Chapter 677

The fishing boats bobbed gently in the harbor of Tanjung Layar, their wooden hulls knocking softly against each other. Joko, a man seasoned by forty-one years of sun and sea, stood on the small pier, watching the early evening mist begin to creep in from the Java Sea.

It was not unusual for mist to roll in at dusk, but there was something different about this one. It possessed a density he had not witnessed before, an almost solid presence that swallowed the last rays of the setting sun with unnerving speed.

The air grew cool as the mist advanced, bringing with it an unfamiliar stillness. The usual sounds of the village – children playing, the distant chatter of vendors, the clanging of pots from cooking fires – seemed to soften, as if the mist itself was absorbing them.

Joko pulled his thin jacket tighter around him, a prickle of unease forming at the base of his neck. He had lived his entire life in this village, knew every nuance of its weather, but this mist felt alien, unwelcome.

As the mist thickened, a sound emerged, faint at first, almost subliminal. Joko paused, tilting his head, trying to place it. It was like… singing? A chorus of distant voices, carried on the wind, soft and melodic, yet strangely unsettling.

He dismissed it initially as the wind playing tricks, or perhaps some distant celebration he was not aware of. But the singing grew louder, clearer, weaving its way into the stillness, becoming impossible to ignore.

The villagers started to notice it too. Heads turned, conversations stilled. A group of women returning from the market stopped near Joko, their faces questioning.

"Do you hear that?" one of them whispered, her brow furrowed. Joko nodded, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. The singing was undeniably present now, a chorus of voices, beautiful in a way, but with an unnerving quality that sent a shiver down his spine.

It wasn't just singing, Joko realized as he listened more closely. It was speech, words carried on the melody, but unintelligible, as if in a language he had never encountered.

The voices were neither male nor female, young nor old, but a harmonious mix, creating a sound that was both enchanting and deeply disturbing.

The mist pressed closer, tendrils reaching into the village streets, wrapping around houses, blurring the familiar outlines of everything.

A dog began to howl, a long, mournful sound that seemed to echo the unease in Joko's own heart. Other dogs joined in, creating a wave of canine distress that amplified the growing tension.

People started retreating indoors, doors closing, windows shutting, the village drawing in on itself as if seeking protection from the encroaching mist and its haunting song. Joko hesitated, watching the mist swirl and thicken, the singing growing ever louder, now resonating through the very air.

He saw old man Pardi, known for his stubbornness and love for his evening stroll, venture out into the mist. Joko called out to him, but his aged voice was swallowed by the singing.

Pardi walked further, drawn as if by an unseen force, deeper into the opaque whiteness. Then, it happened. Pardi started to sing.

His voice, usually raspy and weak with age, rose in clear, melodic tones, joining the chorus of the mist. He swayed slightly, his eyes vacant, his face strangely serene, as he sang words Joko could not understand, in a voice that was not entirely his own. Joko watched in horror as Pardi continued to sing, his voice gaining strength, his movements becoming more fluid, almost dance-like.

Panic started to bubble up in Joko's chest. This was not natural. This was not just mist and wind. Something was terribly, fundamentally, wrong.

He backed away slowly, his eyes fixed on Pardi, who was now moving deeper into the mist, his song becoming a clear, strong strand in the ever-growing chorus.

Joko stumbled back into his small house, slamming the door shut, the sound muffled by the dense mist pressing against the village.

His wife, Sari, and their two children, ten-year-old Putra and eight-year-old Ratri, were huddled in the main room, their faces pale, their eyes wide with fear.

They had heard the singing too. "What is happening, Bapak?" Putra whispered, his voice trembling. Sari reached out, pulling both children closer to her, her expression a mask of worry. Joko could only shake his head, unable to articulate the dread that was consuming him.

He moved to the window, peering out cautiously through a small gap in the wooden shutters. The mist was everywhere, filling the streets, blanketing the houses, an ocean of white.

The singing was deafening now, a constant, pervasive sound that vibrated through the walls, through his very bones.

He could see glimpses of figures moving within the mist, villagers, he assumed, all singing, their voices adding to the eerie symphony.

A scream pierced through the singing, sharp and terrified, followed by a sudden silence in the chorus, then a resumption, stronger, louder than before. Joko recoiled from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the core, that this singing was not a celebration, but a death knell.

Something about the mist, something in its song, was taking people, consuming them, turning them into voices in its horrifying choir.

"We have to leave," Joko said, his voice hoarse, the words barely audible above the relentless singing. Sari looked at him, her eyes filled with despair. "Leave? Where can we go? The mist is everywhere." He knew she was right, but staying here felt like waiting for the inevitable.

"We have to try," he insisted, grabbing a small bag, stuffing it with some dried food and a water bottle. "Maybe if we get away from the village…" His voice trailed off, the futility of his plan becoming apparent even to him.

