“The Tear”
By morning, half the camp was gone.
The boat had finally arrived just before sunrise, and the lucky ones who got on it didn’t even look back. The Santosas weren’t among them. The lake’s fog had rolled in too thick, and the captain refused to take more passengers across until it cleared. “Too dangerous,” he said.
Now, only three families remained, along with the staff who pretended everything was fine. The dining area smelled of cold coffee and damp wood. No one talked much.
Dinda scrolled through her phone again. Every photo she took last night was warped. Faces stretched, the fog pulsing in the background like something alive. Her last video stopped just as she whispered the word “run.”
Pak Santosa sat with his arms folded. “We leave on foot if we have to.”
The manager shook his head. “The bridge is unstable, sir. It’s not safe.”
“Neither is staying here.”
Before the argument could go further, a sharp cry cut through the camp. It came from one of the lakefront tents.
Everyone ran toward the sound.
The tent had been torn open from the inside. The canvas hung in strips, soaked and heavy. Mud covered the floor, thick and dark, smelling like the bottom of a swamp. The guests who had been inside were gone.
The only thing left behind was a woman’s scarf tangled around one of the stakes.
That night, no one slept. The fog didn’t lift. It just pressed closer, making the air thick and damp. The remaining guests gathered in the dining tent, clutching flashlights that flickered too often.
The staff tried to keep everyone calm. “Animals,” one of them said. “Maybe wild pigs.”
Dinda stared at him. “Pigs don’t tear tents like that.”
No one responded.
Adi sat beside her, whispering quietly to himself. When she asked what he was saying, he said, “I can hear them calling my name.”
Her blood went cold.
She turned up the flashlight, scanning the corners. The sound of water slapping against the stilts grew louder. Thump. Thump. Slow and steady, like footsteps under the dining hall.
Something brushed against her ankle. She jumped back, kicking. Mud. Only mud, creeping through the cracks in the wooden floor.
But the floorboards bulged slightly, as if something was pushing up from below.
The group froze. Then the sound came again, scratching, slow and rhythmic.
Pak Santosa shouted, “Everyone outside!”
They stumbled into the mist, flashlights bouncing wildly. The lake gleamed faintly in the distance, reflecting the pale light of the tents.
Something moved beneath the surface. Long ripples rolled outward, too big to be fish.
Back inside their tent, Dinda couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground was watching her. The air was heavy, filled with the scent of wet leaves and iron.
Adi was half-asleep, muttering in his dreams. She leaned closer to hear.
“They said they were here first,” he whispered.
Her skin prickled. “Who did?”
He didn’t answer.
A noise came from outside. Slow, dragging steps in the mud. She peeked through the tent flap. The fog was thick, but she saw movement, something large and dark sliding along the path toward the lake.
Then a splash.
The ripples spread again, wider this time.
When she turned back, her mother was sitting upright, eyes wide. “Do you hear that?”
From across the camp, a tent collapsed with a wet rip. Someone screamed. The light inside the tent vanished instantly.
The fog swallowed the sound.
The Santosas grabbed their things and ran for the bridge. The wood creaked under their feet, dripping with slime. Halfway across, they stopped. The ropes were frayed, soaked, and vibrating.
The bridge moved on its own. Not from wind. From below.
Something heavy brushed against it, pulling gently, almost teasingly.
Pak Santosa tried to steady the line, shouting for everyone to move back, but before he could finish, one of the ropes snapped. The bridge tilted violently. Dinda fell to her knees, gripping the side with both hands.
For a second, she looked down. The fog thinned just enough to show the dark water below. It wasn’t still anymore. It was churning, rising, almost boiling.
She saw something there. A face just under the surface. Pale. Too long. Eyes wide open. Watching.
She screamed.
Her father pulled her up and dragged her back to solid ground. The bridge settled again, swaying gently like it was breathing.
They didn’t speak. They just stood there, soaked and shaking.
From the direction of the lake came a low sound. A croak. Not loud, but deep enough to make the air vibrate.
The fog pulsed with it.
Somewhere behind them, another tent tore open.
The night held its breath.
Title: Glamp-Thing: The Tear
Slug: glamp-thing-the-tear
Keywords: horror, glamping, Indonesia, Ciwidey, lake monster, supernatural, Indonesian folklore, thriller, creature horror, suspense
Hashtags: #GlampThing #Ciwidey #LakeHorror #IndonesianHorror #CreatureFeature #SupernaturalThriller #HorrorSeries #GlampingGoneWrong #FogHorror #NightTerror
Would you like me to continue straight into Episode 5: “The Flood” next, same tone and 700 words?
