The Shadow at Tjong A Fie Mansion – Vietnam

I was working late that night at Tjong A Fie Mansion. As a tour guide, my job is to explain the history of this grand old house to visitors. The place is steeped in history, you know, built in the late 19th century by the wealthy Chinese-Indonesian businessman Tjong A Fie. People whisper stories of hauntings, of restless spirits lingering within its walls, but I, Hanafi, never paid them much mind. Work is work, and a salary is a salary. Besides, I’d spent countless nights exploring its shadowy corners, and nothing unusual had ever occurred. Or so I thought.

That night, the air hung heavy with a stillness that felt unnatural, even for an old building settling into the night. I was locking up, room by room, the rhythmic click of the locks a counterpoint to the growing unease in my chest. The main hall was already cloaked in darkness, my footsteps echoing eerily on the polished, cool tiles. A prickling sensation crawled up my spine, the feeling of being watched, of unseen eyes boring into me from the shadows. I tried to dismiss it, muttering to myself, “Relax, Hanafi. You’re alone.” But the feeling persisted, a cold dread that refused to be ignored.

As I reached the ruang tamu, the living room, I heard it. A faint kerincing, a delicate tinkling sound, like the chime of glass or porcelain gently striking against each other. My heart lurched, a sudden, sharp stab of fear piercing the calm. Slowly, cautiously, I turned my head towards the dining room, its darkness a gaping maw promising untold mysteries. And there, in the dim light filtering from the hallway, I saw it – the antique teacups on the massive mahogany table were trembling, swaying gently as if stirred by an unseen hand.

I froze, rooted to the spot, a statue of petrified terror. The air around me seemed to grow colder, a tangible chill that seeped into my bones. My breath hitched in my throat, each gasp a labored effort. Then, a whisper, soft as the rustle of silk, brushed against my ears. A single word, chillingly clear: “Pergi…” (Leave…)

Panic clawed at my throat, but my legs refused to obey. They were lead, heavy and unresponsive. My body felt as if encased in stone, my muscles locked in a rigid paralysis. I forced my gaze upwards, my eyes searching the gloom. And there, near the lilin tua, the old candle flickering weakly in the corner, I saw it – the shadow.

It wasn’t a human shadow. It was… different. Long and thin, almost serpentine in its form, it stretched from the ceiling to the floor, its edges indistinct, blurred by the darkness. But its eyes… those I could see clearly. Two points of burning crimson, glowing with an unnatural intensity, piercing the gloom like embers in the heart of a dying fire.

The shadow gestured towards the door, a silent command that resonated with a power that transcended the physical. I didn’t need a second invitation. A surge of adrenaline, raw and potent, coursed through my veins. My legs, suddenly imbued with a newfound strength, obeyed my will. I fled, a desperate sprint through the echoing halls, leaving everything behind. I didn’t even bother to lock the doors properly; escape was my only priority.

The next morning, I recounted my experience to my boss, Pak Budi, a man who had worked at the mansion for decades. He listened patiently, a slight smile playing on his lips. When I finished, he simply chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Hanafi,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, “it’s common. The old spirits here, they don’t like people staying too late. They get… restless.” He didn’t seem surprised, not in the least. His nonchalance was almost unsettling.

Now, I always finish my work before sunset. The thought of facing that shadow again fills me with a cold dread that chills me to the bone. Some say it’s the spirit of Tjong A Fie himself, a guardian spirit protecting his ancestral home. Others whisper of something darker, something malevolent, something that lurks in the shadows, feeding on fear.

But one thing I know for sure: the Tjong A Fie Mansion is not just a museum, a collection of artifacts and historical relics. It’s alive. It breathes, it whispers, it watches. And sometimes, in the dead of night, it calls.

Narrator’s Closing Note:
If you ever visit Medan, Indonesia, and find yourself drawn to the allure of the Tjong A Fie Mansion, perhaps you’ll think twice before lingering too long within its ancient walls after the sun dips below the horizon. The shadows hold secrets, and some secrets are best left undisturbed.

Hanafi Zulkarnain, a 38-year-old tour guide from Medan, North Sumatra, Indonesia, works at the historic Tjong A Fie Mansion. His deep knowledge of the mansion’s history and architecture is matched only by his keen observation skills and willingness to share his experiences, both mundane and extraordinary.