rom a young age, I was haunted by a recurring nightmare.

It started when I was six. My family brought me to my uncle's house in the highlands to attend the funeral of a little girl who had drowned in the river. That night, when I returned home, she began to appear in my dreams.

Every night.

I would see her standing silently on the riverbank — her body bloated, her skin a pale purple. Her eyes were wide open, and her arms and legs were still covered in scratches... like she had desperately tried to cling to something before the water claimed her.

Twelve years have passed.

And yet... she still comes.

That day, I found myself alone in an empty classroom. The air was heavy. Two shadows were still there: me and my friend Minh.

"Hey Mạnh, class is over. What are you planning to do after this?" he asked.

I paused for a moment before answering.

"I'll probably follow in my grandfather's footsteps. You know my dad's too spiritually weak to take it on, so Grandpa said I'm the one who has to carry it forward."

Minh frowned, then said something I rarely heard from him:

"You're serious? Even after all the nightmares you've had since you were a kid? And you still want to follow that path?"

I snapped.

"You want me to just let that girl haunt me forever?! I'm alive because my grandfather asked the spirits of our war-era ancestors to protect me. You think I'd still be here otherwise?!"

I must've sounded unhinged. Minh quickly put a hand on my shoulder.

"Alright, alright. I'm sorry. I'm just worried, okay? You're my best friend. That path... it takes a toll on people. Messes with your life in ways you can't undo."

I took a breath and forced a grin.

"Relax. You know what I'm made of. I can handle it."

Minh just shook his head, then we packed up and headed out of school.

Dusk had fallen.

I walked alone on a narrow dirt road, one I knew all too well. The path was uneven and scattered with old tire marks, a thin layer of dust clinging to everything. On both sides, towering bamboo stalks swayed gently in the wind. But tonight, the wind didn't whisper — it held its breath.

The last light of the day faded through the leaves, faint and cold. I pulled out my flashlight and switched it on, letting the beam cut through the dimming air.

Suddenly — Caw... Caw...

A hoarse, piercing cry echoed from the distance. Crows.

The sound shattered the quiet, and I froze. My eyes narrowed, staring into the dark where the noise had come from — but I saw nothing.

I knelt down, reached into my bag, and pulled out a bundle of incense. Lighting three sticks, I planted them into the earth and whispered:

"I'm sorry to disturb you, elders. Please allow me to pass. I didn't ask permission tonight — I was in a rush. I beg for your forgiveness."

The shortcut I took ran between the city and my hometown. Normally I'd avoid it at this hour, especially during the seventh lunar month — Ghost Month. But I was late, and I didn't want my family to worry.

Then I remembered what Grandpa always told me:

"If you're walking alone at night and something unnatural tries to block your path — you stop, apologize, and turn back. Especially on that shortcut. Understand?"

I once asked him:

"But why, Grandpa? That road's way faster. Besides, I've got you. Why should I be scared?"

He got angry.

"Even I'm scared of that road. You keep walking and you're walking straight into death."

A breeze blew past, jolting me out of my thoughts.

Then I saw it.

A figure — just ahead — retreating. Backwards. Step by step. Slow. Deliberate. Never turning around.

But when I blinked... it was gone.

Just the empty road. Dust still. Bamboo trembling slightly. No footprints. No one there.

I swallowed hard.

Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe the fading light was playing tricks on me.

But my body moved before my brain caught up. I began to step back.

One step.

Two steps.

Three.

I didn't turn around. I didn't know why. I just felt like I had to.

And then — a blast of wind hit me from behind. But it wasn't warm summer air. It was ice-cold, sharp as needles, slicing right into the back of my neck.

I froze.

The world around me seemed to collapse in on itself. The wind stopped. The trees stopped. Even sound stopped.

And then I knew: something was standing right behind me.

So close I could feel it breathing down my spine.

I couldn't breathe. My chest locked. It was as if something invisible had wrapped its fingers around my throat and was squeezing tighter... and tighter...

My mind went blank. My limbs went numb. It felt like something was trying to pull me out of my own body.

Then — click — a soft glow flickered on my chest.

My necklace.

A small silver talisman my mother had given me when I was little. The light from it pulsed weakly — like a final breath — but it was enough.

The world around me twitched.

The choking stopped. The cold vanished. The pressure lifted, like someone had torn a nightmare in half.

I dropped to my knees, gasping for air. My hands were trembling. My shirt clung to me, soaked with cold sweat. My heart pounded like a drum.

No more shadows. No more wind. No more presence.

Just the dust, the bamboo, the hot summer night.

Like nothing had happened.

I didn't wait.

I turned and ran — full speed, back the way I came. Each step was fueled by panic, by instinct, by something older than fear.

I didn't stop until I was out of the trees.

And as I ran, I muttered under my breath — until I finally shouted:

"Shit... That wasn't one of our ancestors. That was something else. Something nasty."