“Roots”

The fog lifted slightly by dawn, but what it revealed was worse than the night before. The glamping site looked like a swamp now. The paths were gone, replaced by mud that clung to the ankles like glue. Half of the tents leaned sideways, their poles twisted under the weight of damp vines that had crept up during the night.

The Santosas woke to the sound of something creaking beneath them. At first, they thought it was water. Then the floorboards started to move.

Adi pointed. “The ground is growing.”

The wooden floor bulged upward. Long, thin vines pushed through the gaps, curling across the rug like fingers searching for something. They moved slowly but deliberately, glistening with slime.

Ibu Santosa gasped and backed away. Pak Santosa grabbed a kitchen knife and cut one of the vines. A dark green liquid oozed out, thick and sticky like sap. The cut end twitched for a moment before retreating back into the floor.

Dinda swallowed hard. “It’s alive.”

Outside, the other guests shouted.

The family rushed out to see the camp transformed. Vines crawled up tent poles, twisted around lights, and hung from the dining area like thick ropes. The air buzzed with flies, and the smell of wet earth and decay filled every breath.

A man was pulling something from around his ankle. It was a vine, looped tight like a snake. It had wrapped itself while he slept. When he yanked it free, it tore skin with it.

“Where are these coming from?” someone shouted.

“The lake,” another voice answered. “They’re coming from the lake.”

Dinda looked toward the water. The edges of the lake were no longer smooth. Clumps of moss and roots pulsed under the surface, rising and sinking like breathing lungs.

By midday, several guests decided to leave. The manager begged them to wait, insisting rescue boats would come. But no one believed him anymore.

The suspension bridge was still their only way out. The ropes swayed gently, wet and frayed. Below it, the lake was moving again. Ripples formed concentric circles, widening outward like something just beneath was stretching.

Pak Santosa tested the bridge carefully. The wood sagged under his weight, but it held. “We can make it,” he said. “If we move fast.”

Before anyone could respond, a deep groan echoed across the valley. The sound came from below, from the swamp itself. It was not an animal sound. It was older, heavier.

The vines on the bridge began to twitch.

Dinda stepped back. “It doesn’t want us to leave.”

The fog rolled in again, thicker than before. The vines reacted, tightening around the poles and ropes. Tents shuddered. One of them collapsed with a wet thump. Guests screamed and scattered, their feet sinking into the mud as the ground seemed to move under them.

Pak Santosa grabbed Dinda’s hand. “To the dining hall!”

They ran as the fog closed behind them. The air was filled with the sound of tearing fabric and splintering wood. The dining tent, built on higher ground, still stood. Inside, terrified faces turned toward them.

The local guide, the same man who had warned them before, stood by the window watching the vines move below. “It’s the earth taking itself back,” he said quietly. “The guardian is waking. Every root, every vine is part of it.”

“What do you mean ‘it’?” Dinda asked.

“The Glamp-Thing. The spirit that protects this land. We broke its skin when we built here.”

His voice was calm, almost reverent, as if he wasn’t afraid anymore.

Adi was staring out the window. “It’s under us,” he whispered.

At first, no one noticed the sound beneath the floor. Then it came again, a slow, wet push. The boards lifted slightly. Thin vines snaked up through the cracks, curling toward the light.

One wrapped around a chair leg and tightened until the wood snapped. Another slid up the wall, leaving a trail of dark slime.

The group backed away, their flashlights trembling.

The floor split open.

A thick, pulsing root as wide as a man’s arm pushed through the gap. It twisted toward the ceiling, brushing against the light bulb. Sparks flashed, and the tent plunged into darkness.

Someone screamed.

Outside, the vines moved faster now, covering every tent, wrapping around the dining hall supports. It looked like the earth was swallowing the camp whole.

Dinda clung to her brother, heart racing. “What does it want?” she cried.

The guide’s voice was barely audible. “It wants to be left alone.”

When dawn came, the fog thinned just enough to reveal what was left.

All ten tents stood buried under a web of roots and vines. The camp looked ancient, as if it had been abandoned for years.

The lake was still again, smooth and glassy.

The Santosas stood at the edge, staring across the water.

Something moved just beneath the surface. A faint ripple. Then a single croak, deep and low, echoed through the mist.

Dinda whispered, “It’s still here.”