I never believed in ghosts. Not really. Not until the summer of 2023, when I booked a spontaneous trip to Bali, Indonesia—partly to escape the choking routine of my tech job in Singapore, and partly because my therapist told me I needed to "reconnect with the spiritual side of life." Ironically, I found much more than I bargained for.
The villa I stayed in was nestled just outside Ubud, surrounded by lush rice paddies and the distant sound of gamelan music. It was serene, almost dreamlike. A quiet place with no neighbors in sight, just the rustle of banana leaves and the rhythmic hum of cicadas. The villa had been built in a traditional Balinese style—open wood architecture, stone statues by the garden, and incense offerings left near every doorway.
The first few nights passed uneventfully. I woke up to birdsong, walked through local temples, and gorged myself on nasi campur and satay. But on the fourth night, something changed.
It began with a dream—or what I thought was a dream.
I found myself walking through a temple I hadn't visited. The air was thick with mist. The walls were covered in carvings, intricate and ancient, their faces twisted into expressions I couldn't quite interpret. I stopped at a shrine lit by flickering oil lamps. Then, suddenly, a woman appeared—tall, dressed in white, with long black hair that covered most of her face. She didn't move, just stared. I couldn't see her eyes, but I felt them. They pierced through me. I couldn't move or speak.
When I jolted awake, it was 3:07 a.m.
My skin was damp with sweat, and the air in the room felt unnaturally cold. I reached for the light switch by the bed, but the bulb flickered and died. Then, from the corner of the room, I heard it.
A faint whisper.
At first, I thought it was the wind pushing through the bamboo slats. But the sound grew louder, more distinct. It was chanting. Balinese. I didn't know the language, but the tone was unmistakable—ritualistic, rhythmic, otherworldly.
I turned on my phone's flashlight and scanned the room. Nothing. Just shadows that stretched too far, corners that seemed darker than they should have been. I got up, walked to the glass doors that led to the veranda, and looked out.
The garden was empty.
But the small stone statue near the gate—the one of the guardian spirit—was no longer facing outward. It had turned. Slightly. As if to look at me.
I didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, I asked the villa keeper, Pak Wayan, about the statue.
He paused, visibly uneasy. "That one is Barong Ket. A protector. But sometimes… protector becomes a mirror. You see what you are not supposed to see."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He hesitated again. "Sometimes, Bali opens you. If you are not careful, you open too wide."
That cryptic answer stuck with me. I brushed it off as local superstition, but deep inside, a part of me was starting to unravel. I began noticing things.
Strangers in the market would avoid eye contact with me.
Offerings—canang sari—were placed outside my door more frequently than before, even though I hadn't requested them.
And the dreams... they became clearer.
In one, I stood by a river. The same woman in white appeared again, but this time she whispered something I couldn't understand. When I leaned in closer, her face split open—not violently, but with a softness that was far more disturbing. Inside was not bone or muscle, but hundreds of small black insects crawling over each other.
I woke up screaming.
On the fifth day, I decided to visit a *balian*—a traditional Balinese healer. A friend I met at a yoga retreat had recommended one deep in the forest, someone who "could see the threads that tie you to the spirit world."
His home was modest, shaded by tall trees and filled with the scent of burning sandalwood. He was an old man, probably in his seventies, with sharp eyes and a voice like gravel.
"You opened something," he said before I even sat down. "Your mata ketiga. Third eye."
"I didn't mean to," I replied.
He nodded slowly. "Bali is not just land. It is spirit. Some land remembers. Some land watches."
He performed a short ritual with holy water and leaves, then looked into my eyes for what felt like an eternity. When he finally spoke, it chilled me.
"You stepped where the dead still walk. Your soul is now marked. The woman you see—she is not from here. She follows you, because you saw her when you shouldn't have."
I left his home shaken, my thoughts spiraling.
I wanted to leave Bali. Immediately. But something stopped me.
That night, I stayed up late, trying to rationalize everything. Maybe it was sleep paralysis. Maybe I was just stressed. The brain does strange things under pressure.
But logic broke apart around 2:44 a.m., when the smell of frangipani filled my room—overwhelming, choking, sweet. I hadn't brought any flowers in. The windows were closed.
Then came the knock.
One.
Two.
Three.
Soft, deliberate, and coming from the bathroom.
I froze.
I hadn't opened that door since morning. I hadn't used it since the water had turned slightly brown the day before—something I blamed on old pipes. But now the knob was turning, slowly, as if someone on the other side had no urgency—only patience.
I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight again, and with a shaking hand opened the door.
It was empty.
But written on the fogged mirror, as if traced by a finger, were the words: **"See me."**
I dropped the phone.
I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred. The room spun. I don't remember collapsing, but I must have.
When I woke up, it was morning. The sun was already high, birds chirping, everything deceptively normal.
The writing on the mirror was gone.
I booked a flight back to Singapore that afternoon, but the woman followed me in my dreams even after I returned. Every night, her whispers grew clearer, closer.
I've stopped dreaming now. Or maybe I don't sleep at all. I can't tell anymore.
What I know is this: something opened in Bali, and I don't know how to close it.
