Episode 6

Mr. RT opened his door, annoyed by the persistent, aggressive knocking that had interrupted his television time. The lack of courtesy was appalling. However, his annoyance evaporated into shock as he flung the door open.

Razi stood there, panting, his face a mask of terror. He practically fell into the house, urging Mr. RT to slam the door shut, lest whatever chased him followed them inside. Razi was clearly petrified; he had just seen Sukma's ghost, a horrifying apparition that chilled him to the bone.

Without asking, Razi grabbed some tissues from Mr. RT's table to dab at the blood dripping from his leg. Mr. RT observed the landlord's son with concern; his entire body trembled, his fear palpable even from behind.

"Zi? What happened? Calm down!" Mr. RT placed a reassuring hand on Razi's shuddering shoulder.

"Sir! My sister… she's a ghost now, sir!" Razi stammered, his face ashen.

"What are you talking about?" Mr. RT exclaimed, his own anxiety rising; he had feared this would happen.

"I swear, by Allah, I saw her, Sukma just came to me." Razi gripped Mr. RT's hand, his touch cold, devoid of warmth, leaving Mr. RT filled with pity for the terrified young man. What had transpired outside? Could Sukma truly be a ghost, wandering restlessly in search of… something?

"Why are you here, then?" Mr. RT asked.

"The police, they brought Sukma's body home. Father asked if you could announce it at the mosque." Razi replied.

"Of course, I will. Right away." Mr. RT grabbed his pecil; he had to go to the mosque and inform the community.

"I'll come with you, sir." Razi pleaded, afraid to be left alone.

"Alright, come along then. No sense in you staying here alone." Mr. RT agreed.

"Let me drive, sir. You need to go to my father's house afterward, right?" Razi offered softly, his composure returning in increments.

Mr. RT nodded and climbed onto the motorcycle. As Razi turned, Mr. RT noticed the bloody gashes on his back, like something had raked its claws across him. It dawned on him: Sukma must have clawed her brother. He wanted to ask, but a strange feeling washed over him. He detected a pungent, coppery smell. Blood.

"Mr. RT!"

"Ah!" Mr. RT jolted at the hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry to startle you, sir. I came to tell you…" Fitra panted, catching his breath after running.

"Tell me what?" Mr. RT held his racing heart.

"Razi... he was found dead near the big tree down the road. His stomach… it was ripped open, all the way to his back!" Fitra blurted out.

"What are you saying?!" Mr. RT whipped around, his eyes searching the spot where Razi had been standing moments before.

"The village head is there, and Reno too. He said to tell you they brought Sukma's body home. He's on his way to your house now," Fitra provided, his voice trembling.

Weakness washed over Mr. RT. He had just spoken with Razi, had listened as the young man spoke of his sister’s return and the need to inform the community. The same information Fitra had just relayed. Yet Razi was dead. Which meant the visitor had been... his ghost.

"Come on, sir! They need you there." Fitra urged impatiently.

"Y-yes, let’s go, take me there." Mr. RT stammered, still reeling from the shock.

"You seemed out of sorts just now, sir, like you were talking to someone inside. Who was it?" Fitra pressed, curiosity piqued.

"No one, just… singing to myself," Mr. RT lied, his voice thin.

"Oh, right, of course! Didn't mean to eavesdrop!" Fitra accepted the explanation.

Together they walked down the desolate road, past the imposing tree to their right and a lush long bean garden to their left. It was there, near that very tree, that Zayn, on his way to the mosque for evening prayers, had discovered Razi’s mutilated body. Zayn, unafraid even with the possibility of encountering Sukma’s vengeful spirit, knowing that fear was merely a test of faith.

...*****************...

Ainun finished her prayers and headed to the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten all day, still unable to stomach the thought of food. The stench of blood and the image of the dismembered body in the suitcase lingered. Hunger, however, was a persistent beast, and her growling stomach demanded attention.

“I’m going to Mr. Tomo's house. Stay here and watch the house,” Mak Ratih said to her daughter.

"Okay, Mak. Can I make some noodles from the cupboard?” Ainun asked.

“Yes, add some vegetables. You need to eat something; you haven’t touched food all day," Mak Ratih replied.

"Be careful, Mak. I can’t come with you; I’m too scared.” Ainun confessed.

“Just stay here. You can come tomorrow during the day," her mother assured her.

"Alright, Mak. And if it gets too late, don’t worry about coming home. Stay at Mr. Tomo’s if no one can walk you back," Ainun urged, concerned for her mother’s safety.

Mak Ratih nodded and left. She couldn't bear the thought of Bu Dian grieving alone; they had grown close, and Bu Dian had always been a kind and generous employer. Anyone fortunate enough to work for her stayed for years.

"Please, God, rid my nose of that metallic scent. I’m so hungry," Ainun mumbled, retrieving a pot.

Her eyes, however, refused to cooperate. Drawn to the window, she peered through a crack towards the side of the house. Her breath caught in her throat; there, in the fading light, was Sukma. But this was no ordinary apparition. Sukma’s form was distorted, disjointed, lacking a defined shape, just like what Razi had described.

"Oh my God!" Ainun gasped, clutching the pot.

Sukma’s spectral figure moved with an unsettling, jerky motion, like a macabre marionette controlled by an unseen hand. With every twitch and contortion, the air grew thick with the metallic scent of blood, reminiscent of freshly slaughtered poultry but infinitely more potent.

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