Chapter 691

The humid Cambodian air hung heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and something else, something faintly metallic and unsettling.

Sreylin wiped sweat from her brow, the afternoon sun beating down on her as she walked back from the market. The vibrant colors of the textiles she'd bartered for seemed duller than usual, the usual market clamor fading behind her.

A strange stillness had fallen over her village, Kampong Thom. The usual afternoon sounds of children's laughter and chickens squawking were absent, replaced by an unnerving quiet. Even the cicadas seemed to have silenced their drone.

A prickle of unease danced on Sreylin's skin, a feeling as unwelcome as a leech in the rice paddies.

She noticed it first in the edges of her vision, fleeting shadows that danced when she turned her head. At first, she dismissed them as tricks of the light, the intense sun playing games on her eyes. But they persisted, these momentary flickers, like something just out of sight, always at the periphery.

Her small wooden house came into view, perched on stilts as is custom, offering some respite from the damp earth. Normally, her grandmother would be sitting on the porch, weaving baskets or preparing the evening meal. Today, the porch was empty.

"Grandma?" Sreylin called out, her voice sounding too loud in the abnormal quiet. Silence answered her. She climbed the wooden steps, the familiar creak of the old wood sounding harsh in the stillness. The front door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning from within.

Her heart quickened its pace. Grandma was never careless with the door. She was meticulous about security, always locking up tight before the sun began to dip below the horizon. Sreylin pushed the door open wider, stepping into the cool dimness of the house.

The air inside was different too, heavier than the outside humidity, and carrying that same faint metallic tang she'd noticed earlier, now stronger, almost like the smell of old blood, but not quite. It was a scent that made her nostrils flare and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"Grandma?" she called again, her voice a little less steady this time. She moved further into the single room dwelling, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. Everything seemed normal, yet deeply wrong.

Her grandmother's weaving basket sat overturned on the floor, spools of thread scattered like fallen leaves. A clay pot lay shattered in the corner, shards of terracotta sharp against the bamboo matting.

This wasn't normal. Grandma was old, but steady-handed. She wouldn't just drop things and leave them in disarray. A cold knot formed in Sreylin's stomach. Fear, raw and primal, began to unfurl within her.

She moved cautiously through the house, checking the small sleeping alcove, the cooking area. Everything was undisturbed, except for the overturned basket and broken pot. There was no sign of her grandmother, no note, no indication of where she might have gone.

Sreylin stepped back out onto the porch, the sunlight momentarily blinding after the interior gloom. She scanned the village. Still quiet. Too quiet. It was as if everyone had vanished, leaving behind only an echoing silence.

She walked to her neighbor's house, a few houses down the dusty path. She called out, "Aunty Sophal? Uncle Vathana?" Only silence greeted her. She tried another house, and another. Each one the same. Empty. Unnaturally silent.

A creeping dread began to consume her, a sense that something terrible had happened here, something beyond her comprehension.

Returning to her own house, Sreylin sank onto the porch steps, the vibrant textiles slipping from her grasp onto the dusty wooden planks. The shadows seemed to lengthen around her, the afternoon sun now casting long, distorted shapes that danced and twisted with the breeze.

The air grew colder as the sun started to descend, the metallic smell becoming more pronounced, almost cloying.

A sound broke the silence then, a soft, wet slithering sound coming from the edge of the village, near the tree line that marked the boundary of the rice paddies.

It was a sound that made her skin crawl, something organic and unnatural, like a large snake dragging itself across damp earth, but wronger, somehow deeper and more resonant.

She stood up slowly, her heart pounding against her ribs. The slithering sound came again, closer this time. It was accompanied by a faint rustling in the undergrowth, as if something large was moving through the trees, breaking twigs and disturbing leaves.

Sreylin peered into the shadows of the tree line, her eyes straining to penetrate the deepening gloom. She saw nothing at first, only the dense foliage and the deepening twilight. Then, a flicker of movement, a shift in the shadows that was not caused by the wind.

She took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. Two points of light appeared in the darkness, faint at first, then growing brighter, like embers glowing in the gloom. They were eyes. But not animal eyes.

These were too large, too widely spaced, and they glowed with an unnatural luminescence, a sickly yellow light that seemed to pierce the shadows.

The slithering sound came again, closer still, and now she could hear other sounds too, soft clicking noises, like bones rubbing together, and a low, guttural humming that vibrated in the air, making her teeth ache.

Whatever was out there was approaching. And it was big.

Sreylin turned and ran, scrambling back into her house, slamming the door shut and fumbling with the wooden bolt, sliding it into place with trembling hands. She pressed her back against the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes wide with terror.

The slithering sound was right outside now, just beyond the thin wooden walls of her house. The clicking and humming were louder too, and she could hear heavy thuds against the ground, as if something massive was moving around her house, circling it.

A low moan emanated from outside, not human, not animal, but something in between, something that sounded like pain and hunger mixed together in a horrifying symphony. The metallic smell intensified, filling the small house, making her gag.

Then, a new sound, a scraping noise against the wooden walls, like claws dragging across the planks, testing their strength. Sreylin backed away from the door, moving into the center of the room, her eyes darting around, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was nothing. Just the overturned basket, the broken pot, and the deepening shadows.

The scraping stopped, replaced by a heavy silence that was more terrifying than any sound. She held her breath, straining to hear, to anticipate what was coming next. The silence stretched, growing taut with tension, until it felt like it would snap.

Suddenly, the door splintered. Not with a crash, but with a slow, deliberate ripping sound, as if immense force was being applied gradually, tearing the wood apart fiber by fiber. Sreylin screamed, a sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

The door gave way with a final groan, collapsing inwards, revealing the source of the sounds, the source of the terror. It filled the doorway, blocking out the last vestiges of twilight, a towering mass of shadow and form, vaguely humanoid, but distorted, wrong.

