The Midnight Shuttle

Chapter 2 : The Promise

The old angkot rolled quietly through the sleeping city.

Five passengers sat inside.

None of them spoke. None of them moved. Only the steady hum of the engine accompanied the endless road stretching ahead.

Aditia had long since grown used to the silence. The dead rarely started conversations. Most simply waited, patiently hoping to be taken somewhere they could no longer remember.

A red traffic light forced the angkot to stop.

Outside, the intersection stood completely empty. There wasn't a single motorcycle or passing car—only the rain falling softly beneath the streetlights, endless and unhurried.

Aditia rested both hands on the steering wheel. The faint fragrance of jasmine Rosa had left behind still lingered inside the cabin, tightening something deep inside his chest.

"You kept your promise, Miss Rosa," he whispered.

"I'll keep mine."

The traffic light turned green.

The angkot rolled forward once again.

Several quiet minutes passed before a frail voice finally broke the silence.

"...Young man."

Aditia glanced into the rear-view mirror.

The old grandfather sitting in the last row smiled kindly at him.

"You've done this for a long time."

Aditia returned the smile.

"Not as long as my father."

The old man tilted his head.

"He taught you?"

"He taught me everything."

Silence settled between them once more.

Then the old man asked the same question Aditia had heard countless times.

"Why would a living person spend his life helping the dead?"

Aditia kept his eyes on the road.

His fingers slowly tightened around the steering wheel as rain continued to beat against the windshield.

"I used to ask the same question."

His own reflection stared back at him through the glass.

"I asked my father..."

"...the night everything changed."

Year 2005

"Dad!"

Eight-year-old Aditia ran barefoot across the front yard, still chewing the last bite of fried banana his mother had made.

"Are we going tonight?"

Pak Mulyana laughed as he finished checking the angkot's tires.

"I knew you'd ask."

"I want to come!"

"You have school tomorrow."

"I'll sleep in class."

"You'll get scolded."

"I'll survive."

Pak Mulyana shook his head, unable to hide his smile.

"You sound exactly like me when I was your age."

Aditia grinned proudly.

"So..."

"Can I come?"

His father pretended to think for a moment.

"Hmm..."

"Only if you promise me one thing."

"What?"

"No complaining."

"No crying."

"And no asking to go home halfway."

"I promise!"

"Really?"

"I swear!"

Pak Mulyana chuckled.

"Then go tell your mother."

Aditia dashed into the house before his father could change his mind.

"Dad said yes!"

"I can go!"

His mother's voice echoed immediately from the kitchen.

"Mulyana!"

"You'll spoil that child!"

Pak Mulyana simply laughed.

"He'll inherit the angkot one day."

"I don't want him inheriting sleepless nights too."

Aditia stopped in the doorway.

"Inherit?"

He looked back at his father.

"What do you mean?"

Pak Mulyana froze for only a heartbeat before smiling again.

"We'll talk about it when you're older."

Aditia pouted.

"You always say that."

His father walked over and gently ruffled his hair.

"Because some answers are too heavy for an eight-year-old."

Minutes later, the old angkot finally pulled away from the house.

Aditia sat proudly in the front seat, though his legs still couldn't reach the floor.

To him, this wasn't work.

It was an adventure.

He loved riding beside his father through empty roads while the rest of the city slept. The dashboard lights bathed the cabin in a soft green glow, while beyond the windshield, darkness swallowed everything outside the reach of the headlights.

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

"Where are we going?"

Pak Mulyana smiled without taking his eyes off the road.

"Not where."

"Who."

Aditia frowned.

"What do you mean?"

His father didn't answer.

Instead, he glanced at the old clock mounted above the dashboard.

1:07 A.M.

"Tonight..."

"We're picking someone up."

The angkot left the main road and turned onto a narrow road hidden beneath towering trees. One by one, the streetlights disappeared behind them until only the headlights pierced the darkness ahead.

On both sides of the road, ancient trees stood silently, their branches weaving together overhead until they nearly swallowed the moonlight itself.

Aditia pressed his face against the window.

"Dad..."

"We've never come this way before."

Pak Mulyana smiled.

"No."

"This isn't part of the route."

"Then why are we here?"

"Because not every passenger waits at a bus stop."

Aditia blinked.

He didn't understand.

Not yet.

The old angkot continued deeper into the forest. The engine became the only sound left in the sleeping world.

Then...

Aditia suddenly sat upright.

"Dad..."

Pak Mulyana already knew.

"What do you see?"

Aditia pointed toward the roadside.

"Someone's standing there."

Pak Mulyana slowed the angkot.

An old woman stood beneath a giant banyan tree. She wore a faded green kebaya wrapped in an old batik sarong, and her silver hair was neatly tied into a bun. At first glance, she looked exactly like any grandmother returning home from the market.

Except...

She wasn't casting a shadow.

