The Price of Curiosity:
Five years had passed since the massacre of the Ali family. The once-glittering mansion was now a skeleton of its former self, overgrown with thick vines that looked like strangling veins. Local villagers in Indonesia spoke of it only in whispers, calling it "Rumah Darah"—The House of Blood. They claimed that on nights when the moon was thin, the sound of coins clinking could be heard over the screams of a woman.
The Outsider:
Enter Arjun, a cynical paranormal investigator and journalist from Jakarta. He didn't believe in Djinns or ancient pacts. To him, the story of Shejuti was a cautionary tale turned into an urban legend. Armed with a high-tech camera and a voice recorder, he arrived at the gates of the mansion at dusk.
As he stepped onto the porch, he saw an old man sitting in a rusted chair. It was Yusuf Ali, or what was left of him. Yusuf's skin looked like parchment, and his eyes were milky white. He didn't speak; he only pointed a trembling finger toward the heavy oak doors.
The Room of Golden Echoes:
Arjun entered, his flashlight cutting through the thick dust. He made his way to the infamous room. When he pushed the door open, his breath hitched. The 7.5 billion IDR was still there, but it didn't look like paper anymore. The stacks of cash had turned into a dark, metallic red, glowing faintly in the dark.
He stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Suddenly, his voice recorder turned on by itself. Instead of his own voice, a raspy, feminine whisper filled the room: "Do you want to be rich, Arjun? Or do you want to be remembered?"
The Apparition:
From the shadows behind the mountain of money, a figure emerged. It was Shejuti, but she was no longer human. Her body was translucent, wrapped in thousands of meters of black thread that pulsed like a heartbeat. Where her eyes should have been, there were only glowing red embers.
"I gave my skin for this," the spirit of Shejuti hissed, her voice vibrating in Arjun's very bones. "I gave my family for this. Now, the Djinn demands interest. Ten years of luxury requires a century of sacrifice."
Arjun tried to run, but his feet were stuck. He looked down and gasped—the floor was no longer marble. It was a pool of thick, viscous blood, and hundreds of severed hands were reaching out from the crimson depths, holding bundles of cash toward him.
The Final Bargain:
The Djinn materialized behind Shejuti—a towering mass of smoke and teeth. He didn't want Arjun's life yet; he wanted his reach.
"Broadcast it," the Djinn commanded. "Tell the world of the gold that never ends. Invite them here. For every soul that enters these gates seeking wealth, I will grant you one more day of life."
Arjun felt a sharp sting on his wrist. He looked down to see a black thread weaving itself directly into his veins. He realized the horror: he wasn't there to solve a mystery; he was being recruited as the new "broker" for the Djinn.
As the sun rose, the villagers saw a strange sight. A young man walked out of the mansion, looking unharmed but with a vacant, terrifying smile. He picked up his camera and began to film, his voice echoing through the forest: "Come to the Yusuf Mansion. Prosperity awaits the brave."
The cycle of greed wasn't breaking—it was going global.