DaoistCFc4MX

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

I woke up with the taste of copper on my tongue and soil beneath my fingernails.

But the soles of my feet were muddy.

The light filtering through my curtains felt distorted—like sunlight refracted through deep water. Heavier. Slower.

One sentence stretched across the top:

> **"Go where the earth forgets its name."**

Beneath it, a burned-in drawing appeared on the page. Not ink. Not pencil. It looked scorched.

A banyan tree with roots stretching down like arms. Behind it, five shadows—faceless, only shapes. Below them, a cracked stone gate.

Tenganan. A place I had visited once, years ago. A village where time spiraled instead of marching forward. Something had always felt off there, like the wind didn't belong to this world.

I rented a motorbike and headed east.

The roads curled like the spine of something ancient. The helmet pressed tightly around my head, as if trying to stop me.

Tenganan was quiet. Tourists were gone. Locals gave silent nods but said nothing.

I found the gate near the edge of the village, tucked under a shadow of thick canopy.

Offerings sat at its base—dry, untouched.

The air was still. No birds. No wind.

> "Don't write what you see. Listen to it first."

Not a threat. Not even a warning. A gentle directive.

I walked deeper into the grove. The roots arched overhead like a tunnel. At the base of the largest banyan tree, five red cloths were tied.

One for each name I had remembered.

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

I reached out and touched the bark.

Then my vision shifted—not a blackout, not sleep—something between.

I stood in a clearing. The five girls were there.

Not ghosts. Not angry. Just waiting.

Meira was the first to speak. Her lips moved freely now:

> "You listened. That's why we found you."

> "We don't want revenge. We want memory."

Nyana looked at me with open eyes:

> "Write what matters. Not just us. The ones still buried."

Dewinta reached out, touched my hand. I felt her pulse echo through me.

> "They'll come. More than you expect. Give them names."

> "And when you forget yourself, remember us."

That night, back in my room, I checked my site.

> "I dreamed of a tree with red cloth. I saw my sister. She's been missing since 1998. Thank you."

> "Your story made me remember a girl we buried in silence. Her name was Sari. I never said it out loud. Until now."

> **"Some trees carry names. And some names carry the world."**

A new line appeared—one I didn't type:

> **"When the world forgets you, write yourself back in."**

The next chapter wouldn't be about me.

The ones without graves. The ones without records. The ones erased before their stories were born.

✅ *Rate, comment, and share. This story be

longs to more than just me. Somewhere out there, someone needs to be remembered.

The Remembered Path