The Midnight Shuttle

Chapter 6 : The Last Heir

The drive to the police station passed in near silence.

The old angkot rolled steadily through the afternoon traffic, its weathered engine humming beneath the weight of unspoken thoughts. Outside, the city moved as it always had. Motorcycles weaved through narrow gaps, vendors called out to passing customers, and children laughed as they chased one another along the sidewalks.

Inside...

Neither Aditia nor Alya spoke.

Alya sat quietly beside the window, her fingers resting on her lap. She watched the streets drift past without truly seeing them, as though every familiar building belonged to a world she no longer recognized.

She had made her decision, yet somehow, now that there was no turning back, the fear felt even heavier.

After several minutes, she finally broke the silence.

"Do you think they'll hate me?" Alya asked quietly.

Aditia kept his eyes on the road. "Who?"

"Everyone." Her voice was calm, but fragile. "My classmates. My coaches. The people who used to cheer for me."

She managed a faint smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared. "They'll probably only remember me as the girl who ran away."

Aditia didn't answer immediately. Instead, he slowed the angkot at a red light before turning to look at her. "People will believe whatever they choose," he said after a pause. "But the truth doesn't change because someone refuses to look at it."

Alya lowered her eyes. "I wish I'd understood that yesterday."

The traffic light turned green, and the angkot moved forward once more. Another long silence settled between them, though this one no longer felt suffocating. It was the silence of two people walking toward something they knew they couldn't escape.

Nearly forty minutes later, the old angkot pulled into the parking lot of the police headquarters. Alya stared at the building through the windshield.

"So... this is it."

Her heartbeat quickened. For a brief moment, she considered asking Aditia to drive away—just keep going, leave the city behind, pretend none of it had ever happened.

Instead, she reached for the door handle.

Before she could open it, Aditia spoke. "If you're doing this because you think it'll erase your guilt..."

She turned toward him.

"It won't."

The words were gentle, not cruel. "Guilt doesn't disappear. It becomes something you learn to carry."

Alya closed her eyes for a moment before giving a small nod. "I know. And I'm done running."

Together, they stepped out of the angkot.

Waiting near the entrance was Chief Inspector Dirga. He had already seen enough to understand that this wasn't an ordinary visit. His eyes moved from Aditia to Alya, then back again.

No one spoke until they reached him.

Finally, Dirga exhaled slowly. "I had a feeling I'd be seeing both of you today."

Aditia nodded. "We need to talk."

Dirga studied Alya's pale face for a long moment. Then, without asking another question, he stepped aside and held the door open.

"Come inside," he said steadily. "And tell me everything."

Dirga led them into a small interview room at the end of a quiet corridor.

The room was plain, with little more than a rectangular table, three chairs, and a single window overlooking the parking lot.

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor.

No one spoke until the door clicked shut.

Dirga placed a recorder on the table but didn't turn it on immediately. Instead, he sat across from Alya and studied her face for a long moment.

"You came here willingly," he said.

"Yes."

"You understand what that means?"

Alya gave a slow nod.

"I do."

Dirga folded his hands together.

"Then start wherever you think the story begins."

Silence settled over the room.

Alya stared at the tabletop, tracing invisible circles with her fingertips. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm—not because she wasn't afraid, but because she had spent years forcing herself to remain composed whenever life began to fall apart.

"My name is Alya Pramesti Wijaya," she began, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. She paused briefly before continuing, "I suppose you've already looked into my family."

Dirga nodded once. "Your father owns the Wijaya Group."

Alya gave a faint smile. "That's what everyone knows." Her gaze dropped to the table again. "What they don't know... is that I was never supposed to inherit any of it."

Aditia frowned slightly, but said nothing. Dirga remained silent, allowing her to continue.

"My father had four children. I was the youngest." She drew a slow breath. "My eldest brother died before I was born. My second brother drowned when he was twelve. My sister passed away from an illness a few years later."

The room grew impossibly still as she spoke.

"And then..." She hesitated, her fingers tightening together beneath the table. "My last brother died in a car accident."

No one interrupted. No one even moved.

Alya exhaled quietly. "After that... there was only me."

She lifted her gaze for the first time since beginning her story. "My father always tells people how fortunate he is to still have a daughter." A sad smile touched her lips. "But whenever he says it... I can't stop wondering why I'm the only one who survived."

Dirga leaned back slightly in his chair. "Are you saying you believe those deaths were connected?"

Alya didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached slowly toward the ring on her right hand—a simple silver band—and turned it once around her finger, then again, almost unconsciously.

"My grandmother believed they were."

Silence settled over the room once more, heavier than before.

Aditia's eyes drifted toward the ring.

For some reason... he couldn't stop looking at it.

Dirga glanced at the silver ring before looking back at Alya.

"Your grandmother believed what?"

Alya gently lowered her hand.

"That none of my siblings died by accident."

She let the words linger in the room before continuing.

"She used to say our family had been carrying the same curse for generations."

