That morning, the village market wasn’t very crowded yet. The smell of damp earth mingled with the scent of fresh vegetables in the air. Mrs. Carter walked along the rows of stalls, occasionally greeting the vendors. But her steps came to a halt when her eyes caught a sight that made her eyebrows rise.
Not far from the fish stand, Nila stood with a tense expression. A local thug—whose reputation had long been the talk of the town—was standing far too close to her. The way he spoke was careless, and there was something unsettling in his gaze. Nila seemed to be trying to step away, her eyes scanning the area as if searching for help.
Mrs. Carter saw everything.
But instead of approaching or scolding the man, she pulled out her high-quality knockoff iPhone. She snapped several photos from angles deliberately chosen to be misleading. A thin smile curved on her lips—not a smile of concern, but one of satisfaction, as though she had just discovered fresh material for gossip she could freely spread among the townspeople.
“Huh. Just wait—this is going to be hot news,” she muttered, pleased with her latest find.
And from that moment on, all kinds of devilish rumors began to circulate. The story Mrs. Carter invented spread quickly. Nila was accused of selling herself cheaply to the village thug. No one knew exactly how the story became so twisted. It simply multiplied, gossip breeding gossip as it passed from mouth to mouth.
***
That afternoon, Nila returned home. As usual, she went straight to the kitchen. Cooking was her way of calming her mind—slicing onions, stirring vegetables—each small motion helping to quiet the emotional exhaustion that had built up since morning. Being harassed earlier had truly shaken her. She hated being treated that way.
She was still busy cooking, the stove barely lit, when she heard someone calling from the front of the house.
“Ma’am… Miss Nila?”
She wiped her hands and stepped outside. A thin, older man stood in front of the house. There was something in his eyes that made her uncomfortable. His gaze was improper, lingering far too long on parts of her body that had no business being studied.
“Yes? Who are you looking for?” Nila asked, keeping her voice steady.
“I’m… the gas man,” he answered awkwardly. “Got a call to come by.” Even his expression seemed strange, and the sound of his breathing carried an unsettling undertone.
Nila remembered that her gas tank had indeed been acting up. She nodded. “Please wait outside. I’ll bring the stove out.”
She carried the stove and gas tank onto the porch. The man stepped closer, offering help with a smile that made the hair on her neck stand up.
“Let me handle it, ma’am. It’s heavy,” he said, reaching for the tank. His hands were visibly slick with sweat.
“That’s not necessary. I can manage,” Nila replied firmly.
But the man insisted. In the awkward tug-of-war, Nila’s foot slipped. The gas tank slipped from her grasp and fell squarely onto the man’s foot.
“Ahh!” he cried out in pain, collapsing onto the porch.
Nila panicked. Her face turned pale. Without thinking, she crouched down and, out of nowhere, spat near his foot.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said quickly. “It’s… it’s a village ritual. It helps the pain go away faster. And it drives off bad intentions—so nothing strange follows you home. If you don’t cleanse it, your foot might end up… well… taken by demons.”
She leaned closer and whispered in a mysterious tone, “If bad intentions aren’t cleansed, they say spirits can target you. Some even say your soul could be dragged to hell.”
The man froze. The color drained from his face. Fear was written clearly in his eyes.
Not long after, Ezra came home from school. When he saw his mother looking uneasy and a strange man sitting on the porch in pain, questions immediately flooded his mind.
“Ezra, please,” Nila said, her voice trembling—deliberately so. “Take this man to the clinic. I’m… I’m scared,” she added pitifully.
Ezra’s eyes widened. “Mom… you’re okay, right?” As Nila’s only child, his instincts flared with worry and anxiety. Seeing a strange older man alone with his mother in their house made his chest tighten.
“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOM?!” Ezra shouted, grabbing the man’s shirt and pulling him up, ready to punch him.
“Please… please. I—I’m sorry,” the old man whimpered, begging for mercy. The boy who was usually gentle now looked almost possessed. When he thought someone might hurt the parent he loved most, something fierce rose inside him.
“Ezra, that’s enough. I’m fine. Help me take him to the clinic,” Nila said, keeping her eyes fixed sharply on the old man.
“But Mom—” Ezra protested, clearly unhappy with her response.
“Just do what I say,” Nila replied firmly, though her voice retained its usual softness.
Ezra fell silent. Without further questions, he helped carry the man.
***
At the clinic, Nila was incredibly convincing. Her face was pale, her voice shaky, her body looking as though it might give out at any moment.
“I’m so frightened,” she told the staff. “I’m traumatized. Even a small bruise could make me faint. And I… I don’t have any money.”
The staff tried to calm her. Ezra stood beside his mother, equally anxious.
Several employees exchanged knowing glances. They recognized the man Ezra had brought in—he was someone who had caused trouble in town before, especially around women.
“You don’t need to worry, ma’am,” one staff member finally said. “We’ll take care of it. As for the cost, we’ll arrange something.”
Some even whispered sympathetically. The clinic later planned to send the man to rehabilitation, as he had made far too many problems in the village.
Nila nodded weakly, as if relieved, then hugged Ezra tightly. “I get so scared around strange men like that,” she whispered.
Ezra hugged her back just as tightly. The boy silently promised himself to be more vigilant about the people around them. Ever since moving to this village, he had sensed something odd about its residents. Now he was more certain than ever.
***
On the other side of the village, in a quiet rubber plantation, Mr. Tajul paced back and forth with an irritated expression. He was waiting for Jarwo, his errand boy, who hadn’t shown up since morning. Tajul had already given him fifty thousand rupiah to “handle” some information about Nila.
“Where the hell is that guy?” he muttered angrily.
He had no idea that Jarwo was now somewhere he never expected—a rehabilitation facility.
Frustrated and out of patience, Tajul finally sat down, pulled out his phone, and opened his gallery filled with photos of unfamiliar women—his usual escape whenever his plans failed. He drowned his frustration by staring at those suggestive pictures, indulging himself in private pleasure.