The Midnight Shuttle

Chapter 7 : The Wardrobe

"I was nine years old."

Alya's quiet voice filled the interview room as rain continued to fall outside. For a brief moment, she no longer sounded like the university student sitting across from Aditia and Dirga.

She sounded like a frightened little girl.

"My parents had gone to Jakarta for a charity event," she began. "It was supposed to be just another ordinary night."

She gave a faint, bitter smile.

"It never was."

Outside, lightning flashed across the darkening sky as Aditia remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt a memory like this.

"The rain started just after sunset," Alya continued. "At first, Grandma didn't think much of it. She was preparing dinner while I finished my homework in the living room."

She paused, her eyes growing distant.

"Then the electricity went out."

Everything became quiet—not the peaceful silence that followed a power outage, but something heavier, as though the house itself had stopped breathing.

"My grandmother looked toward the front door."

Alya unconsciously tightened her fingers around the silver ring.

"She didn't say anything. She just stood there... listening."

Dirga frowned. "Listening to what?"

Alya slowly shook her head. "I don't know. But whatever she heard... it terrified her."

For the first time that evening, her grandmother moved with urgency, locking every door, closing every window, and pulling the curtains shut before lighting three sticks of incense and placing them in front of the family altar.

"The whole house smelled of burning incense," Alya whispered. "I'd never seen Grandma pray like that before."

She wasn't chanting loudly or crying. She simply stood before the altar, her lips moving in a prayer Alya had never heard before.

Then she turned around.

Our eyes met.

"And I knew."

Alya lowered her gaze.

"Something had come."

She could still remember the expression on her grandmother's face—not panic, not despair, but acceptance, as though she had spent her entire life waiting for this night.

Without another word, Nenek Lastri hurried across the room, took Alya gently by both shoulders, and led her toward the master bedroom, stopping in front of a large wooden wardrobe whose doors were already open, as though she had prepared it long before that night.

"Alya."

Her grandmother's voice was calm—calmer than it had any right to be.

"Get inside."

The nine-year-old girl stared at the dark space inside the wardrobe.

"...Why?"

Nenek Lastri knelt in front of her and cupped her face with trembling hands.

"No matter what you hear..."

She swallowed.

"...don't come out."

Without waiting for an answer, she pulled Alya into the wardrobe, wrapped her in an old blanket, and quietly closed the doors.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Outside...

The first knock echoed through the house.

Inside the wardrobe, Alya curled into herself beneath the old blanket, pressing both hands over her mouth to keep herself from making a sound.

The space was barely large enough for her small body. Dresses brushed against her face whenever she moved, carrying the faint scent of lavender and camphor that always clung to her grandmother's clothes.

At first...

She heard nothing at first—only the rain striking the roof, the faint crackle of burning incense drifting in from somewhere beyond the bedroom, and her own heartbeat, fast and uneven, loud enough that she was certain anyone outside could hear it.

Then came the sound of footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

They didn't belong to her grandmother. Nenek Lastri never walked like that. These footsteps were heavier, dragging ever so slightly across the wooden floor as though each step carried an impossible weight.

They stopped.

Alya held her breath.

Just outside the bedroom.

For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened.

Then...

She heard her grandmother's voice—soft, steady, reciting prayers she had never heard before. The words rose and fell like an ancient melody, calm despite the fear pressing against every wall of the house.

For a brief moment, Alya almost believed everything would be alright.

Then another sound answered.

Not a voice. Not at first.

It was something between a breath and a growl, low enough to vibrate through the floorboards beneath the wardrobe.

Every hair on Alya's arms stood on end.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Her grandmother's prayers grew louder.

The other sound drew closer.

One step. Then another.

The wooden floor creaked—not toward the front door, but toward the bedroom, toward the wardrobe.

Alya bit down on her trembling lip until she tasted blood. She wanted to cry. She wanted to call for her grandmother.

Instead...

