Before the darkness, before the blood, before the hunger that gnaws endlessly, there was life. There was warmth, laughter, and love. There was a village nestled on the edge of the jungle where the tall palm trees swayed in the breeze, and the scent of jasmine flowers filled the air. And there was me, Aisha—a young woman, gentle and kind, with a heart that longed for nothing more than a peaceful life.
I remember the days before everything went wrong. I remember the cool touch of the river against my feet as I washed clothes under the hot sun. I remember the voices of the village children, calling my name as they ran through the dusty streets. I remember him—Farid—my beloved husband. I can still hear his voice, soft and warm, whispering promises of a life together, of a home filled with the sound of our children's laughter.
I remember the joy we felt when I became pregnant, the way Farid's eyes lit up with hope. He held me close each night, his strong arms wrapped protectively around me as we dreamt of our future. A future that would never come.
The pain began in the dead of night, sharp and sudden, cutting through my body like a knife. It was too early—the baby wasn't due for weeks, and something was wrong. I screamed for help, but the village was quiet, asleep in the thick, humid air of the jungle. Farid rushed to my side, his face pale with fear, his hands trembling as he tried to comfort me.
But there was nothing he could do.
The agony stretched on for hours. My body was tearing apart, and the life inside me slipped away with every breath. I begged for it to stop, for the pain to end, but it only grew worse. My vision blurred, the world around me spinning as the blood pooled beneath me. The midwife came, but it was too late.
I died that night. Both of us did—me and my unborn child. The last thing I saw was Farid's face, streaked with tears, as he held my limp hand in his.
I remember the cold embrace of death, the darkness that swallowed me whole. I expected to find peace, to drift away from the world and rest in the afterlife. But instead, there was only anger. Rage. I had been taken too soon, my child ripped from me before it even had a chance to live. My soul screamed for justice, for revenge against the world that had wronged me.
And then, I woke.
The first thing I noticed was the silence—the kind of silence that presses in on you, suffocating, with no wind, no birds, no sound of the jungle. I was lying on the cold, hard ground, surrounded by dirt and damp. My body felt strange, heavier and yet weightless at the same time. I tried to move, but something was holding me down, pulling at me, dragging me toward the earth.
I struggled to sit up, my fingers clawing at the soil. I was buried—half-buried in a shallow grave in the middle of the jungle. Confusion clouded my mind, and a sickening realization crept in. I'm dead.
But I was not at peace.
I looked down at my hands. They were not the soft, warm hands I had once known. They were pale, bone-thin, my fingernails long and sharp, like claws. My dress was torn and stained with blood, my hair matted and tangled around my face. I touched my skin—it was cold, unnaturally cold, as if the life had been drained from me.
And yet, I was still here.
I stood, my legs shaky, my body trembling as I tried to understand. My heart pounded, not with the rhythm of life, but with something darker. Something deeper. A hunger stirred inside me, twisting and gnawing, a hunger that went beyond the need for food. I felt it pulling me, urging me forward, toward the village that lay just beyond the trees.
As I walked, memories flooded back—the warmth of Farid's embrace, the joy of carrying our child. But with those memories came the pain. The unbearable pain of loss. Of death. My thoughts grew muddled, emotions twisting together into something unrecognizable. I wanted to scream, to tear at the world for taking everything from me. I wanted to make them feel what I had felt.
And in that moment, I understood. I was no longer Aisha. I was something else now.
I was a Pontianak.
The village came into view through the trees, the faint glow of lanterns flickering in the distance. My eyes, sharper than they had ever been in life, took in every detail—the shape of the huts, the soft glow of the moon overhead, the figure of a man walking down the dirt path toward me.
Farid.
He hadn't seen me yet. He was walking slowly, his shoulders hunched, his eyes downcast. Grief clung to him like a shroud, and I could feel it from where I stood. He was still mourning me, still mourning our child. A flicker of warmth rose in my chest—a part of me, buried deep inside, still loved him. Still remembered the life we had shared.
But the hunger—it was growing stronger. My stomach twisted, my throat dry as if parched for something I couldn't name. I tried to push it down, tried to ignore it, but the more I watched him, the more the need consumed me. It was primal, raw, a need to devour.
He stopped, his head jerking up as if sensing something. His eyes widened, and he took a step back, fear flashing across his face. He didn't recognize me—how could he? I was no longer the woman he loved. I was something monstrous now, my skin pale, my eyes dark and hollow.
But I still wanted him to see me, to know it was me.
"Farid," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rustle of the jungle. His name left my lips like a breath, but it was twisted—wrong—a voice that didn't belong to me.
He froze, his gaze fixed on me, horror etched into his features. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He knew. He knew what I had become.
I stepped forward, my body moving of its own accord, driven by the hunger that clawed at my insides. "Farid…" I whispered again, my voice softer now, coaxing. I could smell his fear, sharp and sweet, and it only made the hunger worse.
He stumbled backward, turning to run, but it was too late. I was on him in an instant, faster than I ever could have been in life. My hands, those sharp, clawed hands, gripped his arms as I pulled him toward me. He screamed, but the sound barely registered. All I could think about was the hunger—the gnawing, endless hunger.
I leaned in close, my lips brushing against his neck, and for a moment, I hesitated. This was Farid—my Farid. The man I had loved, the man I had wanted to build a life with. But the part of me that was still Aisha was fading, slipping away like smoke in the wind. The hunger was stronger. It always was.
I sank my teeth into his flesh.
His blood—warm, rich, filled with life—poured into my mouth, and the hunger roared in triumph. His screams became muffled, fading as I drained him, taking everything he had left to give. The taste of him, the feel of his life slipping away, filled the emptiness inside me, if only for a moment.
When it was over, I let him fall to the ground, his body limp and lifeless. I stood there, staring down at him, my heart—or whatever was left of it—aching with a mixture of sorrow and satisfaction. Farid was gone, and I was alone.
I stepped back, wiping the blood from my lips with the back of my hand. The jungle was silent now, the rain having stopped without me noticing. In the distance, I could hear the soft rustling of leaves, the call of a distant bird, but nothing else. No more screams. No more life.
The hunger had been satisfied, but only for now. It would return. It always did.
I turned away from Farid's body, the last vestiges of who I had once been slipping away with every step. I was no longer Aisha, the gentle, loving woman who had dreamt of a family and a future. I was something else now, something darker. Something that belonged to the jungle, to the night.
The Pontianak.
And I would never stop.
As I disappeared into the shadows of the trees, the village remained still, unaware of the horror that had just unfolded. But they would know soon enough. They would know the legend of the Pontianak was real. And I would return.
I would always return.