Gilded Graves

The Unzziped Cruse

The Morgue's Whisper:

In the humid underbelly of Jakarta, Indonesia, where the city's neon lights flickered like dying fireflies against the perpetual smog, stood the decrepit Rumah Sakit Umum Pusat, the central public hospital. It was a place where life and death danced in uneasy tandem, but tonight, in the morgue buried deep in the basement, death held the upper hand. Dr. Aria Santoso, a weary pathologist in his mid-forties, wiped sweat from his brow as he finished the autopsy on the latest victim. The body on the slab was that of a young woman, no older than twenty-five, her skin pale and marred by strange, ritualistic tattoos that swirled like serpents across her torso. The cause of death? Undetermined. But Aria knew better. Whispers in the corridors spoke of "santet" – black magic – the ancient curse wielded by dukun, the shamans who lurked in the shadows of Indonesia's spiritual underbelly.

The air in the morgue was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the faint, acrid scent of formaldehyde. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows that seemed to move when no one was looking. Aria's assistant, a nervous young intern named Budi, fidgeted with the body bag zipper. "Dokter, this one... she feels wrong," Budi muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes darted to the woman's face, frozen in a silent scream, her eyes wide open despite Aria's attempts to close them.

Aria sighed, pulling off his gloves. "Superstition, Budi. She's just another overdose or something. The police will handle it." But deep down, Aria wasn't so sure. The tattoos weren't gang symbols; they were ancient Javanese scripts, invoking spirits from the old folklore – kuntilanak, sundel bolong, or worse, the dreaded leak, shape-shifting demons born of black magic. He'd seen similar cases before, back in his village in Central Java, where his grandmother warned him never to meddle with the unseen world.

The clock struck midnight as the ambulance crew arrived. Two burly paramedics, Jamal and Rina, wheeled in a gurney with practiced efficiency. Jamal, a chain-smoking veteran with a tattoo of his own – a protective mantra inked on his arm – grunted as they lifted the body. "Heavy for a girl," he remarked, his voice echoing off the tiled walls. Rina, newer to the job and visibly uneasy in the morgue's chill, crossed herself discreetly, though she was Muslim; old habits from her mixed-faith upbringing.

As they hoisted the body bag onto the gurney, a soft whisper escaped the zipper – or so it seemed. Aria froze. "Did you hear that?" he asked, his heart pounding. Budi nodded frantically, backing away. Jamal laughed it off. "Gas from the corpse, Doc. Happens all the time." But Rina's face paled; she swore she heard a word: "Balas" – revenge.

They wheeled the body out into the dimly lit corridor, the wheels squeaking like distant screams. The hospital was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional cough from a patient room or the hum of generators. Outside, the ambulance waited in the loading bay, its red and blue lights pulsing lazily in the tropical night. Rain began to fall, a sudden downpour that turned the asphalt into a slick mirror reflecting the city's chaos.

Inside the ambulance, as Jamal secured the gurney, Rina climbed into the driver's seat. "Where to?" she called back. "The police morgue downtown," Aria instructed from the doorway, handing over the paperwork. Budi lingered, whispering a prayer under his breath. As the doors closed, the body bag shifted slightly – imperceptibly – as if something inside stirred.

The drive through Jakarta's labyrinthine streets was uneventful at first. Traffic was light, the rain drumming on the roof like impatient fingers. Jamal sat in the back, scrolling through his phone, while Rina navigated the flooded roads. But then, a chill crept in, unrelated to the air conditioning. Jamal glanced at the body bag. "Hey, Rina, turn up the heat. It's freezing back here."

Rina adjusted the dial, but the cold persisted. Then came the scratching – faint, like nails on fabric. Jamal's eyes widened. "Stop the van!" he barked. Rina pulled over under a flickering streetlamp in a rundown neighborhood on the outskirts, where shanties huddled against modern high-rises. Jamal unzipped the bag just a fraction, peering in. The woman's eyes were still open, staring back with an unnatural gleam. "Impossible," he whispered. As he reached to close them, her hand twitched – or did it? He jerked back, heart racing.

