"Wake up. You shithead!"
A voice, sharp and impatient, cut through the fog in Janu's skull. Pain flared—his body felt like it had been dropped from a moving car.
Gravel bit into his palms. His limbs were heavy, wrong. The air was thick—humid, suffocating, laced with the scent of jasmine and blood.
Where…? His head throbbed. Then the voice snapped again.
"I said—wake the hell up!"
Sharp. Familiar. Like an echo from a past life. He really wants to find the source of the voice but for him, that doesn't matter now.
His eyes snapped open. Darkness greeted him—no, not complete darkness. Shadows loomed overhead, jagged trees stretching toward a blood-red sky. The air smelled of rain-soaked leaves and something else... something sickly sweet.
Jasmine scent.
And then he heard it.
A gong.
The sound reverberated through the air, deep and unnatural, as if reality itself was shuddering in response. Janu's breath hitched. He tried to push himself upright, but his limbs felt stiff, uncooperative—like his body wasn't fully his.
His pulse quickened. He wasn't alone.
Figures stood around him. Silent. Unmoving. Wrapped in white shrouds, their faces rotten faces barely hidden beneath tight burial cloth.
Pocong.
Something inside him screamed to run.
The gong rang again.
The figures didn't move at first. Not in any way that made sense.
Then—one by one—their heads jerked unnaturally, as if unseen hands had seized them. A chorus of bones cracking echoed through the mist.
Janu felt something deep in his gut shrivel.
Janu's blood ran cold. He tried to move. His limbs were slow, unresponsive—like he had been drugged. No, not drugged. Pulled. As if reality itself had torn him from one place to another.
His eyes struggled to adjust to the dim, unnatural glow of his surroundings. A clearing. Stone pillars, covered in intricate carvings, loomed around him like ancient sentinels. Beyond them, shadowed figures moved in the mist, their whispers threading through the heavy air.
Pasar Ghaib.
The name surfaced in Janu's mind, unbidden. A myth. A whispered warning passed between travelers and shamans.
A place not meant for the living.
All around him, figures moved in the mist—some wrapped in burial cloth, others twisted into shapes that should not exist. The air buzzed with whispers, voices slipping between languages he didn't recognize.
A marketplace for the dead.
"Great. First voices, now pocong gang, and I wake up in Pasar Ghaib."
He exhaled sharply. "Might as well wait for Nyi Roro Kidul to roll out the red carpet."
Janu said that out loud, his voices could be heard by many of the creatures surrounding him but he's not paying any mind because of the sheer absurdity he's been dragged in.
Janu's breath came faster now. He wasn't supposed to be here.
He was supposed to be on a mountain hike. With Bagas. With Bayu. With the college students. He remembered the trail. The scent of damp earth. The chill in the night air. The way the wind carried the distant hum of gamelan music—
His pulse spiked. The music.
That was the last thing he remembered before—before everything changed.
A sharp click echoed through the clearing. Footsteps. Measured, deliberate.
Then, a voice. Smooth. Amused. Welcoming.
"Ah… another honored guest has arrived."
Janu turned, and his stomach twisted.
A man stood on a raised wooden stage at the heart of the clearing, dressed in pristine Javanese attire. His blangkon sat neatly on his head, and the patterns of his batik shimmered unnaturally under the eerie glow of lanterns that had no flame.
He smiled, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian.
"Welcome young one." The man's voice carried through the air, warm yet edged with something unsettling. "Welcome… to the Pinarbutan."
A gong struck again.
The figures in the mist stopped whispering.
And Janu realized, with a bone-deep certainty—he was not alone.
Janu forced himself to his feet, his body still sluggish from the unnatural transition. His head throbbed, but he had no time to focus on the pain. His sharp eyes flicked between the figures standing near him—other "guests," just as lost as he was. Some looked confused, others terrified, and a few stood motionless, as if they had seen this before.
Sinden singers hummed melodies in a language Janu didn't understand, their lips moving in perfect synchronization. The gamelan players struck their instruments with mechanical precision, but their eyes never blinked. Behind them, shadow puppets flickered against a screen of mist, dancing and shifting like they had a mind of their own.
Yet even with the grand performance, the air felt still, expectant.
Behind the Dalang, six figures stood in formation, each wearing an intricately designed wayang-inspired mask, their presence exuding an ominous authority.
The Dalang smiled, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. He spread his arms in theatrical delight. His voice carried through the air, warm yet edged with something unsettling. "Welcome… to the Pinarbutan."
A gong struck again.
