HANTU POLONG - The Haunting of Kampung Penaga Putar by Dr Elmi Zulkarnain Osman

CHAPTER 1: THE INCREDIBLE TALE OF HANTU POLONG

Nestled within the heart of Malaysia, a tranquil village known as Kampung Penaga Putar in Jertih, Terengganu exuded an air of serenity and simplicity. The village was a tapestry of verdant landscapes, where lush rice paddies swayed in the breeze and traditional wooden homes stood as sentinels of a rich cultural heritage. The villagers were bound by a sense of unity, connected not only by blood but also by the collective memories of generations past.

Amid this idyllic setting, there lived a man named Tok Mail, a 65-year-old bomoh, a Malay shaman who had inherited a unique gift from his ancestors; the ability to bridge the gap between the physical world and the realm of spirits. Though his neighbours held a certain reverence for his skills, Tok Mail was no enigma to them; he was a vital thread in the fabric of their community.

While the village bustled with life during the day, its atmosphere transformed as the sun dipped below the horizon. That was when whispers of the supernatural, hushed conversations about ancient legends, and the aura of the mystical took centre stage. One legend, in particular, cast a lingering shadow over the minds of the villagers – the tale of Hantu Polong.

Hantu Polong is not merely a ghost but a malevolent spirit, a bottled imp born of dark rituals and malefic intent. Its origins were shrouded in darkness, a result of incantations recited over the blood of a murder victim, left undisturbed within a bottle for seven to fourteen days – as per ancient texts. The legend spoke of its creation as a being fuelled by anguish, anger, and a thirst for vengeance.

Kampung Penaga Putar's nights were often punctuated by tales whispered around festivities, of those who had encountered the malevolent spirit. Elders spun stories of inexplicable disturbances, of shadowy figures glimpsed fleetingly in moonlit groves, and of the chilling sensations that left the living paralysed with fear.

In this village where traditions and modernity coexisted harmoniously, the legend of Hantu Polong persisted. It was a legend that had seeped into the very soil of the land, its roots entwined with history and the realm beyond. And as the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the rice paddies and quiet streets, the village prepared to come face-to-face with an ancient force that had long remained dormant, awaiting its time to stir once more.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting a warm golden glow over the village. Amidst the tranquil beauty, a sense of unease lingered as Nizar hurried along the narrow pathways, his steps hurried and breath erratic. He reached the edge of the village, where the trees seemed to whisper secrets in the fading light.

Nizar's pulse raced as he recalled the events of the past few days. His discovery of an old bottle, half-buried beneath the roots of an ancient banyan tree, had initially seemed innocuous. With a sense of curiosity, he had taken the bottle home, unaware of the sinister force that lay within.

He arrived at a modest wooden house; its windows shuttered against the encroaching darkness. Taking a deep breath, Nizar pushed the door open and stepped inside, his heart pounding. As he recounted his story, the faces of his family members transformed from scepticism to concern.

"It's been happening, Mak," Nizar admitted to his mother, his voice quivering. "Strange noises, things moving on their own... And I've seen shadows, shadows that shouldn't be there."

His mother exchanged a worried glance with his father, their expressions reflecting a shared sense of anxiety. Nizar's younger siblings huddled close, their wide eyes reflecting the unease that had settled within the house.

"We've lived in this village all our lives," his father said, his voice soothing yet strained. "We know the stories. We've heard of Hantu Polong."

Nizar shivered at the mention of the vicious spirit's name. The legend of Hantu Polong had been a staple of childhood tales, a whispered warning to deter children from straying too far from their homes after dark. It was a legend that had become intertwined with his identity as a villager, something he had believed to be confined to the realm of stories.

"Perhaps it's just your imagination, Nizar," his mother suggested gently, a hint of scepticism in her voice.

Nizar's eyes widened as he recounted the incidents in detail – the chilling drafts that seemed to come from nowhere, the inexplicable movement of objects, and the feeling of being watched even in the solitude of his room.

His words seemed to weigh heavily in the room, casting a shadow that danced with the flickering flame of a solitary oil lamp. His mother exchanged a knowing glance with his father, their expressions shifting from scepticism to concern.

"We need to seek help," his father declared, his voice firm. "If there's a chance that Hantu Polong is involved, we cannot ignore it."

The decision was unanimous, and the following day saw Nizar standing before the door of Tok Mail's modest home. His heart raced as he knocked, his knuckles striking the wood in an irregular rhythm. He waited, his thoughts a swirl of uncertainty and hope.

The door creaked open, revealing Tok Mail's calm and welcoming demeanour. Nizar found himself recounting the series of unsettling events, his words spilling out in a mixture of urgency and trepidation.

Tok Mail listened, his gaze steady and thoughtful. As Nizar finished his tale, Tok Mail nodded in understanding, his expression conveying a mixture of empathy and purpose.

"You've done the right thing in seeking help," Tok Mail said, his voice a reassurance that carried a quiet strength. "Let us confront this together."

With those words, the path was set. The sense of foreboding that had gripped Nizar's heart found a counterbalance in the presence of Tok Mail, a figure who had dedicated his life to understanding and navigating the mysteries of the supernatural.

Nizar's journey, which had begun with curiosity and turned into apprehension, now held a glimmer of hope. As the two walked back towards Nizar's home, the moon began its ascent, casting a soft glow over the landscape. With each step, the weight of the village's legends and secrets seemed to press against their shoulders, creating a bond that transcended the tangible world.