“Scratches in the Night”

Morning came slowly to the valley, the kind of pale gray dawn that made everything feel half-awake. The fog still clung to the lake, and the air smelled faintly metallic, like rain that never arrived.

When Dinda stepped out of the tent, the grass was slick under her feet. The handprint was still there, a long smear of dark mud sliding down the tent wall. She stared at it, then at the lake. Still calm. Too calm.

“Probably a prank,” Pak Santosa muttered when she pointed it out. “Kids fooling around.”

But when the staff began doing their morning rounds, whispers rippled through the camp. One of the tents, the one nearest the water, had deep slashes running down its side. Four long tears, clean through the thick canvas.

Everyone gathered to look.

“It must be monkeys,” said one staff member quickly. “They come from the forest sometimes.”

A local worker, older, quieter, shook his head. “No monkey does that.”

He didn’t explain further.

Breakfast was tense. Guests laughed too loudly, trying to keep the mood light. A vlogger named Cindy filmed a “good morning” clip for her followers, pretending nothing was wrong. In the background, the maintenance crew quietly replaced the shredded tent.

Pak Santosa told his family to stay calm. “We paid good money for this place. It’s safe.”

But Dinda couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d overheard yesterday… “They shouldn’t be on that land.“

She sat by the lake, watching the mist drift like breath over water. The reflection of the mountains shimmered unnaturally, as if the lake itself was breathing. She started to record a video diary, but her phone glitched again. The screen froze, flickered, then cut to black.

Adi came running up. “Dinda! Come see!”

Behind one of the other tents, he pointed to the mud. There were prints, not footprints, but round impressions, too wide for human feet. They looked almost like suction marks, arranged in pairs, leading from the water to the cabins.

She grabbed her phone to photograph them, but before she could, a staff member stomped over, covering them with a tarp. “Private area,” he said quickly. “Please stay near your tent.”

That afternoon, clouds gathered, though the weather forecast promised sun. The lake darkened until it looked like a single sheet of black glass. The air turned heavy. By evening, no one was smiling.

After dinner, the wind died completely. The bonfire sputtered out early. Guests retreated to their tents, the laughter gone.

Inside, Adi played a game on his tablet, though the battery blinked low. “Can we leave tomorrow?” he asked. “This place is weird.”

His mother kissed his forehead. “We’ll see, honey. Go to sleep.”

Outside, something croaked again. Not the sharp sound of a frog, lower, wetter, almost human.

Then came another.
And another.
Until the sound surrounded the camp, echoing off every tent wall.

Dinda pulled her blanket tighter. She opened her phone’s recorder, hit “record,” and waited. The sound rose and fell, rhythmic and slow. Between croaks, she heard something else, faint whispers, like someone speaking underwater.

She turned up the volume.

Outside, something scraped against the tent wall. A single long drag, metal on fabric. The canvas quivered.

“Dad,” Dinda whispered.

Pak Santosa grabbed the flashlight and stepped outside. His beam cut through the fog. Nothing. Just a few muddy streaks on the deck.

Then, from the tent beside them… a scream.

A woman’s voice, high and terrified, then silence.

Dinda ran out with him. The neighbouring tent was shaking violently. Something moved inside, throwing shadows against the fabric. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

The zipper slowly opened by itself.

A man stumbled out, gasping, eyes wide. “Something was under us,” he whispered. “It pushed from the floor. Like hands… or roots.”

Guests poured out of their tents, huddling near the bonfire pit. Staff arrived, trying to calm them. “Everything’s fine! Just nerves!”

But the fog had thickened again, pressing close like a wall.

Later that night, Dinda replayed her recording. The croaks filled the air. Then she heard it, buried deep beneath the sound.

A whisper.

Faint, distorted, but human.

It said her name.

“Din…daaa.”

She froze. The recording stopped by itself. The phone went dark.

Outside, something heavy slid across the ground, slow and wet.

A faint handprint appeared on the canvas again, this time near her head. Then a single scratch dragged down beside it.

From the lake, a deep, guttural voice echoed once, a croak that almost sounded like laughter