A Grave Scribe Tale: Fatal Fame

WRITER’S  NOTE: I am writing the introduction of this story as a homage to Tales from the Crypt with my Grave Scribe persona. Please enjoy!

…

A coffin creak is heard in the background.

“Ah… so you found me again, dear reader. ‘The Grave Scribe,’ keeper of secrets and chronicler of souls too restless to stay buried. Tonight, I open my tome to a tale from the humid heart of Malaysia. A tale of vanity, ambition, and blood.

A pop singer turned witch doctor.
A politician turned victim.
A ritual turned execution.

Oh yes… a modern-day witch trial!

Now, let her speak. Let Mona Fandey rise from her grave and tell you, in her own words, how the hunger for fame can devour far more than just your career.”

…

“I will not die.” Those were my last words. 

I knew from childhood, I was born to shine like Taylor Swift and the K-Pop idols who adorn your YouTube feed. They did not have YouTube in my time. All I ever wanted was to be adored. When I sang, people listened. When I smiled, the world tilted a little closer. Even though my husband gave up his savings to give me air time, the moguls of Malaysian media decided I was not good enough. 

Fame, it seemed, was a cruel lover. 

Unlike Affandi, my loyal husband. He was also my greatest believer. He told me I wasn’t meant to fade. “You have the gift,” he said, “If the world won’t give you power, take it.”

After much discussion, we both decided to take up magic. We would make people’s dreams come true since many believed in unseen forces. Some might call it black magic, but it was hope and power for me, Affandi, and our assistant, Juraimi. His ingratitude would lead to our inevitable fall, and I still don’t know if I should curse him or thank him. I still remember smiling for the cameras while being escorted out of the courthouse and thinking I should strangle him, but maybe it was also another chance for fame, so I just took the chance and smiled. I knew I was born for fame; I did what came naturally. But, I digress. 

My clients came from every corner and dark hollow of society: businessmen, socialites, politicians—all desperate for something they couldn’t earn.

That’s when Datuk Mazlan Idris came to me.

A man of ambition, burning so brightly he couldn’t see the shadows closing in. He wanted power. Minister of State, he said. He wanted more. And he could have it, what I could never attain. The people’s praise and respect. I decided that men like him should never outshine me. 

That’s why I told Affandi to give him the axe. “Power to the people,” I say! “Death to tyrants!”

He came with money — lots of it. 2.5 million ringgit was my quote. He did not pay me the full amount upfront – the nerve of him. But a deal is a deal, and he gave enough for my plastic surgery and new car later on. 

I offered him two talismans: a cane and a songkok, once belonging — so I told him — to Sukarno, the first President of Indonesia. “With these,” I said, “you will be invincible.”

He believed me. They always do.

That night, the air was heavy with the cloying fragrance of incense, burnt at the site of our patron’s home. My husband, Affandi, and our helper, Juraimi, prepared the room and the means of disposing of our victim later on. I told Mazlan to lie face down, close his eyes, and trust in the magic of the ritual so money would come to him out of thin air in droves he couldn’t dream of — the fool! 

He smiled at the prospect.
Oh, how easily men trust when ambition blinds them.

I placed petals over his body and whispered blessings. He thought fortune was about to rain from the heavens. Instead, Juraimi’s axe fell thrice.

Three swings.
Three echoes.
Then silence.

We dismembered him, piece by piece, like a broken promise. I told myself it was art. A ritual of power. A step toward the immortality fame had denied me.

But you know what’s strange? The moment the blood touched my hands, I felt alive again. Not as a pop star. Not as a has-been. But as someone seen. I was finally unforgettable. I could have tasted his blood, but not with my husband watching of course. 

When the police caught us, I smiled for the cameras. They clicked and flashed, and I gave them what they wanted — a star reborn in scandal. My name was everywhere. Mona Fandey. The witch. The murderer. The legend.

And when the judge read my sentence — death by hanging — I didn’t tremble. I only smiled wider.

“Aku takkan mati,” I told them.
I will not die.

And, perhaps, I haven’t.

When they pulled the lever, I didn’t scream. I thought of lights, of applause,  of my name echoing in eternity. I got what I wanted; all it took was a sacrifice. All of the greats did so for their art, and I am their peer. 

And now… I’m here.

Whispering through time, through screens, through stories.

You think this is just a tale of horror, dear reader?
No. It’s a mirror.

You scroll, you post, you crave followers and fame.
You’d trade pieces of yourself just to be seen.

Be careful what you chase.
Because vanity never dies.

And neither did I.

…

The Grave Scribe closes the tome with a slow grin.

“Sleep well, my wicked friend. And if you hear a dark song in the shadows, don’t look back. It might just be Mona, craving another chance to perform.”