit Hujan

The jungle loomed over the winding dirt road like a dark cathedral, its canopy blotting out the sunlight and casting everything in shades of green and gray. The air was heavy with the smell of wet earth and the hum of insects. Daniel leaned out the window of the battered four-wheel drive, his eyes scanning the tree line.

“Charming place,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses. “Feels like the set of a bad horror film.”

Nurul, seated in the passenger seat, shot him a glare. “It’s not a joke, Daniel. People still talk about what happened here. You read Sofia’s article—you know the stories.”

“I know the stories,” he emphasized, waving a hand dismissively. “But that’s all they are. Local folklore. People need to blame something when bad things happen. It’s psychology, not paranormal activity.”

Nurul turned her gaze back to the jungle, her fingers fidgeting with the clasp of her bag. She wasn’t sure why she had agreed to join him on this trip. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the chance to learn more about her grandfather, who had disappeared in Bukit Hujan years before she was born. Or maybe it was the part of her that still believed in the stories her mother had told her as a child—the stories of whispers in the rain and spirits that fed on human pain.

The car rolled to a stop in what passed for the center of Bukit Hujan. The village looked even more desolate than it had in Sofia’s photographs. Most of the wooden houses were empty, their windows boarded up or hanging open like gaping mouths. A few figures moved in the distance, but they kept to the shadows, their faces turned away.

“This is it?” Daniel asked, stepping out of the car and stretching. “Not much of a welcome committee.”

Nurul ignored him and grabbed her bag. The rain had started again, a soft drizzle that quickly soaked through her jacket. She spotted an older man standing near the remains of an old sundry shop. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled low, and he leaned on a walking stick. It didn’t take her long to recognize him.

“Pak Leman,” she called out, hurrying toward him.

The old man turned, his lined face lighting up briefly before settling into a frown. “Nurul? Is that you?”

She nodded, smiling despite the unease that clung to the air. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” Pak Leman replied, though his gaze shifted to Daniel. “You shouldn’t have come back. Especially not with strangers.”

Daniel stepped forward, offering a hand. “Dr. Daniel Wong. Archaeologist. I’m here to study the carvings in the jungle and, hopefully, get to the bottom of all this.” His tone was polite but edged with impatience.

Pak Leman ignored the handshake, his expression darkening. “There’s nothing to study. Nothing worth digging up.”

Nurul placed a hand on the old man’s arm. “Please, Pak Leman. We need your help. You know more about this place than anyone.”

Pak Leman hesitated, his eyes darting toward the jungle. The rain had picked up, and a low rumble of thunder rolled through the valley. “If you want answers, talk to her,” he said finally, nodding toward a house on the edge of the village.

The house was unmistakable. Even in the rain, its sagging roof and moss-covered walls gave it a haunted look. It was Sofia’s house.

Sofia opened the door reluctantly, her sharp eyes scanning Daniel and Nurul with a mix of suspicion and weariness. She looked older than her photographs, her face lined with the kind of exhaustion that went beyond physical fatigue.

“I told the world everything I know,” she said bluntly. “There’s no point coming here.”

“We’re not here to waste your time,” Daniel replied, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Your article was fascinating, but it raised more questions than it answered. If there’s even a shred of truth to what you wrote, then Bukit Hujan is sitting on a historical goldmine.”

Sofia’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “A goldmine? Is that what you think this is?” She turned to Nurul. “And you? Why are you here?”

“I want to know the truth,” Nurul said softly. “About the whispers. About my grandfather. My family deserves answers.”

Sofia studied her for a long moment before sighing. “The truth won’t bring anyone peace. Believe me, I’ve tried. But if you’re determined to go digging, I won’t stop you. Just don’t expect me to save you when things go wrong.”

She crossed the room and pulled a tattered map from a drawer. It was hand-drawn, the lines faint but precise, marking the paths and landmarks of the jungle. “The carvings you’re looking for are near the old burial site,” she said, pointing to a spot near the edge of the map. “But the jungle doesn’t forgive curiosity. If you hear your name, don’t follow the voice. No matter what.”

