The Whispers in the Forest
Adit Surya, 32, from Pontianak, Kalimantan, Indonesia.
When I was a boy, around 10 years old, I heard a story that still chills me to this day. It was about my childhood friend, Damar. He and I lived in a small village near the dense forests of Kalimantan, where legends ran as deep as the roots of the ancient trees.
Our elders always warned us about the whispers in the woods. They said a voice would call your name, luring you deeper into the forest. If you followed it, you might never come back. We, of course, brushed it off as just another tale to keep children in line.
One evening, during the twilight hours when the sky burned orange and shadows stretched long, we were playing hide and seek near the forest’s edge. Damar, always bold and adventurous, decided to hide deeper in the woods. I remember calling after him, telling him it was too risky, but he just laughed and disappeared among the trees.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, we decided to call it a night. But Damar didn’t come back. We called out his name, and though the forest swallowed our voices, there was no reply. Panic started to set in. Just as we were about to fetch the adults, I heard it—a soft, melodic voice, calling “Damar… Damar…”
We froze. The voice was too sweet, too calm, and it wasn’t ours. It came from deep within the forest.
Meanwhile, Damar later told me what happened next. He had been crouched behind a fallen tree when he heard his name, spoken so gently it felt like a lullaby. Thinking it was one of us, he stood up and followed the sound, deeper and deeper into the forest. He said it was as though the voice was pulling him forward, promising secrets, treasures, and things he couldn’t resist.
Eventually, he came to a massive, ancient tree. Its bark was pale and smooth, unlike any other tree in the forest. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, urging him closer. Just as he reached out to touch the tree, he felt an icy hand grip his shoulder.
Damar turned to see his grandfather standing behind him, face pale but eyes blazing with anger. His grandfather had followed him into the woods, sensing something was wrong.
“Never follow the voice,” his grandfather said firmly, dragging Damar away.
Before they could leave, Damar glanced back at the tree. What he saw chilled him to the bone. From the shadows beneath its twisted branches, a pale figure emerged. It had hollow eyes, its face a mask of emptiness, and it seemed to float rather than walk. The whispers turned into a chaotic cacophony, urging him to stay.
The two of them ran as fast as they could, the shadows twisting and dancing behind them. When they finally reached the village, the whispers stopped abruptly as if the forest had released its grip.
To this day, none of us dare enter the forest after dark. The whispers still haunt Damar’s dreams. And when I walk past the edge of the woods, sometimes I swear I hear my own name, faint and melodic, calling me to return.