The whispers around Janu ceased. He could barely register the shapes moving in the mist—too many creatures, too many eyes watching from the shadows. He knew there had to be other humans, but he couldn't see them. The supernatural throng pressed in too tightly, their presence drowning out everything else.
Janu swallowed hard. He took a slow step forward, his legs still unsteady. "What the hell is—"
Dalang raised a hand, silencing him. "Ah, ah. Do not rush, young guests. Names are a privilege here, not a right. And you… have not yet earned the right to be remembered."
Janu's breath hitched. The hell does that mean?
Dalang's smile didn't waver. "But you… you are quite the interesting one. You came here screaming about Nyi Roro Kidul, yet the Queen of the Southern Sea is not in Pinarbutan. Not yet." His tone was light, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity, as if Janu had unknowingly revealed something important.
Before Janu could speak, the air shuddered.
A monstrous, guttural roar erupted from the side of the stage. The Genderuwo.
The massive, shadowy figure loomed in the darkness, its red eyes glowing like embers. "SILENCE. LET THE DALANG SPEAK."
Janu felt the vibration of its voice in his bones. The crowd around him shrank back slightly—but the Dalang simply chuckled.
"Oh, come now," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Let the boy have his moment. He is new, after all."
The Genderuwo grumbled, but retreated into the mist, still watching Janu closely.
The Dalang turned back to him, his expression unreadable. "Now, I believe it is time for you to understand the game and I give a gift to you."
Janu tensed. "Gift? Understand the game? The fuck you talking about?"
His voice took on a more measured tone. "Pinarbutan is a test of survival, a game where fate is the dealer and fortune is the main currency. Those who win may ask for anything. Those who fail…" He trailed off, his smile sharpening. "Well, you will learn what it means to be forgotten."
"And this gift of yours. Why should I trust you that this is truly a sincere gift from you?"
"You speak so loudly despite being the newest among us," the Dalang mused. "That alone makes you worthy of a token. This is yours—a tool to carve your fate.
The Dalang raised a hand, and something shimmered into existence before him. A small wooden box, carved with intricate symbols, floating in midair. The mist curled around it, as if reluctant to let go.
Janu frowned. "And how exactly do we 'win'?"
Dalang chuckled. "You will know more the further you survive. For now… just survive." His eyes gleamed. "And wish you good luck."
At first Janu tried to refuse the gift or suspecting it to be a trap but Dalang subtly taunted him for thinking he had a choice and then Janu hesitated, then reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the box, cold pain lanced up his arm—not physical, but something deeper, something that scraped against his very being. He gasped, staggering slightly.
Before Janu could react, the entire Pasar Ghaib shuddered.
Dalang's smile lingered. "Strange, isn't it? The way it latches onto you. But worry not—soon enough, you will understand its purpose."
Before Janu could react, another voice rang out from somewhere in the crowd. "What does this mean for us?!"
The Genderuwo roared again, silencing the human who had dared to speak. The ground trembled beneath its fury.
The Dalang, however, simply sighed. "Now, now, must we do this every time? Fairness is part of the game."
With a flick of his wrist, another object materialized—a different token, a small silver medallion etched with symbols. "For your courage to speak, you too shall receive a gift."
The second human hesitated before stepping forward, accepting the medallion with trembling hands.
The Dalang's gaze swept over them both. "This, young guests, is Pinarbutan. A game of survival, a test of fate. Win, and you may ask for anything. Lose…" His smile sharpened. "And you shall be forgotten."
Before anyone could speak again, Dalang clapped his hands together.
The entire Pasar Ghaib shuddered.
The lanterns flickered. The gamelan music distorted into something eerie. The crowd began to dissolve, figures vanishing into mist as if they had never been there.
Janu's vision blurred. His body felt weightless again, as though the ground beneath him had ceased to exist.
And then, everything was gone.
Silence.
A breeze brushed against Janu's skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and old stone.
Then—
A rooster crowed. Once. Twice. Three times. Janu barely registered it—until he noticed something. The lingering eyes. The flicker of something—anticipation? Amusement? The crowd stilled, their whispers momentarily ceasing. Even the Dalang paused, if only for a breath, before his smile returned.
Janu exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Great. First, I get dragged into a ghost-infested nightmare. Now I'm in some death game where the rules are 'don't die.'" He huffed. "Yeah, really helpful."
He glanced around, muttering under his breath. "If this is some kind of twisted reality show, I better at least get a consolation prize."
He glanced around, stomach twisting. "Assuming I live long enough to collect it."