There's something unsettling about the quiet in rural Thailand. For all the lush greenery and the warmth of the people, there lingers a heaviness in the air that even a seasoned traveler like myself couldn't shake.
I had been staying in a small village, several hours north of Chiang Mai, on the advice of a colleague who had insisted that I experience the "true" Thailand, far removed from the bustle of the cities. It was remote, isolated—a place where time seemed to stretch endlessly, and the old ways held strong.
On my second evening there, I was invited to dine with the village headman, a kindly man named Wichai, who spoke decent English. Over dinner, the conversation turned to local folklore, as it often does in places like these. I, a British man who prided himself on his rationality, found it all a charming distraction from the rigors of city life. Ghost stories, spirit houses, that sort of thing.
But then Wichai mentioned the Mae Nak, an old woman who lived on the edge of the village. A practitioner of voodoo, or so they said. I nearly laughed, voodoo in Thailand—what nonsense! I had always associated it with the Caribbean, with Haitian rituals, not this side of the world. But Wichai's face grew grave as he continued.
"She makes figures out of clay," he said, his voice lowering. "Figures that bind to the soul. Whatever happens to the figure… happens to the person."
I'd heard variations of this tale before—effigies, dolls, sympathetic magic. Yet Wichai's demeanor made me pause. He told me of a man, a villager who had wronged the Mae Nak years ago. The man's figure had been shaped in secret, and not long after, he fell ill, bedridden by pains no doctor could explain. His limbs twisted, his body bent unnaturally, as if the clay figure's movements had shaped his fate.
Of course, I thought it absurd. In fact, I might have brushed it off entirely if it hadn't been for what I saw the following morning.
I had risen early to explore the area, as one does when in new surroundings. The village was still asleep, save for a few early risers. As I made my way towards the rice fields, I spotted an old woman hunched over near a small shrine. She was shaping something with her hands—clay, by the looks of it.
Something about the way her gnarled fingers moved over the clay disturbed me. I felt an unease settle deep in my bones, like an instinctual warning. I didn't approach her, but I couldn't help but watch. The way she shaped the figure—small, humanoid—felt almost deliberate, as if every press of her fingers had meaning.
When she stood, her eyes met mine. Cold, dark eyes that felt far too knowing. I offered a polite nod, but she said nothing. She only smiled—a thin, crooked smile that sent a chill racing down my spine. Then she walked away, leaving the small clay figure perched on the shrine.
I returned to my guesthouse, shaken but unwilling to admit that I had been frightened by what was clearly just an old woman working clay. Yet, as I prepared to leave for my next destination later that day, I noticed something strange in my belongings. There, atop my suitcase, was a small clay figure.
It was unmistakable—it was me.
It bore my likeness, crude though it was. The same hat, the same posture, even the curve of my nose. I stared at it for a long moment, my heart pounding in my chest. I had never seen it before, never picked it up.
I wanted to believe it was a coincidence. A prank, perhaps, played by some mischievous villager. But deep down, I knew.
That night, I woke to an unbearable pain in my legs. It felt as though something were squeezing them, bending them at unnatural angles. I screamed, the agony overwhelming, but there was no one to hear me.
When the morning light finally broke, I found the figure lying next to my bed—its legs twisted and broken.
I left the village that same day, hobbling and limping, and I've never returned. Yet even now, miles away, I can still feel it—the weight of the clay figure, buried deep in my suitcase. Waiting.
And sometimes, when the night is still, I swear I hear the sound of clay cracking.