Daniel took the map with a triumphant grin. “Thanks for the warning,” he said, tucking it into his bag. “We’ll be careful.”

Sofia’s gaze darkened. “No, you won’t,” she said quietly. “But maybe you’ll survive anyway.”

As they stepped back into the rain, Nurul glanced over her shoulder at Sofia, who stood in the doorway watching them leave. For a moment, Nurul thought she saw something in Sofia’s eyes—a shadow of fear, or perhaps regret.

“Do you really think she’s telling the truth?” Daniel asked as they walked toward the jungle.

Nurul didn’t answer. The rain was falling harder now, and somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the faint sound of whispers.

The Shadows of Bukit Hujan: A New Chapter in Malaysian Horror

The jungle remembers everything.

Ten years after the haunting events of The Whispering Rain, Bukit Hujan is a shell of its former self. The villagers who remain dare not speak of the Rainwalker, but the jungle’s whispers still echo through the night. And when the rain falls, it doesn’t just bring water—it brings the past.

The Shadows of Bukit Hujan takes you deeper into the mysteries of this cursed village. When Daniel, an ambitious archaeologist, and Nurul, a local researcher, arrive to uncover the truth behind the Rainwalker’s origins, they awaken something darker than they could have imagined. Joined reluctantly by Sofia, the survivor who escaped the Rainwalker a decade ago, they must face an ancient curse that feeds on guilt, betrayal, and secrets best left buried.

Can the jungle’s dark history be unearthed without unleashing its wrath? Or will the shadows of Bukit Hujan claim them all?

When the Rain Calls Your Name | Chapter 5: The Final Whisper

 

Sofia clutched the pendant tightly as she trudged back into the jungle, her legs trembling with exhaustion. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle, but the air remained thick with tension, as if the jungle itself was holding its breath. Every step felt heavier, each shadow more sinister than the last. Her heart thudded in her chest, but her resolve was set. If this cursed place wanted her, she would face it head-on. And she would find the truth about her mother.

The pendant in her hand felt warm, almost as though it had a pulse of its own. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was guiding her, tugging her toward something unseen. The jungle grew darker as she moved deeper, the trees closing in around her like skeletal fingers.

Soon, she found herself standing at the edge of a familiar clearing. The altar loomed in the center, its surface slick with rainwater. The strange symbols carved into it seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light, pulsing in time with the mark on her wrist. Her stomach churned as she stepped closer.

The whispers began again, faint and disjointed, like a distant choir struggling to harmonize. They weren’t calling her name anymore. Instead, they spoke in broken phrases, fragments of a story she couldn’t fully understand.

“The door… opened… the rain called…”

Her gaze fell to the altar, where the weathered box she had opened earlier still sat. The lid was ajar, its contents empty now, but the air around it crackled with an unnatural energy. She approached cautiously, her fingers brushing the stone surface. A deep chill seeped into her skin, but she ignored it.

“What do you want from me?” Sofia whispered, her voice trembling. “Why did you take her?”

The whispers faltered, then surged again, louder and more coherent.

“The Rainwalker… feeds. The grief… the sorrow… it hungers for what you cannot let go.”

Sofia’s knees buckled, and she clutched the altar for support. Grief. Sorrow. Her mother’s disappearance had haunted her for years, leaving a void that never healed. Was that what the Rainwalker fed on? The pain of those who lingered in their loss?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a movement in the shadows. She turned sharply, her breath catching as the Rainwalker emerged from the treeline. It was different now—larger, more grotesque. The black mist that had enveloped it earlier still clung to its form, writhing like a living thing. Its hollow eyes glowed faintly, and its long, skeletal fingers stretched toward her.

“You won’t take me,” Sofia said, her voice steadier than she felt. She gripped the pendant tighter, holding it up like a shield. “You took my mother, but you won’t take me.”