Its eyes, those glowing yellow eyes, fixed on her, burning into her soul. They were set in a head too large, too wide, with a mouth that stretched impossibly far, filled with rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth, glistening with a viscous fluid. Its skin was not skin, but something slick and chitinous, like a beetle's shell, but softer, pulsating faintly.

Long, thin limbs ended in clawed hands, each claw dripping with that same metallic-smelling fluid.

The humming sound emanated from its chest, a deep resonance that vibrated through her bones. And the smell, the metallic, blood-tinged scent, was overpowering now, emanating from the creature, from its very being.

It was one of the Bungbungbos. The stories whispered in hushed tones by the elders, tales meant to frighten children into obedience, tales she had never truly believed. Until now.

It moved, not walking, but sliding, gliding into the house with an unnatural grace, its bulk somehow fitting through the doorway. It towered over her, its shadow engulfing her completely. She could see details now, details that made her stomach churn. Its chitinous skin was not smooth, but covered in tiny barbs, like the hooks on a fishing line. And from its joints, thin tendrils writhed, probing the air, tasting her scent.

It spoke then, its voice a wet gurgle, a sound that seemed to tear at her eardrums, yet somehow, she understood the words. "Lost one." It was not a question, but a statement, a claim.

Sreylin tried to move, to run, but her legs were frozen, her body paralyzed by terror. She could only stare up at the creature, at its glowing eyes, at its gaping maw, at the dripping claws. She opened her mouth to scream again, but no sound came out.

The Bungbungbo reached out a clawed hand, its touch sending a shock of icy cold through her body. The tendrils from its joints wrapped around her arm, tightening their grip, like living ropes. She could feel them probing, searching, sinking into her skin.

"Hunger," the Bungbungbo gurgled again, the sound closer now, its face looming over hers, the metallic smell suffocating her. "Time to feed."

It lifted her easily, effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all. She was pulled off her feet, her head bumping against the low ceiling of the house. She could see the ripped doorway, the darkening sky beyond, the silent, empty village. No one was coming to help. No one was left to help.

The Bungbungbo carried her out of the house, gliding through the village, back towards the tree line, back towards the darkness. She struggled now, finally finding her voice, screaming, kicking, fighting with every ounce of strength she possessed. But it was useless. The Bungbungbo's grip was unbreakable, its power immense.

They reached the tree line, and the darkness deepened, becoming more than just shadows. It was a tangible thing, a void that seemed to suck in the light, the sound, the very air. As they entered the darkness, the world around Sreylin shifted.

The familiar scents of the village, of jasmine and damp earth, vanished, replaced by the overpowering metallic tang and a new smell, something ancient and musty, like decay and dust.

The ground beneath her feet changed too, no longer solid earth, but something spongy, yielding, like walking on rotting vegetation. The trees around her twisted into grotesque shapes, their branches reaching out like skeletal arms, their leaves shimmering with an unnatural luminescence.

She was no longer in Kampong Thom. She was somewhere else, somewhere between places, in the in-between dimensions, the realm of the Bungbungbos. The air here was cold, bone-chilling cold, and thin, making it hard to breathe.

The silence was profound, broken only by the wet slithering of the Bungbungbo's movement and her own ragged gasps.

They travelled deeper into this twisted realm, passing through corridors of shadow and tunnels of bone-like structures that pulsed with a faint, internal light. The air grew thicker, heavier, laden with the metallic smell, and now, another scent joined it, a sickly sweet odor, like overripe fruit, but corrupted, tainted.

She saw others then, figures in the gloom, indistinct shapes huddled in corners, chained to walls of pulsating flesh, their forms gaunt and wasted, their eyes empty. They were the Bungbungbo's previous meals, kept alive, kept fresh, for later consumption. They were husks of people, drained of life, waiting for oblivion.

The Bungbungbo stopped in a large cavern, the walls lined with shelves filled with bones, skulls, and other unidentifiable remains. In the center of the cavern, a pool of viscous, black liquid shimmered, reflecting the faint luminescence of the bone-like structures.

"Here," the Bungbungbo gurgled, setting her down on the edge of the pool. Her legs buckled, collapsing beneath her. She looked into the black liquid, its surface swirling, shifting, like a living thing. The sweet, corrupted smell emanated from it, making her stomach heave.

"Essence," the Bungbungbo explained, its voice echoing in the cavern. "Sustenance." It gestured towards the pool with a clawed hand. "Yours now."

Sreylin understood. This was it. This was where she would die. Not quickly, not cleanly, but slowly, painfully, drained of her essence, consumed by these interdimensional horrors. She looked around the cavern, at the bones, at the empty figures in the gloom, at the shimmering black pool. Despair washed over her, cold and suffocating.

She thought of her grandmother, gone, vanished, likely already consumed. She thought of her village, empty, silent, erased. She thought of her life, her dreams, her hopes, all ending here, in this grotesque place, at the hands of this monstrous creature.

Tears streamed down her face, hot against the chilling air. She closed her eyes, accepting her fate. There was no escape. There was no hope. There was only the Bungbungbo, its hunger, and the black, swirling pool of essence.

The last thing Sreylin felt was the Bungbungbo's claws piercing her skin, sinking deep, drawing her essence, her life, into the void. The last thing she heard was the wet gurgle of satisfaction as the Bungbungbo began to feed.

Her scream, silent and unheard in the in-between dimensions, was lost forever. Kampong Thom remained silent. Another village added to the whispers of forgotten places claimed by the hunger from beyond.