Take And Draw

Is There Santet in America?

Raka lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above him. The steady hum should have been calming, but his mind refused to settle. The number came back again, like a thin scratch replaying itself over and over.

Two hundred and sixty-seven.

He exhaled and closed his eyes, hoping the thought would fade. It didn't. The girl's face returned instead—an awkward smile in a family photo—followed by the news clip, the narrator's voice flat and emotionless. Sudden death. No cause. No explanation. Just one small detail that felt deeply wrong.

The number on her thigh.

Raka sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He grabbed his phone and checked the time. Still morning. Too early to feel this heavy. He stood and walked to his desk. The laptop was closed, but his black notebook lay open on the same page as before. Clara Bennett's name was written clearly, followed by a few short notes.

"Do I make a video today," he murmured, "or do I just keep writing?"

The question wasn't simple. Normally, when an idea felt too dark or uncomfortable, he would retreat into fiction. Writing his Webtoon novel was safer. Characters could suffer without anyone truly getting hurt. But today, even the thought of continuing his story felt distant.

He opened the laptop and went straight to his writing folder. The latest chapter of his digital novel filled the screen. He reread the opening paragraphs, the dialogue between characters, the conflict he had carefully planned. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He reread a sentence. Then again.

Nothing moved.

Clara's image slipped back into his thoughts, sharper now. Morning light. Breakfast. A school backpack. An apartment door. Then nothing.

Raka closed the document abruptly, as if afraid of being caught thinking about the wrong story.

"Not today," he said quietly.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. This wasn't ordinary fatigue. It was a specific kind of discomfort—the kind that came when something felt important but unfinished. Something that demanded attention, whether he wanted to give it or not.

Raka let out a short, humorless laugh. He already knew the answer.

He was going to make the video.

Indonesia loved stories like this. Mysteries. Strange deaths. Things that hovered between science and something darker. Not because people were easily fooled, but because they liked asking questions. And questions were the best fuel for the algorithm.

He stood up, poured himself a glass of water, then sat down again. This time he opened a new document and started typing title ideas without thinking too much.

Mysterious Death in America.13-Year-Old Girl Dies Suddenly.

He stopped, reread them, then deleted everything. Too flat. Too much like a news headline.

He typed again, more casually, almost joking.

Is There Santet in America?A 13-Year-Old Girl Dies Without Cause.

He stared at the screen for several seconds. A small smile formed on his lips.

"Hahaha," he muttered. "That's insane."

The word santet felt completely out of place next to America. And that was exactly why it worked. Provocative, but still framed as a question. He wasn't accusing anyone. He wasn't claiming anything. He was just opening a possibility.

"Relax," he told himself. "It's just a hook."

He wouldn't say santet was real. He would present the facts, then let the audience speculate like they always did.

But the smile faded quickly. Beneath the title, the reality didn't change. Clara was dead. And that number really existed.

Raka minimized the title document and opened his channel analytics. Numbers filled the screen. Over five million subscribers. Stable daily views. A single short video could reach millions of people in just a few hours if the hook was right.

Five million people.

He stared at the number, no longer feeling the pride he once did. Now it felt heavy.

"If I speak," he whispered, "a lot of people listen."

He put on his headphones and began working. Downloading news clips. Saving screenshots of articles. Organizing everything neatly into a project folder. He deliberately avoided obscure forums. He wanted facts, not noise.

When he replayed the news clip, the narrator's voice echoed again.

"Clara Bennett, age thirteen, died suddenly…"

Raka paused the video at the blurred image. He zoomed in, even though he knew the quality wouldn't improve. A thin circle. The number 267 beside it.

"Three digits," he whispered.

Without fully realizing why, he opened a blank spreadsheet. The cursor blinked in the first cell. He typed 001 at the top, then 999 below it.

"If this is a number," he said quietly, half joking, "then that's a maximum of a thousand."

He let out a small laugh, then stopped.

Why did his mind immediately jump to systems? To lists? To participants?

Raka deleted the spreadsheet and closed it, shaking his head.

"Overthinking," he muttered.

He opened his recording software. A small red circle appeared on the screen. The word Record glowed beneath it.

He stared at the red circle for a moment, sensing an irony he couldn't quite explain.

"Hi," he finally said, his voice calm and practiced. "In this video, I want to talk about a strange case. Three days ago, a thirteen-year-old girl named Clara Bennett died suddenly in her home in the United States."

He paused, then continued.

"No serious medical history. No signs of violence."

He stopped the recording and leaned his head back against the chair.

"Focus," he told himself. "This isn't a joke."

He took a breath and started recording again. This time the structure was clearer. Facts first. A brief timeline. The family's reaction. Then the anomaly.

"What makes this case different," he said in the recording, "is that a circular symbol with a number beside it was found on the victim's body."

He said the number slowly.

"Two hundred and sixty-seven."

After pressing stop, Raka sat in silence for a long moment. Outside, Jakarta remained loud and indifferent. Life moved on, unconcerned with one death across the ocean.

His phone vibrated. A message from Bagas appeared on the screen.

"Topic confirmed for today?"

Raka replied immediately.

"Confirmed. Clara Bennett case. Title: Is There Santet in America?"

A few seconds passed. Then a reply came in.

"Nice. Want a short video too?"

"Yes," Raka typed. "Use the part about the number 267. Put the hook right at the beginning."

"Okay. Upload time?"

Raka glanced at the clock on his laptop.

"9 PM. Don't be late."

"Got it. Relax—your channel's already over five million subs. This will blow up."

Raka read the message slowly. Five million. Another number.

"Upload the short today as well," he added.

"Will do, boss."

Raka placed the phone back on the desk and stood up. He walked to the window and looked out over Jakarta. Buildings, lights, people. Millions of lives moving independently, unaware of what they would watch tonight.

"Just a video," he said to his reflection in the glass. "Just content."

But something felt different this time. As if by pressing upload later, he wouldn't just be sharing a story, but opening a door that should have remained closed.

Nine p.m. was approaching.

And when the video went live, the numbers would begin to move.

As they always did.

Or perhaps… exactly as something unseen wanted them to.