The Rainwalker paused, tilting its head as if studying her. The whispers quieted, replaced by a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from deep within the creature. It stepped closer, its movements deliberate, its presence suffocating.

Sofia’s mind raced. The pendant, the mark on her wrist, the whispers—they were all connected. If the Rainwalker fed on grief, then maybe… maybe that was its weakness too.

She closed her eyes, clutching the pendant against her chest. Memories of her mother flooded her mind—her gentle smile, the way she used to hum during storms, the warmth of her arms when she comforted Sofia during her childhood fears. The pain of her loss surged like a tidal wave, but Sofia didn’t push it away. Instead, she embraced it.

“I won’t run from this anymore,” she whispered. “You can’t have me. And you can’t have her.”

The pendant grew hotter in her hand, the warmth spreading through her body. The mark on her wrist burned brightly, its light piercing the gloom. The Rainwalker let out an ear-splitting screech, its form convulsing as the light from Sofia’s mark grew stronger.

The whispers returned, but they were different now—softer, calmer. The voices seemed to hum in unison, forming a melody that resonated deep within Sofia’s chest. The Rainwalker recoiled, its shadowy form dissolving like mist in the morning sun. It let out one final, mournful cry before vanishing into the air.

The jungle fell silent.

Sofia opened her eyes, her chest heaving. The rain had stopped, and the air felt lighter, cleaner. She looked down at the pendant in her hand, its surface cool and unmarked. The glowing mark on her wrist had faded, leaving only a faint scar.

She turned to the altar one last time. The box was gone, as if it had never existed. The symbols on the stone had faded, their power spent. Sofia felt an odd sense of peace, as though a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying had been lifted.

As she stepped out of the clearing, she felt the sun breaking through the canopy, its warmth kissing her skin. The jungle no longer felt threatening. It was just a forest now, quiet and still.

Sofia walked back toward the village, her mother’s pendant clutched tightly in her hand. She didn’t have all the answers, but she knew one thing for certain.

The rain would no longer call her name.

Epilogue

Months later, Sofia sat in her city apartment, typing the final lines of her story. The article would be published in a national magazine, an exposé on the mysteries of Bukit Hujan. But some parts she left out—parts no one would believe, even if she told them.

As she stared at the screen, a soft patter of rain began outside her window. She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. For a moment, she thought she heard a whisper in the storm.

But it was only the wind.

With a small smile, she turned back to her work. The rain no longer scared her. It had given her closure.

And, perhaps, it had given her mother peace too.

When the Rain Calls Your Name | Chapter 4: The Shadows Beneath the Water

 

Sofia staggered through the jungle, her pulse pounding in her ears as the whispers swirled around her, faint but persistent. The rain had become a torrent, soaking her to the bone and turning the ground into a slick, treacherous mire. She had no sense of direction anymore—only the primal urge to escape. But every path seemed to lead her deeper into the jungle, the trees looming larger, their twisted branches clawing at the gray sky.

The whispers weren’t just in her head now. They came from the jungle itself—the rustling leaves, the groaning trees, even the pattering rain. They grew louder with every step, their tone shifting from pleading to mocking.

“You can’t run from the rain, Sofia…”

The words stopped her in her tracks. Her chest tightened as she gripped the sodden cloth in her hand. It was her mother’s voice again, soft and mournful, but it felt wrong—hollow, like it was coming from an empty shell. She clutched her head, trying to shut it out, but the sound burrowed deeper, making her vision blur.

Ahead, the jungle thinned, revealing a break in the trees. She stumbled toward it, desperate for some kind of reprieve. What she found stopped her cold.

A wide, shallow river stretched before her, its surface shimmering like black glass under the stormy sky. It was unnaturally still, the rain leaving no ripples as it struck the surface. The air around it was suffocatingly heavy, as if the water itself was holding its breath.

Sofia hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to turn back. But then she saw it—a shape beneath the water, faint but unmistakable. A face. Her mother’s face.

