“The First Attack”

Morning broke with silence. No birds, no wind, no hum of insects. The camp was smothered in fog so thick it felt like breathing through wet cloth. The Santosas hadn’t slept. They sat huddled in the dining hall, the only structure still standing.

Pak Santosa looked out through a gap in the canvas. “The bridge is still there,” he said. “We can leave now before it’s too late.”

The guide shook his head. “Not yet. The spirit hasn’t gone back to sleep.”

Dinda wanted to scream. “What spirit? You keep saying that like it’s normal.”

The guide’s eyes were sunken, his voice steady. “The guardian of the lake. The Glamp-Thing, you call it. It was buried under this land long before your roads and tea fields. The villagers made offerings to keep it calm. You built over its heart.”

No one spoke. Outside, the fog swirled, and for a moment, a shadow passed by the tent window.

A loud splash echoed from the lake. Everyone turned.

Adi ran out first, followed by his father. The fog parted just enough to reveal the water. Something was thrashing near the shore. It looked like a person caught in the mud.

Pak Santosa ran closer. “Help him!”

But the figure wasn’t human. As they approached, the shape rose higher, dripping and trembling. Mud poured off its surface. Beneath it, there was flesh. Pale, soft, stretched thin like the skin of a drowned animal.

It had no eyes, only dark hollows where they should have been. Its limbs were tangled with vines, moving like tendrils. The mouth opened wide, and a long, wet sound came out, something between a moan and a hiss.

Adi stumbled back. “It’s made of the roots.”

The creature took a step forward. Each step left a print filled with black water.

Pak Santosa grabbed a lantern and threw it. Fire exploded across the mud. The creature shrieked and fell backward, twisting into the lake with a hiss of steam. The water bubbled, then went still again.

Back in the dining hall, panic spread fast.

“They said this place was safe,” a man shouted.
“We have to leave now!” another cried.

The guide held up his hand. “You can’t cross the bridge in fog. The spirit won’t let you.”

No one listened. A group of tourists grabbed their bags and ran toward the bridge. The rest stayed behind, watching through the thin fabric walls.

Moments later, a scream tore through the fog.

Dinda ran outside despite her father’s warning. The fog had thinned just enough for her to see figures moving on the bridge. One man had fallen, his arm caught in the ropes. The others were trying to pull him up.

Then the vines moved.

They rose from beneath the bridge like snakes, coiling around the wood and the man’s legs. He screamed as he was dragged under, vanishing into the mist below. Another man reached for him, but the vines lashed out again, wrapping around his chest and yanking him over the side.

The bridge swayed wildly. The ropes snapped.

The remaining planks collapsed into the fog with a thunderous crack.

Dinda fell to her knees. The bridge was gone.

By afternoon, the fog still hadn’t lifted. The survivors gathered in the dining hall again. The air smelled of smoke and damp soil.

Pak Santosa was pacing. “We can’t wait for help. We have to find another way out.”

“There is no other way,” the guide said quietly. “This land was cut off for a reason. The bridge was the only path built by outsiders. Now it’s taken back.”

Adi stared at the ground. “Then we’re trapped.”

The guide looked at him. “Not trapped. Chosen.”

As night fell, the group built a fire outside. The glow flickered against the vines that covered the trees. They could hear the lake shifting, the occasional splash echoing across the water.

One of the guests, a woman from Bandung, whispered, “Maybe it’s gone.”

Right then, something crashed in the woods. Branches snapped. The firelight caught a movement just beyond the trees.

A hand emerged from the fog. It wasn’t human. The skin was cracked like old bark, the nails black and sharp. Then another hand appeared, and another.

Shapes began crawling out of the ground. Dozens of them, covered in moss and dirt, their bodies stitched together by vines. Their faces were hollow, eyes empty, mouths open in a silent wail.

Dinda clutched her brother’s arm. “They were people.”

The guide nodded slowly. “They were. The forest remembers everyone who disturbed it.”

The creatures moved closer, circling the campfire. The air turned cold. The fire dimmed.

Pak Santosa grabbed a burning branch and swung it. One of the creatures caught fire, stumbling back toward the trees. But the others didn’t stop.

They advanced in silence, the vines pulsing across their bodies like veins.

The guide raised his voice. “It’s only beginning. The land is reclaiming what it lost.”

The sound of rushing water filled the air. From the direction of the lake, a massive wave of roots burst through the fog, twisting like a living wall.

The fire went out.

And the screaming began.