Chapter 1: The Last Chant
No one was supposed to find Watu Ireng.
Even the locals of Banyuwangi spoke of it like an unwanted memory. A half-formed whisper passed between old men and cigarette smoke at roadside warungs:
> "Ojo kesasar nang kono. Watu Ireng dudu panggonan kanggo wong waras."
"Don't wander there. Watu Ireng is not a place for sane men."
It didn't appear on any official map. No government census ever acknowledged its existence. No GPS signal worked within ten kilometers of its edge. The jungle, dense and choking with centuries of silence, had swallowed it whole—leaving behind only rot, forgotten prayers, and the scent of burnt offerings that had once kept something at bay.
But he found it anyway.
He wasn't a fool. He wasn't a thrill-seeker looking for ghost stories or TikTok content. He was a man who had spent nearly two decades obsessed with the supernatural. Not the tourist-friendly kind. Not Bali's Instagrammable temples or commercialized wayang kulit puppet shows. He wanted the real thing. The terrifying, authentic mystery behind dukun ilmu hitam—black magic shamans.
> dukun ilmu hitam
black magic shaman
He had hunted whispers across Java like a dog chasing a scent. Dug through burned government archives, paid bribes to retired soldiers who once participated in occult crackdowns. He had broken into a condemned colonial asylum just to steal an old man's handwritten confession—sealed in salt, written in blood.
All roads led to Watu Ireng.
---
The Pilgrimage
He arrived just before dusk, walking alone along a barely visible footpath choked with thorned vines and whispering bamboo. His breath fogged the cooling air as insects screeched in the distance—like warnings he couldn't translate. His boots, caked in mud and moss, squelched with each step.
His backpack carried what no sane traveler would pack:
A black rooster's head, still twitching.
Old coins once used to pay a dukun santet.
> dukun santet
sorcerer specializing in lethal curses
A vial of his own semen and blood.
A page ripped from an ancient manuscript about soul tethering.
He passed roadside shrines hidden behind overgrowth—most smashed, a few still wet with something that glistened red in fading light. As he stepped into the village proper, he felt it: pressure. Like the air itself had turned heavier, thicker, more aware.
An old woman watched him from behind the lattice of her wooden shack. Her mouth gummed at a clove cigarette that had long stopped burning. Her eyes, cataract-white, didn't blink.
She raised her hand. Two fingers pointed upward. Not a greeting—a warning.
An old Javanese sign meaning: "You will not return."
He nodded. Respect, not fear.
Not for her. For what lived beneath the soil.
---
The Hut
At the far end of the village—past a half-collapsed mosque, its dome now a home for bats—he found the hut.
Hidden beneath a warped waru tree, its bark scorched black by lightning, the hut was a thing misplaced in time. The walls were made of woven gedek bamboo, rotting in places, but held together by strips of cloth embroidered with old rajah. The door was slightly ajar, marked in red ash.
> gedek
woven bamboo walls
rajah
mystical protective symbols
A wind passed. Not from the jungle—but from inside the hut.
He stepped in.
The air within was colder than outside, with a smell that clung to his skin: a mix of old incense, rotting flowers, and something metallic—blood, not rust. The floor was packed earth, drawn over with a massive ritual circle etched in white bone ash and black soot. He recognized the sigils. Some were from Javanese grimoires. Others were older—pre-Hindu, pre-Islam, maybe even pre-human.
Jars filled with yellowed teeth lined the walls. Hanging from the rafters were dozens of dried hands—some human, some not. A mirror faced the ritual space, but it didn't reflect him. Only the circle.
Everything was ready.
---
The Dukun's Legacy
This wasn't a guess. This wasn't fanfiction or fantasy.
He had spent years proving to himself that the supernatural was real. All the MCU films, with their gods and magic and aliens, were entertaining—but fiction. His reality was far older, and far crueler. And yet—it was his obsession. Even during the age of superheroes, he wanted the truth beneath the myths.
He wanted to touch it.
To stand where a legendary dukun vanished decades ago after opening a spiritual gate no one had dared approach since.
Not for power.
Not even for protection.
For proof.
And now, it was time.
---
The Ritual
He began by undressing, leaving only the tattoos across his body—rajah, copied from ancient palm leaves and ritual manuscripts. He kneeled before the ritual circle, surrounded by offerings:
A black chicken's head, severed moments ago.
A clay bowl filled with his own blood, spit, semen, and a single wisdom tooth.
A silver coin from Dutch colonial times, said to carry ancestral ties.
And a sealed letter. The wax bore no crest. Just a final message:
> "Jika aku mati, aku senang."
"If I die, I'll be at peace."
He struck the match. Lit the incense—a heavy resin that smoked thick and fast. Shadows shifted. The flame didn't flicker. It bent toward the center of the circle.
He dipped his finger in blood and completed the final sigil.
The circle hissed. A low groan echoed through the walls, though no wind stirred.
Then he began the chant:
> "Sing nyidam kawruh, marani pati...
Slametku mung sithik, nekatku sakabehe...
Buka lawang sing ketutup...
Aku arep weruh..."
"Craving knowledge, I walk toward death...
My safety is small, my recklessness complete...
Open the door that was shut...
I want to know..."
The temperature fell. His breath fogged. The mirror cracked.
He kept chanting. Blood seeped from the lines of the sigils. The oil lamp flickered.
Then, the voice.
Not heard—but inhaled. Felt inside his lungs, crawling up his spine.
> "Permintaan diterima. Pengorbananmu: hidupmu."
"Request accepted. Your sacrifice: your life."
His chest seized.
He smiled.
His eyes rolled back. His body shook once. Twice.
Then he slumped forward into the circle.
Everything went still.
The incense turned to ash. The bowl shattered. The mirror reflected no body—only eyes, watching.
And then…
…a breath.
Somewhere, far from Watu Ireng, in a place where neon lights flickered and rats ran through alleys—
—he woke up.