She remembered the last words Nenek Lastri had whispered before closing the wardrobe—no matter what you hear... don't come out—so she stayed perfectly still as the footsteps outside came to a halt, right in front of the wardrobe.

Alya had no idea how much time had passed—minutes, perhaps hours. Inside the wardrobe, time no longer seemed to exist; there was only darkness, the smell of old wood, and the relentless pounding of her own heartbeat.

Then someone knocked—three slow taps.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

Alya flinched. Her grandmother stopped praying, and the silence that followed felt even heavier than before.

Then came a voice.

"Alya..."

It was gentle, warm, familiar—her mother's voice.

The little girl opened her eyes. "Mama?"

She almost answered. Almost.

Then she remembered. Her parents were still in Jakarta. They couldn't possibly be home.

The voice came again.

"Alya... sweetheart. We're back. Come out."

Tears welled in her eyes. It sounded exactly like her mother—every word, every pause, even the tenderness in her voice.

Outside the wardrobe, another knock echoed softly.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

"Alya... it's safe now."

Grandma didn't say a word—not a single prayer, not a single warning. Only silence.

The little girl hugged her knees tighter. Something felt wrong. Her mother had never called her "sweetheart." She always called her Little Sparrow.

The voice outside hesitated, then it changed.

"Alya."

This time it was her father's voice—firm, calm, the voice she trusted more than anyone else's.

"Open the door. We have to leave."

She covered her ears, her breathing uneven.

"I know you're in there."

The voice was closer now.

"So does Grandma."

A long pause followed.

Then—

Her grandmother spoke.

"Alya."

The little girl's body froze. It was perfect—every syllable, every breath, even the slight rasp Nenek Lastri always had after reciting prayers.

"You can come out now. I've sent it away."

For one terrifying moment, Alya believed her. Her trembling hand slowly reached toward the wardrobe door.

Just before her fingers touched the handle, she remembered something.

Her grandmother had promised her one thing: if the danger ever passed, she would knock four times—not three. Never three.

Outside, the voice laughed very softly, as though it had just realized the child hadn't been fooled.

...

The laughter faded.

For a single heartbeat...

Everything became still.

Then the house exploded with sound.

A deafening crash shook the bedroom walls as something slammed against the front door hard enough to rattle the entire house. Glass shattered somewhere downstairs, followed by the sharp scrape of furniture being dragged violently across the wooden floor.

Alya gasped and clamped both hands over her mouth.

Outside the wardrobe, Nenek Lastri's voice rose once more.

Not in panic.

Not in fear.

In prayer.

Her words came faster now, each verse spoken with quiet conviction as the smell of burning incense grew stronger, seeping through the narrow gaps in the wardrobe doors until the tiny space filled with its bitter fragrance.

Another crash echoed through the house, this time closer, the bedroom floor trembling beneath Alya's feet as something heavy struck the wall outside, followed by the splintering c***k of wood giving way.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Please...

Please don't come in.

The prayers continued, steady and unbroken, and for a brief moment they seemed to push the darkness back.

Then a sound unlike anything Alya had ever heard tore through the room—not the cry of an animal, nor the scream of a person, but something older, something that seemed to vibrate through the walls, through the floor, through the very air she was breathing.

The wardrobe shook, dust drifting from its ceiling as hangers rattled softly above her head.

Alya curled tighter beneath the blanket, trembling so violently that she could hear her own teeth chattering.

Outside, the prayers stopped.

The silence that followed lasted only a second.

Then Nenek Lastri cried out—not in terror, but in defiance.

A blinding flash of light burst through the thin c***k between the wardrobe doors, bright enough to pierce the darkness for the briefest instant before vanishing just as quickly.

The house shuddered as something slammed into the bedroom wall with enough force to shake the wardrobe from side to side.

Alya bit her lip to keep from screaming.

She wanted to run to her grandmother.

She wanted to open the door.

She wanted to believe she could still help.