The angkot came to a gentle stop.

The folding door slid open.

The old woman climbed aboard without making a sound.

The moment she stepped inside, the scent of fresh jasmine drifted through the cabin. She quietly walked to the last row before taking her seat.

Aditia smiled politely.

"Good evening, Grandma."

The old woman smiled back.

"So polite."

Pak Mulyana gave her a respectful nod.

"Where would you like to go, Nini?"

The old woman lowered her head.

"...Home."

Pak Mulyana started the engine once more.

"Of course."

"We'll take you home."

The old angkot rolled quietly forward.

For several minutes, no one spoke.

The road remained empty, its silence broken only by the steady rhythm of the engine and the rain tapping softly against the windshield.

Then...

"Dad."

Aditia pointed through the windshield once again.

"There!"

A small boy stood beside a rice field. Barefoot and dressed in dirty, oversized clothes, he waved enthusiastically as though he had been waiting for them all night.

"Shouldn't we stop?"

Pak Mulyana didn't even slow down.

The boy's smile slowly widened.

Too wide.

Far wider than any human mouth should.

His eyes turned completely black.

Then...

He vanished.

Aditia stared through the rear window for another moment before turning back toward his father.

"You didn't pick him up."

"No."

"Why?"

Pak Mulyana glanced briefly at his son before returning his attention to the road.

"Because he wasn't asking for help."

"He was hunting."

Aditia frowned.

"I don't understand."

"Not everything that looks human..."

"...once was."

Silence settled inside the angkot once again.

Aditia looked toward the rear-view mirror. Nini Karti still sat quietly in the last row, her hands folded neatly on her lap as she gazed out the window. She looked harmless.

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

"How did you know Grandma wasn't like that little boy?"

A faint smile appeared on Pak Mulyana's face.

"Because the dead..."

"...never hide who they are."

"But jinn do."

Aditia nodded slowly, trying to remember every word.

His father spoke again.

"Can you still see the boy?"

Aditia looked behind them.

The child was gone.

"No."

"Good."

Pak Mulyana's expression became more serious.

"If a jinn loses interest in you..."

"Never go looking for it."

"But if it starts following you..."

He finally looked at Aditia.

"...never answer when it calls your name."

Aditia swallowed.

For the first time that night, he felt genuinely afraid.

Not because of the old woman sitting behind him.

But because of the little boy who had smiled at them from the roadside.

"Dad..."

"Will I always see them?"

Pak Mulyana remained silent for a long moment.

Then he answered.

"Yes."

The single word was spoken gently.

Yet it felt impossibly heavy.

"And one day..."

"You'll understand why."

Before Aditia could ask another question, a soft humming drifted from the back of the angkot.

Nini Karti had begun to sing.

"Cing cangkeling manuk cingkleng cindeten...

Plos ka kolong bapa satar buleneng..."

Her voice was beautiful.

Gentle.

Like a grandmother singing her grandchild to sleep.

Aditia smiled.

"I know that song."

"My grandma used to sing it too."

Pak Mulyana's smile slowly disappeared.

He lifted his eyes toward the rear-view mirror.

"Nini..."

The old woman stopped singing.

Very slowly, she raised her head.

Her cloudy eyes never left Aditia.

"Please," Pak Mulyana said calmly.

"Don't look at my son like that."

For several long seconds, no one moved.

Then...

The old woman's smile slowly began to widen.

Far beyond what any human face should allow.

Blood trickled from the corners of her lips as her neck twisted with a sickening c***k. Yet somehow, her voice remained as gentle as before.

"I don't want to go home."

The temperature inside the angkot dropped instantly.

Aditia froze.

Only moments ago, this had felt like an adventure.

Now...

It had become a nightmare.

The old woman smiled again.

"I don't want to go home."

Her voice no longer sounded gentle.

It seemed to rise from somewhere deep beneath the earth itself.

The sweet fragrance of jasmine slowly disappeared, replaced by the unmistakable smell of damp soil...

And something burning.

Aditia tightened his grip on the edge of his seat.

"Dad..."

Pak Mulyana didn't panic.

He calmly guided the angkot to the side of the deserted road and turned off the engine.

Silence settled over the forest.

Not even the crickets dared to sing.

Looking into the rear-view mirror, Pak Mulyana spoke in the same calm voice he had used from the beginning.

"Nini Karti."

"Look at me."

The old woman didn't answer.

Instead, her neck twisted even farther while her smile stretched wider across her face. Blood continued dripping onto the floor of the angkot.

"I said..."

"Look at me."

Very slowly...

She obeyed.

Her cloudy eyes finally left Aditia and settled on Pak Mulyana.

"You promised..."

She whispered.

"You said..."

"You would take me home."

"I still will."

Pak Mulyana quietly unbuckled his seatbelt.

"But first..."

"You need to let go."

