“Arrival”

The mist rolled across the hills of Ciwidey like a living thing. It drifted between the tea fields and hung over the valley, swallowing the narrow road that wound toward the lake. The air was cold, sweet with the scent of wet leaves and smoke from faraway fires. For the tourists packed inside the tour bus, it was the kind of beauty that begged to be posted on social media.

At the final curve, the bus hissed to a stop beside a wooden gate. A new sign arched overhead:

“GRAND OPENING -Glamping by the Lake.”

The Santosa family stepped off first.
Pak Santosa, tall and cautious, checked his watch like a man who couldn’t switch off.
Ibu Santosa, bright and steady, wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck.
Sixteen-year-old Dinda filmed the scenery with her phone while pretending she wasn’t impressed.
And Adi, only eight, looked up at the fog like it might have teeth.

A local guide named Rafi greeted them with a too-wide smile. “Welcome! You came on a good day. The weather is perfect!”

They followed him through the strawberry fields. Red fruit glistened with dew. “You can pick some later,” Rafi said. “Best strawberries in West Java.”

Dinda knelt to take a close-up shot of one. That’s when she heard voices, two farmers nearby, whispering in Sundanese. Their tones were sharp and uneasy.

“Seharusnya mereka tidak di tanah ini,” one said.
“They shouldn’t be on that land,” translated roughly in her head.

The other man glanced toward the hill. “You know what sleeps there.”

When Dinda turned to ask what he meant, both men fell silent. One crossed himself and walked away.

She frowned, opening her phone’s recorder. No signal. The screen froze between one and two bars. She sighed and slipped it into her pocket.

The path ended at a suspension bridge, long and narrow, strung high over a dark gorge. Below, water churned through rocks, black as ink.

Adi hesitated. “Do we have to cross that?”

His mother smiled, though her voice shook slightly. “It’s fine. It’s strong.”

They stepped on. The bridge creaked with every movement. The ropes groaned. Halfway across, the air went completely still, no wind, no birds.

Something shifted far below. The bridge gave a single heavy sway, as though something had brushed against it from underneath.

Pak Santosa froze, staring at the planks. “Did you feel that?”

Rafi laughed nervously. “Just wind.”

But there was no wind.

The camp spread out on the other side, a circle of ten white tents with wooden decks, each glowing warmly against the mist. Beyond them lay the lake, still as glass. The mountains reflected perfectly on its surface, almost too perfectly.

Guests wandered between tents, snapping photos. Staff offered tea in enamel mugs. “Everything here is built sustainably,” one explained proudly. “We wanted to keep the land happy.”

That word, happy, stuck in Dinda’s mind.

By sunset, the mist returned, thick and low. Dinner was served under a canopy of fairy lights. Someone played guitar while families roasted marshmallows. Adi tried to catch fireflies. For a moment, it felt like peace.

Then came the frogs.

At first it was a normal croaking from the lake. Then louder. Deeper. Wet. Guttural. The sound rolled across the camp, echoing off the tents until it felt like it was inside their heads.

Inside the Santosa tent, Adi sat up in bed. “Mom? Do you hear that?”

“It’s just frogs, honey.”

He shook his head. “No… they sound big.”

The croaks grew rhythmic, like breathing. Then came the squishing sound, slow and deliberate. Squish. Squish. Squish.

The tent walls trembled. Something brushed against the outside, heavy and slick. The shape of a hand, or maybe not quite a hand pressed into the fabric, stretching it inward.

Ibu Santosa gasped, pulling Adi close. Dinda grabbed her phone and hit record, but the flashlight flickered and died.

Outside, the squishing stopped. A silence so thick it rang in their ears.

Pak Santosa slowly unzipped the tent flap and peeked out. Fog. Only fog.

He zipped it back. “Just animals,” he whispered.

But outside, by the lake, the fog rippled as if something large had slipped beneath the surface.

A deep croak rolled through the valley, shaking the ground. The lake rippled once more, then went perfectly still. A dark, wet handprint appeared on the tent wall, sliding slowly downward.