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The Island That Sees Through You

*Genre: Supernatural Horror, Psychological Thriller, Travel Mystery*
*Setting: Ubud, Bali – Summer of 2023*

What if paradise sees your soul—and doesn’t let go?

I never believed in ghosts. Not seriously. Not until the summer of 2023, when burnout from my tech job in Singapore led me to book a last-minute solo retreat to Bali. The plan was simple: unplug, heal, reset. But the island had other plans. What began as a peaceful vacation in a secluded villa outside Ubud quickly spiraled into a spiritual descent I couldn’t escape from.

The villa was perfect—too perfect. Traditional Balinese design, surrounded by rice paddies, misty mornings, and ancient temples nearby. Every doorway adorned with daily offerings. Every night serenaded by distant gamelan music. For the first few days, I embraced it all. Meditation, yoga, local food, temple visits.

Then came the dreams.

A temple I hadn’t seen. A woman in white with her face half-covered in hair. A stare that pierced through the veil of sleep and left me frozen with fear. Whispers in a language I didn’t speak. Night after night, her presence grew stronger—until she crossed the threshold from dream into reality.

Mirrors fogged on their own. Statues turned. Shadows moved in corners untouched by light. And always, the smell of frangipani before something happened. The villa, once tranquil, felt like a mouth slowly closing around me. Every inch of the house watched. Every offering seemed like a warning I was too late to understand.

Locals avoided my gaze. Strangers placed offerings outside my room without a word. I visited a *balian*—a traditional Balinese healer—who told me, “You opened something. It saw you. Now it follows.” I wanted to laugh. But I couldn’t. Because deep down, I knew it was true.

The woman wasn't a ghost in the Western sense. She was something older. A *penunggu*—a watcher bound to the land, awakened by disrespect or recognition. And I had done both.

Through rituals, cryptic warnings, and a wooden idol with no eyes, I tried to make sense of the unraveling horror. I was told to let her "finish looking." But what does that mean when what she sees is you—your regrets, your secrets, your soul?

This isn’t just a ghost story.

It’s about the cost of being seen by something beyond comprehension. It’s about sacred land, and what happens when a tourist treats spirit like spectacle. It’s about the third eye opening not through meditation, but through fear.

The island gave me what I didn’t ask for.

And now, even after leaving Bali, the dreams haven’t stopped.

If you’ve ever felt something watching you just out of view\... if you’ve ever visited a sacred place and felt *changed* afterward... you might understand. You might have opened a door, too.

**“The Island That Sees Through You”** is a supernatural travel-horror novella written in a deeply immersive, personal style. A cross between *The Haunting of Hill House* and *Eat Pray Die*, this story takes readers on a slow-burn psychological descent through mysticism, madness, and a truth you cannot unsee.

Welcome to Bali.
She sees you now.

When Bali Opened My Third Eye

A week after Nyana vanished, I believed it was over.

I slept. I worked. I ate without tasting shadows. The silence in my room was just silence. The mirrors stopped holding their breath. Her presence, once thick as fog, had lifted like morning mist.

Not many. Just three at first. All anonymous.

**"Your website isn't just a story."**

**"I heard the prayer in my dream. What does it mean?"**

I hadn't shared the final part of her tale anywhere. Not online. Not aloud. Not even to myself. But someone—or something—had.

The first email came from a girl named Marissa in Perth. She said she stumbled across my site late at night. The moment the page loaded, she felt something "looking back through the screen."

> *"I couldn't sleep. There was humming outside my window. And a woman in white, standing in my backyard. Our dog didn't bark. It just sat there... watching her."*

Then Amir wrote from Kuala Lumpur.

> *"She said my voice was like hers. That I was close to where they buried the others."*

Were there more like Nyana? Or was she just the first to reach me?

That night, I stared into my mirror.

No incense. No rituals. Just me. And yet, something shifted.

My reflection blinked... a second too late.

Short hair. Red dress. Her mouth was sewn shut. She raised one hand, showing five fingers. Then a whisper came—five names:

**"Nyana. Meira. Laksmi. Tami. Dewinta."**

Different voices. Different places. But the same weight.

I collapsed. The mirror cracked. Blood trickled from my nose.

They weren't lying. They described things I hadn't told anyone—the fog, the chanting, the scent of frangipani. Their stories matched.

Then Marissa sent a voice recording.

**"Find the banyan gate where names are forgotten."**

I didn't tell anyone. This door had to be opened alone.

I walked past the markets, past the villa, into the jungle. The banyan tree stood as it always had—but heavier now. As if it, too, remembered.

Five new carvings were on the temple gate.

**"You're the one who opened it."**

I turned. A barefoot girl stood under the roots. Damp hair. Still eyes.

**"They've been waiting a long time."**

Back in my guesthouse, I opened my journal. The page was blank.

Until one word bled through the paper:

And now others wait—unfinished, unseen, but not forgotten.

✅ *If you're still listening... leave a rating, follow the story, and comment your thoughts. Because maybe this isn't just my story anymore. Maybe it's yours too.

The One Who Heard