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. The face was staring up at her from the depths, its eyes wide and filled with sorrow. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Sofia’s heart twisted painfully. She wanted to look away, to deny what she was seeing, but she couldn’t. The image held her captive.

“Mom?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The face didn’t respond, but its expression grew more desperate. Its mouth opened wider, as if screaming silently. Then it began to sink, slowly disappearing into the darkness below.

“Wait!” Sofia cried, stumbling forward. She splashed into the river, the cold biting into her skin. The water only came up to her knees, but it felt bottomless, like she was stepping into a void. She reached out, her hands trembling as she tried to grasp at the fading shape.

The whispers rose in a deafening crescendo, their voices sharp and piercing. Sofia gasped as something brushed against her ankle—a cold, clammy touch that sent a jolt of terror through her. She yanked her leg back, but the thing grabbed her again, its grip tightening like a vice.

She looked down, and her blood turned to ice. A hand was reaching up from the water, its fingers pale and skeletal. It wasn’t her mother’s. The hand pulled at her, dragging her deeper into the river. She struggled, kicking and thrashing, but the grip was unrelenting.

More hands emerged, clawing at her legs and arms, their cold fingers tearing at her clothes. She screamed, her voice lost in the roar of the whispers. The water seemed to come alive, swirling around her as the hands pulled her down.

Her head went under, and the world turned black.

---

Sofia awoke coughing, her lungs burning as she spat out water. She was lying on the muddy riverbank, the rain still pouring down around her. Her hands shook as she pushed herself up, her body aching from the struggle. She looked back at the river, but it was calm again, the surface smooth and undisturbed. There was no sign of the hands—or the face.

She wanted to believe it had been a nightmare, but the bruises on her arms told her otherwise. And then she saw it: a mark on her wrist, burned into her skin like a brand. It was one of the symbols from the altar, a jagged spiral that seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive.

The whispers had stopped, but the silence felt worse. The jungle around her was unnaturally still, the trees standing like silent sentinels. She forced herself to her feet, clutching the cloth tighter in her hand. She couldn’t stay here. Whatever had happened in the river, it wasn’t over. She could feel it—the jungle was watching her, waiting.

As she turned to leave, she noticed something glinting in the mud nearby. She bent down, her fingers brushing against the cold surface of a small object. It was a pendant, its chain broken and tarnished, but the design was unmistakable. It was her mother’s.

Her stomach churned as she held it up to the dim light. The whispers might have stopped, but the jungle wasn’t done with her. The Rainwalker wasn’t done with her.

She clenched the pendant in her fist, her jaw tightening. If this place wanted her, it was going to have to fight for her.

And she wasn’t leaving without answers.

When the Rain Calls Your Name | Chapter 3: The Rainwalker

 

The figure stood motionless at the edge of the clearing, its skeletal hand extended toward Sofia. The whispers that had been calling her name now morphed into something sharper, more insistent, like a chorus of voices commanding her to move. But she couldn’t—her body refused to respond. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared into the hollow eyes of the creature.

The whispers grew louder, drowning out the sound of the rain. Her name echoed from every direction, but the voice was no longer her mother’s. It was something else, something ancient and angry.

And then, the figure stepped forward.

Sofia scrambled backward, her hands slipping in the mud. Her heart pounded as the creature moved into the faint light filtering through the jungle canopy. Its body was impossibly thin, the skin stretched tightly over jagged bones. Its face was a pale mask, eyeless sockets staring at her with an unnatural intensity. Water dripped from its body, pooling at its feet.

“Stay away!” Sofia shouted, her voice cracking. She clutched the scrap of her mother’s cloth like a talisman, as though it could shield her from whatever this thing was.

The Rainwalker didn’t stop. It moved slowly, deliberately, its bony feet silent on the wet ground. The whispers continued, but now they were in a language Sofia couldn’t understand—harsh, guttural words that seemed to vibrate in her skull. She pressed her hands over her ears, but it did nothing to muffle the sound.

