The full moon of the seventh lunar month hung pale and ashen in the sky, veiled by a haze that looked like smoke from burned joss paper. Rain had poured over the village of Ngoc Trach for three nights straight, flooding the rice paddies and submerging the dirt paths under murky, foul-smelling water. The scent of wet leaves, rotting earth, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air—like blood diluted in rain. People locked their doors after dinner, whispering behind bamboo walls, too afraid to step outside.
The death of little Lan, daughter of Madam Tu—found hanging from the ancient shrine—still lingered in the villagers' minds like a festering wound. The image of her twisted body beneath the sacred tree, eyes bulging and mouth frozen in a scream, haunted every mother in the village.
Inside her house, Granny Hoan huddled near the hearth, trembling. Her eyes were fixed on her son Dung, who lay on the wooden bed across the room. A thin blanket covered him, but his frame had grown gaunt, his cheeks sunken, and dark circles pooled beneath his eyelids. Even in sleep, his face twitched. Occasionally, his lips curled into a faint, eerie smile—a kind of smile she'd never seen before. Not a boy's smile. Something… quieter. More sinister.
Ever since Lan's death, Dung had changed. He no longer ate solid food, drinking only cold water. He didn't speak unless spoken to, and even then, his answers were vague, monotone. At night, he would sit by the window, staring into the darkness, eyes reflecting nothing but a void.
One night, Granny Hoan had awoken to find Dung standing barefoot in the yard, rain pouring down on him. But he wasn't wet. He stood still, eyes wide open, staring at the forest with a strange longing. When she called out, he turned to her and whispered:
"Ong is calling me back…"
Those words sliced through her like a dull blade.
That night, she lit three sticks of incense, fastened them to the oil lamp, and dressed in her tattered raincoat. She walked barefoot into the storm, each step a struggle through thick mud and swirling floodwater. Rain lashed her face like needles, but she felt nothing. Every step toward the shrine was a confession, a burden she'd buried for sixteen long years.
The old shrine rose from the hill like a stone tomb. The roof had long since caved in, the pillars warped and eaten by moss, but the altar inside remained pristine, untouched by time or weather. It was as if someone—or something—tended to it nightly.
And there it sat—the Ong Mon doll, dressed in crimson, hands clasped in prayer, head tilted slightly to the side. Its face was smooth and pale as bone, and its jet-black eyes shone with unnatural clarity. But tonight… its mouth had curled slightly upward, a faint, threadlike smile.
Granny Hoan dropped to her knees. Her forehead struck the cold stone floor three times before she spoke.
"Ong… I'm sorry. Sixteen years ago, I made a vow. I asked for a son… and I didn't repay. I was a coward. But please, don't take Dung. Let me pay instead. Take me."
A clack echoed from the back of the shrine. She turned. A clay urn had rolled from the shadows, cracked open at its base. Ash spilled onto the floor.
She crawled back instinctively.
The ash began to rise, swirling into the air as if carried by a wind that only the dead could feel. From within the gray mist, a face emerged—the face of a child. Eyeless. Noseless.
Only a gaping mouth that stretched from cheek to cheek, dripping blood.
"Give me the blood…"
"You promised to love me. You promised to raise me, to give me life. But you lied. You took me and forgot me."
Tears poured down Granny Hoan's face. Her sobs rattled in her chest.
"Please… spare Dung. Take me instead. Take my blood…"
The wind howled through the shrine. The lamp flame flickered and died. Everything plunged into darkness.
Then—laughter.
Children's laughter.
Not one child. Dozens. Hundreds. As if an entire graveyard of children beneath the earth had awoken at once. The sound clawed through the walls, scraped across her skin, echoed through her bones. It was shrill. Playful. Mad.
And then—silence.
When she opened her eyes, the Ong Mon doll was gone.
The next morning, villagers found Granny Hoan collapsed by a stream. Her skin was pale as rice paper, her hair had fallen out in clumps, and her mouth had torn open at the corners. Her tongue was bitten off. Blood stained her fingers, still sticky and red.
She survived—but could no longer speak.
As for Dung… no one saw him smile again. He wandered the house like a shadow. He stopped answering when called. His face grew blank, his skin pale. At night, neighbors saw him walking in circles around the house, carving symbols into his arms and using his blood to paint strange markings on the walls. Some nights, he filled the corners of his room with red-clothed dolls, sitting them upright as if holding vigil.
No one dared enter their yard. Children were forbidden to play near that end of the village. People whispered, prayed, and waited.
But no rule can keep darkness out.
On the next full moon, a little boy vanished. Only his sandals remained—and a trail of blood leading into the forest.
That same night, the village caretaker was found hanging from the rafters of the temple. His stiff body swung in silence, and carved into his forehead, with a blade or a nail, were two crude words:
"The Debt"
The smell of blood hung over the village like incense. People awoke to find red handprints—small ones, childlike—on their pillows, on their bellies, on the doors of their homes. One pregnant woman found a doll placed beside her bed. It had her baby's name sewn into its belly.
And beneath the shrine's altar… the Ong Mon doll had returned.
But this time, it had real hair. And a mouth.
And it was smiling.