When I first arrived in the rural province of Chachoengsao, eastern Thailand, the villagers welcomed me with hesitant smiles and firm warnings. "Don't go out after dark," they said. "And if you see a floating light, look away."
At first, I assumed they were being superstitious. I had heard of the infamous Krasue, a legend told in whispers across Southeast Asia. Described as a woman's floating head with glowing red eyes, trailing her bloody entrails behind, the Krasue is said to glide silently through the night, hunting for flesh, blood, or rotting meat.
But what I didn't expect was to meet someone who claimed to be cursed by it.
I stayed with a local teacher named Niran who offered me a room in his stilted house beside the rice paddies. His mother, an elderly woman named Mae Nim, sat quietly on the porch most days, staring into the distance, her lips whispering ancient prayers.
"She saw the Krasue when she was young," Niran told me one evening. "They say once you see it, it never forgets you."
The air in the village felt heavy, as if soaked in secrets. Chickens were locked in tight cages at night, and offerings of rice and flowers were left near banyan trees. The Krasue, they believed, was once a woman who practiced dark magic and, as punishment, was cursed to live an eternity of hunger.
I took notes, fascinated. Until I heard it myself.
It was past midnight when I awoke to the faint sound of sobbing outside. Thinking someone was hurt, I stepped out with my flashlight. The wind had stopped. The air was too still.
Then I saw it.
A faint orb of light, flickering in the distance, slowly drifting toward the trees. I followed it, drawn by curiosity and an unshakable pull. As I neared the banyan grove, my light flickered. The air turned ice-cold. And there, half-shrouded by mist, I saw her.
The head of a woman, her long black hair floating unnaturally, intestines dangling and dripping beneath her. Her eyes glowed like coals. Her mouth was twisted in agony.
I couldn't move. My legs locked. The Krasue hovered inches above the ground, then slowly turned her face toward me.
I ran.
The next morning, Niran found me collapsed near the paddy fields. I was feverish, shaking, and mumbling about floating heads. Mae Nim sat beside me, chanting old protective verses while placing a garland of lemongrass and salt around my neck.
"You followed the light," Niran said. "That was foolish."
I asked him what the Krasue wanted.
"She's hungry. She feeds on livestock, on waste... sometimes even on the dying. But if you lock eyes with her, she might follow you. And once she enters your dreams, she leaves a mark."
I spent three more nights in that house. Every night, I heard soft sobbing outside my window. Once, I awoke with a sharp pain in my ribs—like cold fingers had tried to pry them open. Mae Nim insisted on burning incense and sprinkling holy water near my bed.
On the fourth morning, she pressed a silver charm into my hand and whispered, "Leave now. She knows your scent."
I left Chachoengsao by bus. As the fields passed by, I dared a glance back. In the mist that hung low over the trees, I thought I saw a flash of red. Just two small, glowing eyes.
Urban legend or not, something lurks in those Thai forests. A curse born from grief, hunger, and ancient magic.
They say the Krasue appears to those who need to witness the fragility of life. She floats between worlds, feeding on what the living forget to honor: decay, death, and the silence of the night.
To be continued...