The Ritual at Merah Estate

I was seventeen when my grandmother fell ill. The call came in August, the air thick with the promise of rain, the kind of heat that makes you forget how to breathe. My family was vacationing in Jakarta, visiting relatives, but my mother’s face turned pale as she listened. ‘Nenek is in the hospital,’ she said. ‘Diabetes. The doctors say it’s bad.’ I didn’t know much about my grandmother; she lived in Medan, a city I barely remembered, in a house that seemed to exist only in the faded photographs my mother kept in a worn album. My aunts and uncles were taking turns watching her, but they were tired, and my mother had work. So she looked at me, her eyes pleading. ‘Can you go? Just for a few days.’ I shrugged. ‘Sure.’ It seemed simple enough.

What I forgot, what I had blocked from my mind, was the date. It was the seventh month of the lunar calendar—the Hungry Ghost Month. In Jakarta, the streets were lined with small altars, incense smoke curling into the orange dusk, paper effigies of houses and cars burning in metal drums. But I was a city kid, detached from old beliefs. The ghost month was just a time when street vendors sold joss sticks and my friends complained about the smell. I never gave it much thought.

I took a flight to Medan, unprepared for the humidity that wrapped around me like a wet blanket. An uncle picked me up at the airport, a man I vaguely recognized from a wedding. He was quiet, his face lined with worry. ‘Grandma’s in a lot of pain,’ he said, not looking at me. ‘She’s at home now. We’re taking care of her. But she keeps asking for your mother.’ My mother couldn’t come, and I was a poor substitute. I nodded, staring out the window at the dense green landscape, palms and rubber trees blurring past.

The house was a sprawling colonial-era estate, all dark wood and peeling paint, hidden behind a high stone wall. The gate creaked, and the driveway was lined with frangipani trees, their white blossoms glowing like tiny moons in the dusk. I was greeted by a dozen relatives I didn’t remember, all of them hushed, their eyes heavy with exhaustion. The house smelled of herbs and sickness, and from somewhere deep inside, I heard a low moan.

My grandmother’s room was at the end of a long hallway, the floorboards sighing beneath my feet. She lay in a four-poster bed, her skin the color of parchment, her eyes sunken. The nurse, a plump woman named Bu Sari, gave me a tired smile. ‘She sleeps a lot,’ she said. ‘When she’s awake, she talks to people who aren’t there.’ My blood went cold. ‘People who aren’t there?’ Bu Sari shrugged, adjusting the IV drip. ‘The medication, maybe. Or the fever.’

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was too quiet, and the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and rotting wood. I lay in my room, listening to the creak of the ceiling, the scratch of tree branches against the window. Then, at around 3 a.m., I heard her. My grandmother’s voice, clear and strong, calling out in a language I didn’t understand. I crept to her door and peered in. She was sitting up, her eyes wide, staring at the corner of the room. ‘They’re waiting,’ she said in Malay, her voice trembling. ‘They’ve come to take me home, but I’m not ready.’ I looked at the corner. There was nothing there. But the air seemed to ripple, like heat from a road.

During the day, the house was bustling with relatives preparing offerings. My aunt Kumala explained: ‘It’s the ghost month. We must feed the spirits, or they will disturb us.’ The table near the front door was laden with fruits, a roasted pig, and stacks of hell money. Incense burned constantly, and the smell of sandalwood clung to my clothes. I tried to ignore it, focusing on helping with my grandmother. But she kept muttering about visitors, about the ones with hollow eyes who stood at the foot of her bed.

On the third night, I was alone with her. The others were in the living room, burning paper houses and cars. My grandmother sat up suddenly, her grip surprisingly strong on my arm. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘Listen.’ And then I heard it. A scratching sound, from inside the wall. No—from under the floor. A slow, rhythmic scraping, like nails on wood. My grandmother’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling. ‘They’re beneath us,’ she said. ‘In the basement. You must not go down there.’ I had never known the house had a basement.

When the scratching continued, I couldn’t stand it. I had to see. I slipped out of her room, following the sound to the kitchen, where there was a door I’d assumed was a pantry. It was locked, but an old key hung on a hook. My heart thrummed as I turned it. Inside, a narrow staircase descended into darkness. The air was cold, carrying a smell of earth and something faintly sweet. Ignoring every instinct, I walked down.

They were there. Dozens of them. Not ghosts, not shadows—more like worn-out people, their clothes stained with dirt, their faces empty. They stood in a circle around a wooden table on which lay a single paper lantern, unlit. They didn’t move, didn’t blink. But as I stood there, one of them stepped forward, raised a finger, and pointed at me. Then, as one, they turned their heads—the sound of grinding bones—and said in perfect unison, ‘She’s not ready.’ I scrambled back up the stairs, slamming the door behind me.

The next morning, my grandmother seemed better, almost lucid. She called me to her bedside and smiled. ‘They were waiting for me,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going yet. I have to make sure you understand.’ She reached under her pillow and pulled out a small, jade pendant. ‘Take this. It’s for protection. In the next life, you’ll need it.’ I took it, confused. Then she looked past me at the doorway, her face contorting in fear. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Not him!’ The door slammed shut by itself, and the pendant in my hand grew cold as ice.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the living room, clutching the pendant, while the relatives chanted prayers in the next room. Just before dawn, a great commotion broke out. Crashes, angry shouts, and the sound of rattling chains. When my aunts ran to check on my grandmother, she was gone. Her bed was empty, the covers thrown aside. But on the pillow lay a single sheet of paper, covered in a spidery handwriting. It read: ‘I have been taken below. Do not follow. Finish the ritual.’

I ran to the basement door, but it was locked again, and this time, no key could open it. The scratching resumed, louder, more insistent. And then, a voice—my grandmother’s—whispered through the door: ‘The offering must be complete. A living heart for the hungry ghosts.’ I backed away, horrified. The relatives gathered, their faces pale, chattering in a language I didn’t understand.

I never saw my grandmother again. The family said she died that night, of complications from her diabetes. But a week later, when I returned to Jakarta, I found the jade pendant in my bag. It was warm to the touch, and in its center, a red spot had appeared, like a drop of blood. I tried to get rid of it, but every time I threw it away, it reappeared in my pocket. And now, when I look in the mirror, I sometimes catch the reflection of a woman standing behind me, her eyes hollow, her skin as pale as parchment. She points at me, and I hear the scratching, coming from inside my own head.

I know now that I finished the ritual. I brought the pendant, and I let the ghost in. The hungry ghost month has ended, but for me, it never ends. I see him everywhere—in the shadows, in the corner of my eye, in the pauses between words. He is always there, waiting for me to join him. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear a voice that sounds like my grandmother’s, whispering from the pendant, begging me to set her free. But I don’t know how.

I miss her. I miss the grandmother I barely knew. But I fear her too, because whatever came up from that basement took her place in this world. And it wants me to come down.