The old woman began to laugh.

At first it was soft.

Almost gentle.

But with every passing second it grew louder, higher, sharper, until it no longer sounded remotely human.

Then...

Her body began to change.

The wrinkles disappeared.

Her fingers grew impossibly long.

Her skin darkened.

Her neatly tied hair came undone and fell wildly around her face.

Her mouth stretched wider...

And wider...

Until it split almost to her ears.

Aditia gasped.

"Dad..."

Without looking back, Pak Mulyana raised one hand.

"Stay where you are."

"No matter what happens..."

"Do not leave your seat."

Aditia nodded.

Every instinct inside him screamed to run.

But he stayed exactly where he was.

Pak Mulyana slowly stood before taking one measured step toward the back of the angkot.

Then another.

He stopped only a few feet away from the creature.

"You've been carrying your hatred for too long."

The creature hissed.

"They abandoned me."

"I know."

"They forgot me."

"I know."

"They only came..."

"...after they needed my money."

Its voice cracked beneath years of rage and grief.

Pak Mulyana's expression never changed.

"I know."

He never argued.

He never raised his voice.

He simply listened.

Without warning, the creature lunged.

Its claw shot toward Pak Mulyana's throat, moving far too fast for any ordinary person to evade.

But Pak Mulyana never moved.

Instead, he calmly reached inside his jacket and withdrew something wrapped in faded black cloth.

A small keris.

The instant the blade left its sheath, the entire angkot trembled. A warm golden light shimmered briefly across its ancient surface.

The creature screamed.

Not in pain.

In fear.

"No..."

"It can't be..."

Pak Mulyana held the keris upright.

He never pointed it like a weapon.

He held it with both hands, as though it were something sacred rather than something meant to kill.

"This keris..."

"My father entrusted it to me."

"And one day..."

"I will entrust it to my son."

Aditia stared at the blade.

For the first time in his life, he realized his father wasn't just an angkot driver.

The creature staggered backward.

"You are..."

"The Guide."

Pak Mulyana smiled gently.

"No."

"I'm only..."

"A driver."

Silence settled inside the angkot once again.

After a long moment, Pak Mulyana took one slow step forward.

"You've punished your family long enough."

"Come home."

The creature trembled violently.

Its monstrous appearance slowly began to fade. The impossibly long claws shrank back into old, wrinkled fingers. The torn flesh across its face healed before Aditia's eyes, and the blood disappeared as though it had never been there.

Once again, an old grandmother sat quietly in the last row.

She covered her face.

And cried.

"I miss them..."

Her voice had become small again.

Fragile.

Like someone who had spent years carrying a burden too heavy to bear.

Pak Mulyana slowly knelt in front of her.

"So do they."

"They've been looking for you."

"They cry for you every year."

"They never stopped."

Nini Karti slowly lifted her head.

"They..."

"...still remember me?"

"They never forgot."

"They were simply too late."

Tears streamed down her weathered cheeks.

"I was so angry..."

"I couldn't hear their prayers anymore."

Pak Mulyana gently extended his hand.

"Then..."

"It's time."

For several long seconds, Nini Karti simply stared at the hand stretched out before her.

Then...

Very slowly...

She placed her trembling hand in his.

At once, the cold inside the angkot vanished.

A warm breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying the familiar fragrance of jasmine back into the cabin.

This time...

It smelled peaceful.

Beyond the windshield, the first light of dawn quietly appeared between the trees.

Nini Karti smiled.

A real smile.

The kind only a grandmother could wear after finally finding her way home.

"Thank you..."

she whispered.

"I've been waiting..."

"...for someone to find me."

Her body slowly dissolved into countless tiny lights, drifting upward like fireflies disappearing into the morning sky.

Aditia watched without blinking.

Pak Mulyana lowered his head.

"Welcome home..."

he whispered.

The final light disappeared into the dawn.

Silence returned once again.

For several moments, neither father nor son spoke.

Finally, Aditia looked at the small keris still resting in his father's hands.

"Dad..."

"Will I..."

"...have to do this one day too?"

Pak Mulyana lowered his eyes to the ancient blade before giving a slow nod.

The first rays of morning filtered through the trees, but he made no move to start the engine. Instead, he remained quietly behind the steering wheel, watching the empty road disappear into the forest.

Aditia couldn't take his eyes off the keris.

It looked ordinary.

Old.

Its wooden sheath had faded with time, and nothing about it suggested it could frighten something as terrifying as the creature they had just faced.

"Dad..."

"Is that keris magic?"

Pak Mulyana smiled.

"No."

"Then why was she afraid of it?"

"Because of the promise it carries."

Aditia frowned.

"I don't understand."

His father gently laid the keris across his lap.

"This keris belonged to your grandfather. Before him, it belonged to his father. And before that... to his father as well."

Aditia looked at him in surprise.