Instead, she stayed exactly where she had been told, curled inside the darkness, listening, waiting, praying that the wardrobe doors would remain closed.

Then...

Nothing.

The house fell completely silent—no prayers, no footsteps, no crashing furniture, even the rain seemed to have stopped.

Alya remained curled inside the wardrobe, too frightened to move, counting her breaths the way her grandmother had taught her whenever fear became too heavy.

One. Two. Three.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed there—minutes, perhaps longer.

Then...

A knock.

Not on the front door. Not on the bedroom door.

On the wardrobe.

Tok. Tok. Tok.

Alya's entire body stiffened. She didn't breathe. She didn't blink.

Outside, someone spoke.

"Alya."

It was her grandmother's voice again—gentle, patient.

"I've sent it away."

A long silence followed.

Then—

Four knocks.

Tok. Tok. Tok. Tok.

Alya's heart skipped. That was the signal, the one her grandmother had promised.

She almost reached for the handle.

Almost.

But something stopped her.

Her grandmother had always knocked first... then called her name.

This time, the voice had come before the knocks.

Only a tiny difference—small enough that no adult might have noticed, but a child who had spent years listening to her grandmother did.

Outside, the voice remained calm.

"Alya."

"You've done well."

"You can come out now."

Tears blurred her vision. She wanted to believe it—more than anything.

Then another voice echoed faintly from somewhere deeper inside the house.

Weak. Hoarse. Barely audible.

"Alya..."

It was also her grandmother.

But this voice sounded different, as though every word cost her strength.

"...don't..."

The whisper broke apart.

"...open..."

Silence.

The voice outside the wardrobe never changed.

It simply smiled.

She could hear it—not laughter, but a smile, something impossible yet unmistakable.

Then, very slowly...

Fingernails scraped across the wooden doors.

Once. Twice. Three times.

A long pause followed.

Then came a whisper so soft it was almost lost beneath Alya's trembling breaths.

"I know..."

"...you're still in there."

Alya didn't move.

She sat frozen inside the wardrobe, her hands pressed tightly over her mouth as tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

Outside...

Nothing.

No more whispers.

No more scratching.

No more footsteps.

The silence lingered so long that it almost became convincing, until—

Four knocks.

Tok.

Tok.

Tok.

Tok.

Alya closed her eyes.

This time, the knocks came first—exactly as her grandmother had promised.

Several heartbeats passed before a familiar voice spoke from the other side of the wardrobe.

"Alya," it was weak, hoarse, barely above a whisper. "It's Grandma."

The little girl didn't answer. She listened—no second voice, no strange laughter, only slow, uneven breathing. Then came a soft cough, followed by another, ending in a painful gasp.

Alya's heart broke.

"Grandma...?" Her own voice was almost inaudible.

The answer came after a long pause. "You remembered." Even now, there was pride in Nenek Lastri's voice. "You did well."

Alya could no longer hold back her tears. "I was scared."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"No." Her grandmother's reply came gently. "You were brave."

Silence settled between them once more before Nenek Lastri spoke again, each word slower than the last.

"Listen to me carefully. You must never take off your ring. You must never forget the prayers I taught you. And if..."

Her breathing faltered.

"...if someone ever tells you that none of this is real..."

Another long cough interrupted her.

"...don't believe them."

Alya pressed both hands against the wardrobe doors, her fingers trembling as she tried to steady her breathing.

"I want to come out."

"No. Not yet."

More silence.

Then...

"When I tell you... run," Alya frowned through her tears.

"Run where?" No answer came.

Instead, she heard something else—a slow, dragging footstep somewhere beyond the bedroom.

Nenek Lastri heard it too. Her breathing caught, and for the first time that night, fear entered her voice.

"Alya."

"Whatever happens next..."

"...don't look back."

Those were the last words Alya ever heard from her grandmother.

Outside, the floorboards creaked once more, and then everything dissolved into a scream.