Chapter 2: The Hidden Guardian
The moment Ardian stepped inside Mr. Santosa's house, he was greeted by a cozy and humble interior. Not too large, not too cramped—just enough to feel lived in. A long brown sofa and a signature teakwood coffee table hinted that this was the living room.
Along the walls, wedding portraits of Mr. Santosa and family photos lined the space. Inside a glass cabinet, various trophies and certificates caught Ardian's eye. He leaned in to take a closer look.
"First place in a Qur'anic recitation contest for the entire district? Dang, his daughter's impressive," Ardian muttered, admiring a photo of Mr. Santosa's daughter proudly holding a massive trophy. "Respect."
He wandered forward, then paused mid-step, mumbling to himself, "Sheesh, what am I doing? Wandering around someone's house like it's a museum. Chill, bro, you're a guest here, remember?"
Compared to the haunted places he'd been to—cold, suffocating, and dripping with dread—this house felt surprisingly warm and peaceful. That alone raised red flags in Ardian's mind. It wasn't normal. In fact, the overwhelming sense of positive energy in the air made him uneasy.
He concluded that the Santosa family must be a good, harmonious household. Likely devout, respectful, and tight-knit. That kind of environment would naturally attract benevolent energy and repel dark forces.
And yet… something was off.
If the house was so full of positive energy, why had there been reports of spiritual disturbances?
That question lingered as Ardian walked deeper into the house. He stopped in the hallway—a T-shaped corridor connecting the living room, kitchen, and family room. Right at the junction, his body froze. He dropped to one knee and pressed his palm against the floor.
"There it is. No wonder every other spiritualist missed this point," he whispered. "It's tiny... like finding a needle in a haystack."
What he sensed was a minuscule pocket of negative energy—barely the size of a sewing needle—hidden amidst the sea of positivity. But Ardian's trained senses had picked it up.
Using his inner sight, he pierced through the layers of the house. There, twelve meters beneath the floor, he saw it: a steel spike driven into the earth. His brows furrowed at the arcane symbols inscribed on it.
"Wait a sec... Isn't that Sanskrit? And... ancient Sanskrit at that."
He shook his head. What he was seeing was a Buhul—a mystical anchor, often used in ancient magic to tether spirits to a location. The practice dated as far back as Babylonian times, with purposes ranging from protection to malevolent binding.
In this case, the Buhul seemed to serve as a guardian ward, meant to imprison a spiritual entity and protect valuable possessions. The use of Sanskrit—a language linked to old Indonesian old kingdoms—suggested this artifact was planted centuries ago.
Possibly between the 12th and 15th centuries, during the height of Hindu-Buddhist influence in the archipelago.
How could Ardian tell? The mantra.
Mantras are powerful incantations that channel energy—both good and evil. Some are rhythmic, poetic; often used by shamans, mystics, and spirit mediums. While most mantras Ardian encountered were in local dialects or Arabic-based script, the one embedded in this Buhul was unmistakably ancient Sanskrit.
That meant this object—and the spirit bound to it—could be over 700 years old.
Which, in turn, meant he wasn't dealing with an ordinary ghost.
As Ardian sat silently, still attuned to the energy of the Buhul, a chill crept down his spine. His body tensed. That could only mean one thing.
The spirit was near.
He turned 180 degrees slowly.
"Peekaboo."
Standing inches from his face was a woman. Her long, tangled black hair clung to her face. Her pale, peeling skin, bloodstained white gown, and glowing red eyes would've made anyone else scream in terror. Her mouth was torn open from cheek to cheek.
But Ardian didn't flinch. His face remained blank.
"BOO!"
The spirit shrieked and let her unnaturally long tongue unravel all the way to the floor. Still, Ardian didn't budge.
"C'mon, man! Nothing? Not even a twitch?" the ghost waved her hand in front of Ardian's face, confused. She inhaled, ready for another scream.
Smack!
"Ow! What the hell?! Why did you just slap me?!" she yelped, rubbing her cheek.
Ardian pinched his nose and muttered, "God, your breath reeks of rot. Ever heard of mouthwash? Or maybe ghost flowers as perfume?"
The spirit recoiled, glaring. "How dare you, foul human!"
Thud!
With a calm motion, Ardian delivered a swift kick to her midsection, sending her crumpling to the ground.
"WAAAH! That's so mean! How could you hit a poor, helpless woman like me?" she sobbed dramatically.
To anyone else, her whimpering might've been eerie. But Ardian just sighed and approached her casually.
"Yeah, well, maybe don't jump-scare strangers next time. Reflexes, you know, sometimes could surpasses the speed of sound." he said as he passed by her.
"Sniff..."
"Don't cry. Geez. What kind of ghost are you—crying over a slap? Come on, sit down. I wanna talk."
The ghost slowly faded into a mist before reappearing on the living room couch, sulking. Ardian was already seated across from her.
She sat down reluctantly, still rubbing her cheek and stomach.
"Ow... It's swollen. My makeup's ruined," she whined.
"Stop whining, or I'll smack you again."
"Yeesh, what a temper," she muttered, still pouting.
"You started it. Lucky I didn't kick you with my newly boots."
"You're rude, you know that?"
Ardian waited for her to calm down. When the tears finally stopped, he leaned forward.
"So... do you have a name?"
"Hmph. Not with that tone. Ever heard of manners?"
He sighed. "Heh, ghost's talking about manners. Fine. Sorry, Miss Beautiful Spirit. May I ask your name?"
The ghost beamed, pleased with the change in tone. "See? That wasn't so hard. But... I've forgotten. It's been too long."
"Great," Ardian muttered. "So what should I call you, 'Hey You'? 'Ghost Lady'?"
"Tell you what—you name me."
Ardian raised a brow. "Alright then... How about... Kinanti? Miss Kinanti?"
The ghost paused, as if testing the name on her tongue. She nodded repeatedly.
"Nice. Sounds like a name of a traditional beautiful woman. Sweet and elegant. I like it. Hehehehehehe!"
Ardian immediately grabbed a rolled-up newspaper and threw it at her head.
Thump!
"Ow! What was that for?!"
"Don't laugh like that! You'll give people nightmares!"
"It was a happy laugh! Come on, man!" she pouted, rubbing her head.
"Say one more thing and I swear this flower vase goes next," Ardian threatened, grabbing the nearest object.
"Whoa whoa—peace! Just joking, bro!" she shouted, quickly flashing a peace sign—after almost flipping him off by mistake.
"Are you trying to get haunted for real?"
Kinanti grinned cheekily. "You need to chill, bro. Take life easy— don't be so uptight."
"You're already dead."
"Yeah, in your world. In mine, I'm still kicking. Doesn't matter who gives the advice—it's the truth that counts."
"Tch. Fair enough," Ardian grunted, setting the vase down.
Then, Kinanti's tone changed. Her playful smile faded into a flat, cautious stare.
"You're here to get rid of me, aren't you?"
That was a reaction Ardian expected. Spirits usually became defensive or aggressive the moment someone mentioned exorcism.
But from what the Santosa family had described, Kinanti hadn't shown any real intent to harm. If anything, her appearances had been rare and accidental.
Even now, Ardian felt no real malice from her.
"Mr. Santosa and his family are feeling uneasy. I'm here to talk, not to banish you," Ardian explained. "I want a solution that's fair for everyone. So tell me—what's your real reason for staying here?"
Kinanti exhaled softly. Then came a smile—not eerie or sinister, but gentle. Pure. Sincere.
"I'm here to protect this family."
Ardian blinked.
There was no hatred in her eyes. No thirst for revenge. Only purpose.
And it was that truth that would take this mystery down an unexpected path.