"So Grandpa could see them too?"

Pak Mulyana nodded.

"Every man in our family."

"For generations."

Aditia lowered his gaze to the old blade once more.

"...Why?"

The question lingered between them.

For a long while, Pak Mulyana didn't answer. He simply watched the sunrise spread across the forest before a faint smile touched his face.

"I asked my father the same thing."

"And what did Grandpa say?"

"He said..."

"...'Because somebody has to.'"

Silence settled around them.

Outside, only the morning birds welcomed the new day.

"Our family wasn't chosen because we're stronger than everyone else."

"We weren't chosen because we're special."

"We're simply..."

"...the family that refused to abandon those who had lost their way."

Aditia quietly lowered his eyes.

"So..."

"We don't hunt ghosts?"

Pak Mulyana laughed.

"No."

"We don't fight them."

"We don't chase them."

"We don't destroy them."

"What do we do?"

His father looked at him with the same calm expression he always wore.

"We listen."

"And then..."

"We take them home."

The words settled deep inside Aditia's heart.

He didn't fully understand them.

Not yet.

Pak Mulyana carefully wrapped the keris once more in its faded black cloth.

"You thought this was a weapon."

"It isn't."

"It's a reminder."

"A reminder of what?"

"Compassion."

He looked directly into his son's eyes.

"The moment you carry this keris because you enjoy fighting..."

"...you no longer deserve to hold it."

Aditia blinked.

"But..."

"You used it against Grandma."

"I never attacked her."

"I reminded her."

"The keris doesn't hurt lost souls."

"It reminds them..."

"...that they still belong somewhere."

Aditia looked toward the empty seat where Nini Karti had been sitting only moments before.

"So..."

"She wasn't evil?"

Pak Mulyana smiled gently.

"No."

"She was lonely."

The answer was so simple.

Yet somehow...

It felt heavier than anything Aditia had ever heard.

Pak Mulyana started the engine.

The old angkot slowly rolled back toward the village, leaving the forest behind as morning light gradually spread across the road.

"Dad..."

"Hm?"

"Why an angkot?"

His father laughed softly.

"I knew you'd ask that."

"I mean..."

"Why not a car?"

"Or a motorcycle?"

Pak Mulyana smiled, gently patting the steering wheel.

"Because an angkot is made to carry people."

"And someday..."

"It will carry souls."

His hand lingered on the worn dashboard.

"This old thing isn't just transportation."

"It's a bridge."

"Between those who are still living..."

"And those who no longer belong here."

Aditia quietly reached out and touched the dashboard with the tips of his fingers.

"So..."

"This angkot..."

"...will be mine one day?"

Pak Mulyana glanced at him before letting out a quiet laugh.

"I hope not."

Aditia frowned.

"What?"

"I hope I live long enough..."

"...that you won't have to drive it for many years."

Both of them laughed.

The sound filled the small cabin for only a moment before fading into silence.

Pak Mulyana's smile slowly softened.

"But when my time finally comes..."

"You'll inherit three things."

Aditia listened carefully.

"This angkot."

Pak Mulyana rested one hand on the steering wheel.

"This keris."

His fingers gently touched the black cloth wrapped around the blade.

"And..."

He placed his hand over his own chest.

"This promise."

Aditia tilted his head.

"What promise?"

Pak Mulyana looked directly into his son's eyes.

"No matter who climbs into this angkot..."

"No matter how frightening they appear..."

"No matter what they've done in life..."

"If they're asking to go home..."

"...you never leave them behind."

Aditia swallowed.

"Never?"

"Never."

"What if I'm scared?"

His father smiled warmly.

"You will be."

"What if I want to run away?"

"You will."

"What if I fail?"

Pak Mulyana reached over and gently ruffled his son's hair.

"Then stand up..."

"And keep driving."

Aditia smiled.

"I think..."

"I can do that."

Pak Mulyana smiled back, then slowly shook his head.

"No."

"You don't."

Aditia blinked.

"You'll complain."

"You'll get tired."

"You'll say you hate this job."

"And one day..."

"You'll probably blame me."

They both laughed again.

But this time, the laughter faded more slowly.

"When someone looks at you..."

His father's voice became almost a whisper.

"...with the same hope Nini Karti had..."

"You'll understand."

Years later...

After Pak Mulyana was gone.

After the funeral.

After the tears had dried.

After the house became unbearably quiet.

Aditia stood alone before the old angkot.

The familiar key rested in his trembling hand. Beside it, wrapped in the same faded black cloth, lay the keris his father had once carried every night.

He remembered every word spoken that morning beneath the trees.

"If they're asking to go home..."

"You never leave them behind."

Slowly, Aditia inserted the key into the ignition.

The old engine rumbled to life.

It was the first night...

He drove alone.

The first night he inherited not an angkot.

Not a keris.

But a promise.