"Rina, call the doc. Something's wrong." But Rina's phone had no signal; the rain had knocked out the towers, or so she thought. Unbeknownst to them, the curse had begun. The woman, in life, had been a victim of a powerful dukun's santet, hired by a jealous rival. Her death wasn't natural; it was a vessel for something darker, a spirit bound by black magic to exact revenge on all who touched her remains.

Back at the hospital, Aria couldn't shake the unease. He returned to his office, poring over old texts his grandmother had given him – books on Indonesian occult practices. Santet involved objects like needles or hair inserted into victims, causing agonizing death. But this... the tattoos suggested a "pembalasan" ritual, where the victim's soul becomes a vengeful entity, spreading the curse like a plague.

Budi, meanwhile, had gone home to his small apartment in the slums. As he lay in bed, he heard whispers in the dark – the same voice from the morgue. "Balas..." He sat up, sweating, and saw a shadow in the corner, shaped like a woman with long, flowing hair. He screamed, but no one heard.

In the ambulance, the situation escalated. The engine stalled as Rina tried to restart it. Jamal felt a hand on his shoulder – cold, bony. He spun around, but nothing was there. Then the body bag unzipped itself, the woman's body sitting up with a grotesque crack of bones. Her mouth opened, and a swarm of black insects poured out, buzzing with malevolent intent. Jamal swatted at them, but they burrowed into his skin, whispering curses in ancient tongues.

Rina pounded on the window, trapped in the front as the divider locked mysteriously. She watched in horror as Jamal convulsed, his body twisting unnaturally. The woman's eyes locked on hers through the glass, and Rina felt a sharp pain in her chest – as if invisible needles pierced her heart.

Miles away, Aria's phone finally rang – it was the police, but not about the body. Reports of strange deaths were flooding in: a nurse who had prepped the body earlier had collapsed, foaming at the mouth. Aria realized the curse was spreading. He grabbed his keys, racing to his car, but as he drove through the rain-slicked streets, shadows danced in his rearview mirror.

The night deepened, and the black magic wove its web, pulling in unsuspecting souls. In a nearby kampung, an old dukun sensed the disturbance. He lit incense in his hut, muttering incantations, but even he felt the power – too strong, too ancient. This wasn't ordinary santet; it was a leak unbound, a demon freed from its mortal cage.

As Part 1 drew to a close, the ambulance sat abandoned, its lights flashing erratically. Inside, Jamal lay still, his body covered in writhing tattoos that mirrored the woman's. Rina slumped over the wheel, her last breath escaping as a whisper: "Balas." And the body? It was gone, vanished into the storm, seeking more victims in the heart of Indonesia's haunted night.

Shadows of the Kampung:

The rain had turned Jakarta into a watery labyrinth, streets flooding with the detritus of urban life – plastic bags, street food wrappers, and the occasional rat scurrying for higher ground. Aria Santoso sped through it all, his old Toyota splashing through puddles as he headed toward the last known location of the ambulance, pinged via GPS before the signal died. His mind raced with fragments of folklore: the leak, a witch who could detach her head and fly, organs dangling, feeding on the blood of the living. But this curse felt more insidious, like a viral santet, jumping from touch to touch.

He arrived at the stalled ambulance under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The doors were ajar, rain pooling inside. Jamal's body lay twisted in the back, skin etched with glowing tattoos that pulsed like veins. Rina was in the front, her face contorted in agony, eyes milky white. No sign of the woman's corpse. Aria donned gloves from his kit, heart hammering, and checked for pulses – none. As he examined Jamal, a whisper slithered into his ear: "Kamu selanjutnya" – you're next.

Shaking it off, Aria called the authorities, but his phone crackled with static, voices distorted into demonic laughter. He fled the scene, driving deeper into the kampung, the informal settlements where superstition thrived. He needed help from someone who understood the occult: Pak Hadi, an elderly dukun his grandmother once trusted. Pak Hadi lived in a bamboo hut on the edge of the Ciliwung River, surrounded by offerings to the spirits – rice, flowers, and incense.

As Aria navigated the narrow alleys, shadows seemed to follow him, lengthening unnaturally. In one alley, he passed a group of street vendors closing up; one old woman eyed him knowingly. "Hati-hati, Dokter. Roh itu haus darah," she warned – careful, Doctor, that spirit thirsts for blood.