People always talk about the beauty of that island. The healing energy. The spiritual cleansing. But what they never tell you is this:
If you come with your heart wide open, sometimes... you open a door you can never shut.
The Sound Behind the Wall**
I didn't remember falling asleep after that strange night. When I woke up the next morning, the sunlight spilling through the wooden slats seemed unnaturally bright, almost too clean, too sterile—like it was trying to erase what had happened. But my body knew better. My head was heavy, my limbs tense, and there was a taste of rust on my tongue. The smell of frangipani still lingered faintly in the air.
I stood up slowly and went to the bathroom. The mirror had fogged again, even though I hadn't taken a shower. I leaned in. Nothing was written this time, but something was off. My own reflection felt... delayed. When I moved, it hesitated—like it had forgotten how to be me.
I splashed water on my face and grabbed my phone. The battery had drained to 3% overnight, even though I hadn't used it. I tapped into Google Maps to see how far the nearest main road was. Maybe I could walk. Maybe I could find someone, anyone, who could tell me if I was losing my mind.
That's when I heard it.
A knocking. Not on the door this time—but inside the wall.
It was faint. Rhythmic. Tap... tap... tap... followed by silence. Then again. Tap... tap... tap... like someone was locked inside and had been tapping for hours, waiting for someone to hear them.
I backed away from the wall. Something in me didn't want to get closer. I grabbed my bag, shoved in my essentials—passport, wallet, phone—and headed for the door. But when I reached for the handle, I paused.
A small offering tray—one of those square woven leaf baskets filled with flower petals and incense—sat at the foot of the door. I hadn't seen it the night before. And this one had something extra. A piece of paper folded three times, placed neatly between a red hibiscus and a slice of lime.
I bent down and opened it.
It read: *"Don't leave yet. You're not alone. She's not done."*
My stomach dropped.
Who had left it? Pak Wayan? Some villager? The woman from the dream?
I wanted to run. Every instinct screamed that I should. But instead, I opened the door and stepped out onto the veranda. The morning air was thick with humidity and silence. Even the birds weren't singing.
I walked toward the stone guardian statue again. This time, it wasn't turned toward me—it was facing the rice field. But I swear, the expression had changed. Its mouth had curved just slightly. A smirk. Not protective. Knowing.
The path to the main road was overgrown, but I pushed through. My sandals scraped against the stone, my breath shallow. Halfway down the trail, I saw someone.
A woman. Dressed in white. Standing perfectly still at the bend where the jungle thickened.
I blinked, and she was gone.
"Okay," I muttered aloud. "Okay. Get to the road. Find help. Leave."
It took me twenty minutes to reach a small warung—a roadside stall with old men smoking kretek and sipping black coffee. They looked up as I approached, their expressions unreadable.
"Permisi," I said, my voice shaking. "Do any of you know a priest? A *balian*? Someone who can help?"
One of the men, his eyes milky with age, pointed down the road. "Pak Ketut," he said. "By the banyan tree. But be careful. Some doors cannot be shut once opened."
---
The priest's home was at the edge of a ravine. Moss-covered stone steps led down to a clearing surrounded by tall bamboo. Wind chimes made of bone and shells tinkled gently in the breeze. Pak Ketut was waiting for me as if he had known I would come.
"You saw her, didn't you?" he asked.
I nodded.
"You invited her. Not with words—but with your eyes. Your fear. Your disbelief. That is invitation enough."
I told him everything. The dreams. The writing on the mirror. The knocking in the wall.
He listened quietly, then began preparing a ritual. He burned leaves in a clay bowl, muttered prayers under his breath, and sprinkled me with holy water that smelled like flowers and salt.
"She is not just a ghost," he said. "She is a *penunggu*—a watcher. A spirit tied to a place. You saw her in your dream because your third eye opened on her land. Now she sees you even when your eyes are closed."
I shivered.
"Can I undo it?" I asked. "Can I unsee her?"
Pak Ketut shook his head. "No. But you can give her what she wants."
"And what's that?"
"She wants to be seen."
He handed me a small wooden figure—crude, humanoid, with no eyes carved on its face.
"Take this back to the villa," he said. "Place it where she first appeared. Let her finish looking. Then she may leave."
---
I didn't want to go back, but I had no choice. The villa was as I had left it, though quieter. Too quiet.
That night, I sat on the veranda with the wooden figure in my lap. The jungle was alive with whispers I couldn't trace. Every now and then, a shadow moved at the edge of the garden, but when I turned, there was nothing.
At midnight, the wind picked up.
The frangipani scent returned.
She came again.
This time I didn't run. I placed the figure on the shrine by the door and sat beside it. She stepped into the light—her eyes still hidden behind her hair, but I could feel them.
She raised one hand.
I didn't flinch.
She reached out—and touched the figure.
A low hum filled the air, and then silence. Not just around me—but inside me. Like a weight had lifted.
She turned away.
And vanished.
The night returned to normal. The air was warm again. The jung
le sang.
I fell asleep on the veranda.
When I woke up, the figure was gone.
And so was the knocking.
But part of me knew: the third eye never really closes.
Some things, once seen, stay seen forever.