Ravi never believed in ghosts. He dismissed his grandmother's stories of the kuntilanak, the vengeful spirit of a woman who died in childbirth, as mere folklore meant to frighten children. But everything changed one fateful night in his remote village.

It was a moonless evening when Ravi, tired from a long day of work in the fields, decided to take a shortcut through the dense forest. The path was flanked by towering banyan trees, their gnarled roots weaving into the earth like skeletal fingers. His lantern flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows on the ground.

As he walked, a faint humming reached his ears. It was a hauntingly sweet melody, floating through the stillness of the night. Ravi froze. He strained his ears, trying to determine its source. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Curiosity, or perhaps a suppressed fear, pushed him forward. The tune grew louder, more mournful, as he approached a clearing. In the center stood a lone banyan tree, its roots twisting like a cage around an old, crumbling well.

That's when he saw her.

A figure, dressed in a tattered white gown, sat on one of the tree's thick roots. Her long, jet-black hair obscured her face, cascading down in waves like a dark waterfall. She was rocking gently, humming the sorrowful tune that had drawn him here.

"Miss?" Ravi called, his voice trembling. He regretted speaking the moment the word left his mouth.

The humming stopped.

The woman turned her head slowly toward him. Her hair parted to reveal a pale, bloodless face. Hollow eyes stared through him, her lips twisting into a grotesque smile. And then, a sound that chilled him to his very soul a low, guttural laugh rumbled from her throat.

Ravi stumbled backward, his heart hammering in his chest. The lantern slipped from his grasp, shattering on the ground and plunging the clearing into darkness. The laughter grew louder, echoing through the forest as if the trees themselves were mocking him.

He ran.

Branches clawed at his skin, and roots seemed to rise to trip him as he bolted through the forest. He dared not look back, but he could hear her no, feel her closing the distance. The air grew colder, and the laughter turned into a piercing wail that reverberated through his skull.

Suddenly, Ravi burst out of the forest and into the safety of the village. He collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath. Villagers gathered around him, their faces filled with concern as he babbled incoherently about the kuntilanak.

The village elder, a stooped old man with a grave expression, stepped forward. "You must have walked too close to the banyan tree by the old well," he said solemnly. "It is her domain. Few who see her ever return."

That night, Ravi lay awake in his hut, the haunting melody echoing in his mind. As he finally drifted into a fitful sleep, a whisper brushed against his ear.

"I'm not done with you yet."

The next morning, Ravi's hut was empty. The only sign of him was a faint trail of footprints leading back into the forest, ending at the banyan tree. The villagers whispered of his fate, but none dared to investigate. The kuntilanak had claimed another soul.

Days passed, and Ravi's disappearance weighed heavily on the village. Some whispered prayers for his soul, while others avoided the forest altogether. The village elder warned against seeking answers, but guilt gnawed at Meera, Ravi's younger sister. She couldn't accept that her brother was gone.

On the seventh night after his disappearance, Meera lit an oil lamp and prepared for a journey no one dared to take. The elder's warnings echoed in her mind, but her heart demanded answers. Armed with a small blade and a talisman blessed by the village shaman, she ventured into the forest.

The path was eerily silent. Even the usual chorus of crickets and frogs had gone still, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. Meera clutched the talisman tightly, its warmth a small comfort in the oppressive darkness.

As she neared the banyan tree, the air grew heavy, and an icy chill crept over her skin. The melody began soft at first, then louder, weaving through the trees like a predator stalking its prey. Meera gritted her teeth and pressed on, following the sound to the clearing.

The tree stood before her, its roots writhing in the faint light of her lamp. The well at its base seemed deeper than it should have been, as if it stretched into another world. Meera called out, her voice trembling. "Ravi! Are you here?"

The melody stopped.

For a moment, the clearing was deathly silent. Then, from the shadows of the tree, the kuntilanak emerged. Her hair shimmered like liquid obsidian, her pale face illuminated by an unnatural glow. She smiled a cruel, mocking grin and pointed a long, clawed finger at Meera.

"You dare to disturb me again?" the spirit hissed, her voice a twisted mix of a woman's sobs and a beast's growl.

Meera's courage faltered, but she refused to turn back. "What did you do to my brother?" she demanded, holding up the talisman as if it could shield her from the spirit's wrath.

The kuntilanak laughed, a chilling sound that made the air vibrate. "He called me, just as you have. And now, he is part of me."

The tree seemed to shudder, its roots tightening around the well. Meera's heart sank as she noticed something horrifying faces pressed against the bark, their expressions frozen in silent screams. Ravi's face was among them, his eyes wide with terror.

"No!" Meera screamed, lunging forward. She plunged the blade into the nearest root, hoping to sever whatever bond the spirit had with her brother. The kuntilanak shrieked, her form distorting into a mass of shadow and smoke.

"You cannot save him," the spirit howled. "But you can join him."

The ground beneath Meera's feet gave way, and she found herself tumbling into the well. Darkness enveloped her, and icy hands clawed at her from all sides. She fought desperately, clutching the talisman and muttering prayers under her breath.

Just as the last flicker of her strength began to fade, the talisman flared with a brilliant light. The shadows recoiled, and the kuntilanak screamed in agony. Meera felt herself being pulled upward, the light carrying her away from the suffocating darkness.

She awoke at the edge of the clearing, gasping for air. The banyan tree stood silent and still, its roots no longer writhing. Ravi's face was gone from the bark, as were the others.

Exhausted and heartbroken, Meera stumbled back to the village. She couldn't bring Ravi home, but she had freed his soul. The elder listened to her story with a grim expression and declared the forest forbidden.

From that day on, the villagers avoided the banyan tree. But on moonless nights, a faint melody could still be heard drifting through the forest a mournful reminder of the kuntilanak and the souls she had claimed.

And in the silence of her hut, Meera sometimes heard a whisper.

"Thank you... sister."