That night, the moon hung in the sky like a dead man's fingernail—thin, pale, and crooked. Black clouds churned above the mountain peaks, and a cold wind blew in from the old forest, carrying with it the heavy scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, and something fouler, sharper—the metallic stink of blood.
Ngoc Trach village was silent.
No dogs barked. No crickets sang.
Only the soft, endless patter of misty rain on thatched roofs, and now and then, a strange sound… like someone laughing — faintly, childishly — from behind the bamboo grove near the ruined shrine.
Granny Hoan woke up for the third time that night. The oil lamp on the altar flickered dimly. Her shadow danced and twitched along the bamboo walls, thin and distorted like a soulless corpse. Sweat soaked the back of her shirt, though the night air was icy cold.
She couldn't remember what she'd dreamed, only that when she woke, she could still feel it — a small hand, cold and lifeless, pressing against her chest.
Across the room, Dung — her son — lay curled up under a damp blanket. But he was not resting peacefully. His legs kicked like he was swimming through water, and though his eyes were shut, his lips moved soundlessly.
Sometimes, she swore she heard him laugh — a brittle, dry laugh that sounded like it came from the throat of a suffocating child.
Sixteen years ago, she had knelt in that shrine and offered her own blood to a wooden doll named Ong Mon, praying for a child. The village legend said any barren woman who dared to offer blood beneath the red moon would be gifted a son.
But the villagers also whispered:
"Gifts from Ong Mon are never free. And a vow made in blood must be paid in blood."
Three months after that night, Dung was born. Healthy. Handsome. And she never told a soul about what she had done. After all, she reasoned, maybe Ong Mon was just a tale to scare the old and the desperate.
The vow?
She tried to forget it.
Until a month ago, when little Lan — Madam Tu's daughter — was found hanging from the shrine's gate, her chest carved with three bloody slashes shaped like a doll.
And inside the shrine… the Ong Mon doll had returned, sitting clean and upright on the altar, though it had been thrown into the ravine thirty years ago.
Rumors spread.
Some said someone had made a new offering.
Others whispered that Ong was back to collect his due.
But no one was certain.
Except Granny Hoan — whose dreams turned to nightmares, and whose son Dung was growing stranger by the day.
That night, she saw him standing at the threshold of the house, naked and drenched. The rain fell hard, but his body was untouched by water. His eyes stared blankly into the dark woods beyond the gate, and when she called his name, he didn't turn.
He just smiled faintly, then murmured:
"Ong has come back, Mama… Ong is calling me home…"
The words felt like a blade dragged across her chest.
She rushed out and grabbed his hand. It was ice cold — not just from the rain, but the kind of cold that clings to things pulled from a grave.
And in that moment, just over his shoulder — in the open gate — she saw it:
A small figure in red, no taller than Dung, hair hanging long and wet, face hidden in shadow.
She stumbled back.
Lightning split the sky.
The figure vanished.
The next morning, Granny Hoan climbed to the shrine.
The sky hung low and heavy, and the forest held its breath. The narrow dirt path was slick with moss, every step treacherous. The wind whispered through the trees — not rustling, but speaking.
It sounded like children chanting, or… calling for their mothers.
The shrine sat rotting beneath a massive banyan tree, its roots like gnarled snakes clawing at the earth. She pushed open the wooden door.
The air inside reeked of old incense, dried blood, and something putrid.
In the dim light filtering through the broken roof, she saw it — the Ong Mon doll — sitting neatly on the altar.
Its hands were stained with blood.
And for the first time… it had real hair, long and matted, black and slick with rot.
Granny Hoan stepped closer and fell to her knees.
"Please… take me instead… don't take Dung. I'll repay the debt. I'll give blood. Just spare my son…"
Then, from the shadowy corner of the shrine, a clay urn burst open.
Ash exploded into the air.
And within that swirling cloud of gray dust… a face emerged.
The face of a child.
Eyeless. Noseless.
Only a mouth — split wide from cheek to cheek, blood dripping in slow, steady streams.
"You promised, Mama…
But you broke your word…
You must pay…"
Then came the laughter.
Not one child.
Hundreds.
The laughter echoed from the earth, from the altar, from behind the walls and under the floor. It rose like a tide, sharp and shrill, slicing through her skull. It was the laughter of something long dead and long buried, now wide awake.
And then — silence.
When she opened her eyes… the doll was gone.
They found her the next morning, collapsed at the shrine's gate, her eyes rolled back, her fingers clutched around a filthy, red-dressed doll.
She couldn't speak anymore.
And that night…
the Ong Mon doll was no longer on the altar.