They opened the back door of their house cautiously, stepping out into a world transformed. The mist was like a physical entity, cold and damp against their skin, smelling faintly of salt and something else, something metallic and unsettling.

The singing was overwhelming, a wall of sound that pressed in on them from all sides. They moved slowly, Joko leading the way, Sari holding tightly to the children's hands, navigating blindly through the swirling whiteness.

They could hear other villagers singing nearby, some closer, some further away, their voices blending into the chorus, creating an eerie landscape of sound. Joko kept his head down, trying to focus on the ground, trying to find some familiar landmark, anything to guide them.

But the mist had erased everything, turning their village into a featureless, white void filled with haunting music.

They walked for what felt like hours, the singing never ceasing, the mist never thinning. Putra started to cough, his small body shaking.

Ratri whimpered, her grip on Sari's hand weakening. Joko knew they couldn't keep going like this, not in this dense mist, not with this relentless singing that seemed to seep into their minds, trying to claim them as it had claimed others.

They stumbled upon a small shrine, a simple stone structure dedicated to local spirits, almost hidden by the mist. Joko pulled his family towards it, seeking shelter, some kind of refuge from the oppressive fog.

They huddled inside the small alcove, the stone walls offering a slight protection from the wind and the dampness. The singing was still deafening, but here, within the shrine, it felt marginally less intense.

"We will rest here for a while," Joko said, trying to sound reassuring, though his own hope was dwindling rapidly. Sari nodded, her face drawn, exhaustion etched into her features.

The children were silent, their eyes wide and unfocused, listening to the unending song of the mist. Joko sat with his back against the cold stone, pulling Putra onto his lap, trying to shield him from the chill.

Time became meaningless, measured only by the relentless singing of the fog. Joko felt a strange lethargy creeping into his limbs, a desire to just give in, to stop fighting, to let the song take him. He fought against it, knowing he had to stay alert, to protect his family.

But the singing was insidious, weaving its way into his thoughts, softening his resolve, whispering promises of peace, of joining the beautiful chorus.

Putra started humming, a soft, tuneless sound at first, then gradually morphing into a melody, a melody that echoed the singing of the mist.

Joko's blood ran cold. He shook Putra gently, "Putra, stop. Don't sing." Putra looked at him, his eyes glazed, his face serene, a faint smile playing on his lips as he continued to hum, then to sing, his small voice joining the terrifying chorus.

Sari gasped, tears welling up in her eyes. She reached for Putra, trying to pull him close, but he seemed lost in his song, unresponsive to her touch, his voice growing stronger, clearer, more melodic with each passing moment.

Joko felt a crushing despair, a sense of utter helplessness. His son, his innocent child, was being taken by the mist, seduced by its deadly song.

Ratri started to sway, her eyes also losing their focus, a similar serene expression spreading across her face. She opened her mouth, and a soft, tentative melody escaped her lips, echoing Putra's song, echoing the mist.

Sari screamed, a raw, heartbroken sound that was swallowed by the overwhelming chorus. Joko watched in frozen horror as both his children, his beloved Putra and Ratri, were drawn into the fog's embrace, their voices rising in song, their bodies swaying as if in a trance.

Sari collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably, her world shattering around her. Joko knelt beside her, his own heart a leaden weight in his chest, his mind numb with grief and despair.

He looked at his children, their faces illuminated by an unseen light from within the mist, their voices blending seamlessly with the deadly chorus. They were singing, singing their way to their demise, their small lives consumed by the haunting melody of the fog.

Then, he felt it, a tickle in his throat, a strange urge to hum, to sing. The melody of the mist, the song of death, was reaching for him too, pulling him into its embrace. He fought it, tried to suppress it, but it was too strong, too pervasive.

The singing was everywhere, in the air, in the stone, in his very soul. He opened his mouth, and a sound escaped, a soft hum at first, then a melody, a song he didn't recognize, yet felt strangely familiar, like a forgotten part of himself being awakened.

He started to sing.

His voice joined the chorus, another strand in the terrifying symphony. He looked at Sari, her face streaked with tears, her eyes filled with a bottomless sorrow.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry, sorry he couldn't protect them, sorry he was leaving her too. But words wouldn't come, only song. He sang, his voice gaining strength, his body swaying, his eyes losing their focus, mirroring his children's vacant expressions.

He sang for his lost children, Putra and Ratri, their voices now fading into the vast chorus of the mist. He sang for Sari, his heart breaking with the knowledge of the desolation she would face, alone in a village consumed by a singing fog.

He sang for himself, for his life that was ending not with a bang, but with a haunting melody, fading into the mist, becoming just another voice in its unending, sorrowful song.

His song was a lament, a desperate cry against the unfairness of it all, a final, heartbreaking goodbye to a world that was slipping away, swallowed by the singing fog.

The mist claimed him fully, and his song joined the endless chorus, leaving Sari alone in the small shrine, the sole silent witness to the village's tragic end, her silence the only sound not claimed by the singing fog.