Going on trips usually means visiting tourist spots. Crowded places. Packed with people carrying snacks, trying to find a shady spot to sit. Like a game of musical chairs from elementary school. But that time, I had a different experience.
I can’t remember the name of the place. Seriously. But does it really matter? What I remember is we were heading up from Semarang, climbing higher and higher into the mountains.
Slowly, we passed by rows of inns on both sides. I thought, “Ah, this must be a busy area.” But, as usual, assumptions are just another way humans practice being wrong.
We eventually arrived at a tourist spot that... well, wasn’t very crowded. Honestly, the whole plan was impulsive.
The decision to go here might’ve been made somewhere around the 17th hill. So, I turned to my family with the authority of a dad who pretends to know what he’s doing, and asked:
“Should we stay here, or go somewhere else?”
My kids, probably too lazy to argue, replied in unison, “Here’s fine, Dad. Let’s not go too far.”
And that was it. Decision made. I smiled to myself, thinking, “Life really is simple, as long as the final choice is ‘not too far.’”
I drove the car to the parking lot. Slowly. Like I was trying to understand the situation better by driving slower. It didn’t help.
Something felt odd. But I ignored it. Because that’s what dads do when they’re leading a family trip. Ignore things and hope for the best.
“This is probably an urban forest,” I thought. The place looked beautiful. There were slopes and gardens, neatly arranged like someone spent years making it look natural. Down there, I even saw a swimming pool.
But there was one strange thing.
It was so quiet. Not the good kind of quiet. More like the where-is-everyone kind of quiet.
I felt like I had entered my own private villa. Except I don’t own a villa. The only living souls I saw were two vendors who, of course, immediately offered me their goods.
I started to think, “This place is peaceful… too peaceful. Is it just nice, or is it haunted?”
The silence was loud. The only thing we could hear was the creaking sound of animals. Somewhere in the distance. Probably.
Honestly, the place wasn’t bad at all. It was still well-maintained, more or less.
There were some spots that looked like they were set up for souvenirs—little stalls with decorative plants. Cute, really.
But a thought crossed my mind: Why don’t people come here?
Was it too far? Too quiet? Or... was there something about this place? Something people knew, but I didn’t?
I shook my head. I wasn’t about to let my imagination ruin things.
“Let’s take some pictures first,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
We found a nice corner where the sunlight peeked through the trees just right. The kind of lighting that makes any picture look Instagram-worthy, even if the background is questionable.
My youngest struck her usual pose—hands on hips, one foot slightly forward. My eldest made that “peace sign near the face” move that only teenagers can pull off without looking ridiculous.
"Don’t strike weird poses," I said calmly. We all chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension from that eerie experience. We started taking photos more naturally, trying to shake off the awkwardness that still lingered.
For a moment, it didn’t matter where we were. It felt like the world belonged to just us.
We started to enjoy ourselves.
Gratitude crept in as a new sound reached us—the hum of a car engine. A car was pulling in. Visitors! Real, living, breathing humans.
I sat on the slope, looking down at the parking lot, curiosity piqued.
Out of a small red car stepped two middle-aged people. A man and a woman. They had the same look I probably had when I first arrived: that mix of mild fear, uncertainty, and what-did-we-just-walk-into?
I couldn’t help but chuckle. It felt like watching a rerun of my own arrival.
They hesitated for a moment, scanning their surroundings, then decided to explore—cautiously. You could tell they weren’t sure if this was a tourist spot or the backdrop for a horror film.
The woman whispered something to the man. From up here, I imagined she was saying, "Did we take a wrong turn? This doesn’t look like a tourist spot... it looks like a movie set from one of those supernatural shows.”
The man, of course, replied with that resigned nod men always give in these situations. The one that means: “I know. But we’re already here, so let’s just act like we’re supposed to be.”
And so, they wandered off, as unsure as we had been but trying to make the most of it.
From my vantage point, I gave them a silent salute. Welcome to the club, strangers.
They seemed to enjoy it—briefly. Just a little while.
From up here, I watched as they walked around, pointing at the plants, taking a few hesitant steps toward the quiet pond. They even paused for a moment at one of the oddly colorful swings.
But then, just as quickly as they came, they left.
I saw the man glance at his watch. Maybe an excuse, maybe a genuine reason. The woman gave one last look at the place, almost as if she wanted to like it but couldn’t quite convince herself.
They got back into their red car. And with the soft hum of the engine and a slow turn of the wheels, they were gone.
Leaving us behind, once again, as the sole inhabitants of this strange, silent place.
We finally decided to leave.
On the way home, sitting in the car, our laughter and conversations seemed livelier than anything we’d felt back at that place. It was odd—like the relief of leaving made us appreciate each other more.
The moral of the story? If you’re planning a trip, plan it properly. Spontaneity is great, but not when it lands you in what feels like a ghost town masquerading as a tourist spot.
Lesson learned: always check the reviews first. Or risk ending up in a “haunted” vacation adventure you didn’t sign up for!
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