Suddenly, the Rainwalker stopped. It tilted its head, as though studying her. Then it raised its hand again, this time pointing toward the altar. Sofia followed its gesture, her eyes landing on the stone surface.

There, in the center of the altar, was an object she hadn’t noticed before—a small, weathered box. It looked ancient, its surface carved with the same symbols that adorned the tree and the altar. The whispers softened, their tone shifting to something almost pleading.

“Open it,” they seemed to say.

Sofia hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to run. But something about the box drew her in, a strange pull she couldn’t resist. She rose to her feet, her legs trembling, and took a cautious step toward the altar. The Rainwalker didn’t move, its hollow eyes fixed on her.

As she approached the box, the air grew colder. Her fingers hovered over it, hesitating. The whispers grew louder, their urgency almost unbearable. She clenched her teeth and forced herself to lift the lid.

The moment the box opened, the jungle erupted into chaos.

A deafening roar filled the air, drowning out the whispers. The ground trembled beneath her feet, and the trees seemed to shudder as a surge of wind tore through the clearing. From the box, a black mist began to rise, coiling and twisting like a living thing. It spread rapidly, consuming the light and plunging the clearing into darkness.

Sofia stumbled backward, her heart racing. The Rainwalker let out an unearthly screech, its skeletal body contorting as the mist engulfed it. For a moment, she thought it was being destroyed—but then she realized the truth.

It wasn’t being destroyed. It was being freed.

The mist coalesced around the Rainwalker, merging with it, transforming it. The creature’s body grew larger, its limbs elongating, its form becoming more monstrous. Its hollow eyes glowed with an eerie light, and its whispers returned, louder and more menacing than before.

Sofia turned and ran, her feet slipping on the muddy ground. She didn’t know where she was going—she only knew she had to get away. The jungle seemed to close in around her, the branches clawing at her like hands. The whispers followed her, relentless, echoing in her mind.

“You cannot run.”

She tripped over a root and fell hard, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. Gasping, she tried to push herself up, but her body refused to cooperate. She could hear the Rainwalker behind her, its footsteps slow and deliberate, as though it enjoyed the hunt.

Desperation surged through her, and she reached for the only weapon she had: the scrap of cloth in her hand. It was ridiculous, but it was her mother’s—it was all she had left of her. She clutched it tightly, praying for a miracle.

The whispers stopped.

Sofia froze, her heart hammering. The silence was deafening, more terrifying than the noise had been. She turned her head slowly, her eyes searching the darkness.

The Rainwalker was gone.

For a moment, she thought she was safe. But then the rain began to fall harder, the droplets stinging her skin like needles. The whispers returned, softer now, but more insidious. They weren’t coming from the jungle anymore—they were coming from inside her head.

“You brought this upon yourself,” the voices said. “You opened the door. Now, there is no escape.”

Sofia staggered to her feet, clutching the cloth to her chest. She didn’t know what had happened to the Rainwalker, but she knew one thing: the jungle wasn’t going to let her leave.

Not alive.

When the Rain Calls Your Name | Chapter 2: The Forbidden Forest

Sofia woke to the sound of the whispers again. They were louder now, more distinct, though still buried beneath the steady drum of rain on the tin roof. Her name echoed in the storm like a ghostly refrain.

“Sofia…”

She sat up, heart pounding, the room cast in the pale light of dawn seeping through the grimy windows. For a moment, she convinced herself it was a dream. But when she strained her ears, she heard it again—soft and beckoning, like a child calling from a distance.

Pushing aside her unease, Sofia dressed and headed into the village. She needed answers. The whispers couldn’t be normal, and she was certain the villagers knew more than they let on.

The square was busier in the daylight, though the heavy rain still kept most indoors. Sofia approached a small sundry shop, its faded sign barely readable, and stepped inside. The smell of dried fish and wet earth greeted her. Behind the counter sat Mak Timah, the shopkeeper, her sharp eyes watching Sofia’s every move.

“Mak Timah,” Sofia said, forcing a polite smile. “I wanted to ask you something about the rain.”