Pak Hadi's hut was lit by flickering candles when Aria arrived, pounding on the door. The old man, wrinkled and clad in a sarong, opened it with a grave nod. "I knew you'd come. The leak has awakened." Inside, the air was thick with smoke from burning herbs. Pak Hadi consulted his keris, a wavy dagger said to hold spiritual power, and performed a ritual, chanting in Old Javanese. Visions came to him: the woman, named Siti, had been a dancer in a seedy club, cursed by a rival who hired a black dukun from Bali. The curse bound a powerful spirit to her body, turning her death into a gateway for vengeance. Anyone who touched her would spread the plague, dying horribly as the spirit claimed their souls.

"But how to stop it?" Aria pleaded. Pak Hadi shook his head. "You must find the source – the dukun who cast it. Destroy the effigy he used. But beware, the spirit hunts now."

Meanwhile, in the hospital, chaos erupted. Budi, who had fled home earlier, returned in a panic, raving about shadows. But as he entered the morgue to retrieve his forgotten phone, the lights flickered out. In the darkness, he felt cold hands around his neck. He clawed at invisible fingers, gasping, until his body went limp, tattoos blooming across his skin like bruises.

The curse rippled outward. The nurse who had prepped Siti's body, a middle-aged woman named Lina, was at home with her family. She felt a sudden fever, then convulsions. Her husband called an ambulance – ironically, from the same service. By the time paramedics arrived, Lina was dead, but not before whispering "balas" to her children. The kids, terrified, touched her body in grief, sealing their fate.

Back in the kampung, Aria and Pak Hadi set out to trace the dukun. Clues from Siti's tattoos pointed to Bali, but that was too far; the caster must have a proxy in Jakarta. They visited a night market where occult items were sold under the table – amulets, potions, and cursed dolls. A shady vendor, sensing their desperation, whispered of a man named Wayan, a Balinese exile living in the slums, known for santet commissions.

As they trekked to Wayan's lair, the night grew oppressive. Thunder rumbled, and in the distance, screams echoed – more victims? Aria's skin prickled; he swore he saw Siti's headless form gliding between buildings, her entrails trailing like smoke. Pak Hadi brandished his keris, muttering protections, but even he faltered when a swarm of insects – the same from the ambulance – attacked. They burrowed into his arm, and he screamed, slicing them away with the dagger.

Wayan's shack was a fortress of wards: chicken bones hung from the door, blood-smeared symbols on the walls. They burst in, finding the dukun in a trance, surrounded by candles and a clay effigy of Siti, pierced with needles. Wayan laughed maniacally. "Too late! The leak is free. She'll consume all!"

A fight ensued. Aria grabbed the effigy, smashing it, but Wayan lunged with a poisoned blade. Pak Hadi intervened, stabbing Wayan with the keris. The dukun collapsed, but as he died, he chanted a final curse, amplifying the spirit's power. The room shook, shadows coalescing into Siti's form – not just a ghost, but a horde of vengeful spirits unleashed by the black magic.

Aria and Pak Hadi escaped as the shack imploded in supernatural flames. But the curse wasn't broken; destroying the effigy had only angered the leak. Now, it targeted them directly. As they ran through the flooded streets, Aria's vision blurred – needles in his veins, invisible but agonizing. Pak Hadi collapsed, his body twisting as tattoos erupted.

Aria made it to his car, driving wildly back to the hospital, hoping science could counter the occult. But en route, he passed scenes of horror: bodies in the streets, victims of the spreading curse, their skins marked, eyes vacant. The radio blared emergency broadcasts – unexplained deaths across the city, attributed to a mysterious epidemic.

At the hospital, Aria barricaded himself in his office, injecting himself with antidotes, but it was futile. Whispers filled the room: "Balas... balas..." He saw reflections in the window – Siti, multiplied, her heads floating, laughing.

In the kampung, Lina's family succumbed one by one, the children last, their tiny bodies contorting in agony. The paramedics who responded met the same fate, the curse leaping like a virus.

As dawn approached, Aria realized the end was near. The black magic had woven a net too tight, pulling in everyone connected – doctors, paramedics, families, even bystanders. He scribbled notes, a desperate warning, but his hand faltered as the pain intensified.

The spirits converged, the leak's power peaking in the gray light. Aria's last thought was of his grandmother's words: "Never disturb the dead." Then, darkness.

