The Pontianak’s Revenge
My name is Ahmad, and I am 62 years old. I live in a small village called Kampung Lalang, tucked deep within the lush, green paddy fields of Kedah. For as long as I can remember, our village has been haunted by an eerie tale—one that has kept even the bravest of men from venturing out alone at night. It is the story of the Pontianak, a spirit born of tragedy and vengeance.
I’ll never forget the night Rizal met his end. Rizal was known throughout the village, but not for good reasons. He was a cruel man, driven by greed and a heart hardened by years of selfishness. He had cheated many villagers out of their land, stolen livestock, and cared for nothing beyond his own comfort. Many believed that one day he would pay for his misdeeds. That day came sooner than anyone expected.
It was a humid night in early July, and the air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine. Rizal had been drinking at the warung (coffee shop) until late, boasting about his latest “deal” to anyone who would listen. He’d swindled Pak Harun, an elderly farmer, out of his last piece of land, leaving the old man with barely enough to survive. “He’s a fool,” Rizal had said, laughing loudly. “If you’re not smart, you deserve to lose.”
The warung owner, Pak Din, warned him to be careful. “Don’t tempt fate, Rizal. You know the stories about these fields. The Pontianak doesn’t take kindly to men like you.” But Rizal waved him off, dismissing the caution as superstition. “Ghosts are for cowards,” he scoffed.
As the clock struck midnight, Rizal stumbled out of the warung and began his journey home. His house was on the far side of the paddy fields, a route that few dared to take after dark. The fields were silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. The moonlight cast eerie shadows, making every tree and bush seem alive. Rizal, however, was unbothered, humming a drunken tune as he walked.
Halfway through the fields, he heard it—the faint cry of a baby. He stopped in his tracks, his ears straining to catch the sound. The cry came again, louder this time, and it seemed to be coming from a grove of banana trees just ahead. Rizal’s drunken bravado turned to unease, but curiosity got the better of him.
As he approached the grove, he saw her. A woman in a flowing white dress stood under the trees, her back turned to him. She cradled a baby in her arms, its cries piercing the stillness of the night. Her long, black hair cascaded down her back, and she seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight. Rizal’s unease melted away, replaced by intrigue. “Miss, do you need help?” he called out, his voice trembling slightly.
The woman turned slowly, and Rizal gasped. She was beautiful, with delicate features and eyes that glistened like dark pools. “Please,” she said softly, her voice melodic and sad. “My baby is unwell. Can you help us?”
Rizal hesitated. Something about her didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Still, he stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her sorrowful face. As he reached out to touch the baby, the woman’s expression changed. Her lips curled into a sinister smile, and her eyes began to glow a fiery red. Before Rizal could react, her face contorted into something monstrous. Her once-beautiful features twisted into a ghastly visage with sharp fangs and hollow, sunken eyes. Her long nails, sharp as daggers, glinted in the moonlight.
Rizal stumbled backward, screaming in terror. The woman—no, the Pontianak—let out a bone-chilling laugh that echoed through the fields. She lunged at him with inhuman speed, her nails tearing into his flesh. Rizal’s screams pierced the night as he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. The Pontianak hovered over him, her face inches from his, and whispered, “You will pay for your sins.”
By morning, the village was buzzing with rumors. Rizal’s body had been found in the middle of the paddy fields, his face frozen in an expression of pure terror. Deep claw marks covered his torso, and his chest had been torn open as if by some wild animal. The villagers knew what had happened. The Pontianak had claimed another victim.
As the elders gathered to discuss the incident, the story of the Pontianak was recounted once again. Decades ago, a woman named Siti had lived in the village. She was beautiful and kind-hearted, married to a man who loved her deeply. But her happiness was short-lived. During childbirth, complications arose, and Siti’s screams echoed through the village as she fought for her life. The midwife was inexperienced, and Siti passed away along with her unborn child.
The villagers whispered that her spirit had been restless ever since. It was said that she sought revenge on men who resembled those who had wronged her in life—men like Rizal, whose cruelty and greed mirrored the neglect that led to her death. The elders warned the younger generation to respect the land and its spirits, but Rizal had not listened.
After Rizal’s death, the villagers took precautions. Offerings of flowers and food were placed at the banana grove to appease the Pontianak. Prayers were held, and the elders reminded everyone to treat others with kindness and fairness. Though the cries of a baby were occasionally heard at night, no one dared to investigate.
As for me, I’ve never forgotten that night or the lesson it taught us all. Rizal’s fate served as a grim reminder that the Pontianak is not just a story to scare children. She is a warning—a manifestation of the pain and injustice that can linger long after death. Even now, as I tell this story, I feel a chill run down my spine. The paddy fields may look peaceful during the day, but at night, they hold secrets that are better left undisturbed.