The older woman’s face darkened. “The rain has always been here,” she said curtly, turning her attention to stacking cans on the counter. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“It’s not just rain,” Sofia pressed. “I hear voices in it. Whispers. They’re calling my name.”

The can Mak Timah was holding clattered to the floor. She turned to Sofia with wide, fearful eyes. “You shouldn’t speak of such things. Not here.”

“Why not? What’s happening in this village? What happened to my mother?” Sofia demanded, her frustration spilling over.

Mak Timah glanced toward the door, as if expecting someone—or something—to walk in. She lowered her voice. “Your mother heard the whispers too. She followed them into the forest.”

“The forest?” Sofia’s stomach twisted. “What’s in the forest?”

Mak Timah hesitated, then leaned in closer. “The jungle doesn’t belong to us. It’s older than the village, older than the mountain. When the rain calls, it’s not the wind. It’s them. Spirits. They take those who answer.”

Sofia stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. Spirits? It sounded like a superstition, a story to scare children. But something about the fear in Mak Timah’s voice made it hard to dismiss.

“Where exactly did my mother go?” Sofia asked.

Mak Timah shook her head. “The edge of the forest, near the waterfall. But don’t go looking for her. Some things are best left buried.”

---

That afternoon, Sofia found herself standing at the edge of the jungle. The rain was lighter now, more of a mist than a downpour, but the dense canopy of trees still made it feel like twilight. The whispers had grown louder as she approached, weaving through the rustling leaves like an unseen current.

She took a step forward, the muddy ground sucking at her boots. The air felt heavier here, charged with something she couldn’t quite name.

The path twisted and turned, leading her deeper into the forest. The whispers seemed to guide her, always just ahead, luring her closer. The trees grew taller and denser, their gnarled roots snaking across the ground like grasping hands. The rain dripped from the leaves in rhythmic patterns, almost like a heartbeat.

Sofia stopped when she saw the tree. It stood in the middle of the path, its trunk massive and ancient, its bark covered in strange carvings. Words she couldn’t read, symbols she didn’t recognize. But one thing was clear—this tree marked a boundary. A warning.

Carved into the trunk, in jagged letters, were the words: “Do not enter when the rain calls your name.”

Her breath hitched. The message was old, the carvings weathered, but it felt like it was meant for her. She glanced over her shoulder, the dense jungle swallowing the path she had come from. For a brief moment, she considered turning back.

Then she heard it—a voice, clear and distinct, cutting through the rain.

“Sofia…”

Her heart froze. It wasn’t just any voice. It was her mother’s.

“Mom?” she called out, her voice trembling. She stepped closer to the tree, her eyes scanning the forest beyond. The voice called again, softer this time, almost pleading.

“Sofia, help me.”

She didn’t think. She stepped past the tree, into the unknown.

---

As she walked deeper, the jungle seemed to shift around her. The trees grew more twisted, their roots rising like skeletal hands from the earth. The air grew colder, and the whispers became a cacophony, voices overlapping and echoing in her ears.

She stopped when she reached a clearing. In the center stood a stone structure, half-buried in the mud and overgrowth. It was an altar, ancient and crumbling, its surface etched with the same strange symbols she had seen on the tree. Pools of water collected around it, reflecting the darkened sky above.

The whispers ceased. The sudden silence was deafening.

Sofia approached the altar, her steps slow and deliberate. Something about it felt familiar, as though she had been here before. And then she saw it—a fragment of cloth caught on a root, faded but unmistakable. It was the same pattern her mother had worn the day she disappeared.

Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, clutching the cloth. Tears blurred her vision as she whispered, “Mom… what happened to you?”

The answer came, not in words, but in the sound of footsteps behind her.

She turned, her heart hammering in her chest. Standing at the edge of the clearing was a figure. Tall, thin, and shrouded in shadow. Its face was obscured, but its hollow eyes gleamed in the dim light.

It raised an arm, bony fingers pointing at her, and the whispers returned, louder than ever.