The Consuming Darkness:

Dawn broke over Jakarta like a reluctant veil, the sun struggling through the haze of smoke and rain. But for Aria Santoso, locked in his office at the hospital, light brought no solace. His body burned from within, as if molten lava coursed through his veins. The tattoos had appeared on his arms overnight – swirling scripts that glowed faintly, marking him as the next vessel for the leak's vengeance. He had tried everything: antibiotics, painkillers, even a makeshift exorcism using salt and prayers from his childhood. Nothing worked. The black magic was relentless, a force older than the city itself, rooted in Indonesia's animistic past where spirits demanded balance – or blood.

Outside, the hospital had become a tomb. Bodies lined the halls: nurses, doctors, patients who had merely brushed against the infected. The curse spread through touch, whisper, even gaze, turning the living into conduits for the undead. News outlets, oblivious to the supernatural, reported a "mysterious plague," urging quarantines. But no mask or barrier could stop santet.

Aria's phone buzzed – a miracle in the signal chaos. It was from an unknown number: "Come to the river. End it." The voice was Pak Hadi's, but distorted, as if spoken through water. Pak Hadi was dead, wasn't he? Aria had left him in the streets, convulsing. Yet hope flickered; perhaps the dukun had survived.

Staggering out, Aria drove to the Ciliwung River, the polluted artery snaking through the kampung. Bodies floated in the water – victims dumped or drawn there by the curse's pull. He found Pak Hadi's hut in ruins, charred from an unseen fire. Inside, the old man sat cross-legged, alive but changed: his eyes black voids, skin etched with tattoos. "The leak owns me now," Pak Hadi rasped. "But we can trap it – in the river, with a final ritual."

They gathered remnants: the shattered effigy pieces, holy water from a nearby mosque, and Pak Hadi's keris, now humming with dark energy. As they chanted by the riverbank, the water churned unnaturally, bubbles rising like screams. Siti's spirit manifested – a horde now, dozens of floating heads with trailing guts, their mouths gaping in eternal hunger. They dove at the men, teeth gnashing.

Aria swung the keris, slicing through ethereal forms, but each cut drained him. Pak Hadi hurled the effigy into the river, invoking gods and ancestors. For a moment, the spirits recoiled, sucked toward the water. But the curse fought back; needles pierced Aria's flesh invisibly, dropping him to his knees.

Flashbacks assaulted him: Siti's life, glimpsed through the magic – a innocent dancer betrayed, her rival's jealousy unleashing hell. The black dukun Wayan had underestimated the power; his spell had summoned not one spirit, but a legion from the underworld.

The ritual climaxed. Pak Hadi stabbed himself with the keris, offering his body as bait. "Take me!" he screamed. The leaks swarmed him, tearing his soul apart. Aria, seizing the moment, pushed the dukun's body into the river. The water boiled, spirits howling as they were dragged under.

But victory was illusion. As the river calmed, Aria felt the curse surge within him – the leaks had transferred, using him as the final host. He stumbled back to the city, the tattoos spreading across his chest, whispering commands: spread, consume, balas.

The epidemic exploded. In homes, offices, markets – anyone who had crossed paths with the chain died horribly. The street vendor who warned Aria clutched her throat, collapsing amid her wares. Lina's neighbors, drawn by screams, touched the bodies and sealed their doom. Even the police investigating the ambulance met grisly ends: one officer shot himself after visions of floating heads; another dissolved into insects.

Government officials declared martial law, but soldiers sent to quarantine fell victim, their weapons useless against ghosts. In Bali, distant dukun sensed the catastrophe, attempting counter-rituals, but the leak's power had grown exponential, feeding on each death.

Aria, the last aware, returned to the morgue – ground zero. Bodies everywhere, including Budi's, Jamal's, Rina's. He lay on the slab where it began, waiting. Whispers filled the room: the leaks' chorus, promising oblivion.

In his final moments, Aria understood: black magic demanded total revenge. No survivors. As his heart stopped, the spirits erupted, blanketing Jakarta in darkness. The city fell silent, every soul claimed – doctors, families, strangers – all dead, their bodies marked, eyes open in eternal scream.

Indonesia mourned from afar, but the curse lingered, waiting for the next touch.

The End

Akifa,

The Author.