Dirga remained expressionless.

"And your father believed her?"

Alya shook her head.

"No."

"He called it an old woman's superstition."

"He never allowed anyone to talk about it."

She looked toward the window, her eyes following the fading afternoon light.

"But my grandmother..."

"...never stopped preparing me."

Aditia listened quietly.

Something about the way Alya spoke reminded him of his own father. Not because their stories were alike, but because both had accepted the existence of things the rest of the world refused to acknowledge.

"When I was little," Alya continued, "Grandma never let me sleep alone. Every night before bed, she'd check every door and every window, then she'd make me wear this ring." She touched the silver band again. "I wasn't allowed to take it off. Not even once."

Dirga frowned. "Why?"

Alya's answer came almost immediately. "She said something was looking for the last child."

The room fell silent, even the ticking clock on the wall seeming louder now.

Dirga folded his arms. "And what exactly was this... something?"

Alya hesitated. For the first time since entering the room, genuine fear crossed her face. She swallowed hard before forcing herself to speak.

"My grandmother never called it a ghost. She never called it a demon either."

Aditia felt an uneasy chill creep across his skin. "Then what did she call it?"

Alya looked directly at him, her lips barely moving. "Begu Ganjang."

The unfamiliar name settled heavily over the room.

Dirga frowned. "I've never heard of it."

"My father made sure no one would." Alya lowered her gaze once more. "He thought if nobody spoke its name, it would eventually disappear."

She slowly shook her head. "But some things don't disappear just because we refuse to believe in them."

Dirga remained silent for several seconds before finally leaning forward.

"I've spent more than twenty years investigating murders, disappearances, and things most people refuse to believe," he said, pausing briefly. "But I've never heard that name."

Alya wasn't surprised.

"My grandmother used to say that was the reason it survived. No one remembers it anymore. No one believes it ever existed."

She slowly removed the silver ring from her finger and placed it gently on the table. The room fell quiet.

At first glance, it looked ordinary—a simple silver band with no gemstones or intricate carvings. Yet Aditia couldn't look away. Something about it felt strangely familiar.

He frowned.

"I've seen this before."

Both Alya and Dirga turned toward him.

"You have?"

Aditia hesitated.

"Not the ring itself. The pattern."

He leaned closer. Thin lines had been engraved along the inside of the band, so faint they were almost invisible beneath the light. They weren't decorative. They looked intentional—almost like writing.

"My father had something similar."

Alya's eyes widened.

"He did?"

Aditia nodded slowly.

"On the sheath of his keris."

Silence settled over the room once again. Dirga looked from the ring to Aditia.

"You think they're connected?"

"I don't know," Aditia answered honestly. "But my father never carved anything without a reason."

Alya reached into her backpack.

"I want to show you something."

She carefully pulled out a long fabric case and laid it across the table before slowly unfastening the zipper. Inside rested a beautifully crafted recurve bow, with several arrows beside it.

Dirga looked puzzled.

"Your competition equipment?"

"Yes."

Alya picked up one of the arrows and handed it to Aditia.

"Look at the tip."

He turned it beneath the light. The broadhead wasn't steel—it had a dull golden color.

"Brass?"

Alya nodded.

"My grandmother insisted every hunting point and every practice tip be made from brass. She refused to let me use steel."

Aditia ran his thumb carefully along the metal. His heartbeat slowed.

The color. The weight. Even the faint symbols etched near its base...

He had seen them before.

Not on an arrow.

On the old keris that now rested inside his angkot.

Very slowly, he lifted his eyes toward Alya.

"Your grandmother... who was she?"

Alya looked down at the silver ring resting on the table. For a moment, she didn't answer, as though speaking her grandmother's name carried a weight all its own. Finally, she drew a slow breath.

"Her name was Sulastri. Most people in my village called her Nenek Lastri."

A faint smile appeared on Alya's lips.

"To everyone else, she was just an old widow who spent her mornings tending a small herbal garden."

The smile lingered only for a moment before fading.

"But at night... people knocked on her door."

Dirga raised an eyebrow.

"For what?"

"They came because something was following them."

Her answer was so calm that it made the room feel even colder.

"Children who couldn't stop screaming in their sleep. Farmers who kept seeing the same shadow in their fields. Mothers whose babies cried every night at exactly the same hour."

Aditia listened without interrupting. None of it sounded unfamiliar. He had grown up hearing stories that most people dismissed as folklore.

"My grandmother never asked for money," Alya said, her fingers brushing lightly across the silver ring. "She always said that fear should never become a business."

Dirga leaned back in his chair. "So... you believe she was some kind of shaman?"

Alya shook her head immediately. "No. She hated that word."

"What did she call herself?"

For the first time since entering the room, Alya smiled with genuine warmth. "A guardian."

The single word lingered quietly between them.

"She believed there were people who hunted, and people who protected," she continued, her smile slowly fading. "She always prayed that I would never have to become either."

Aditia lowered his eyes. "But something changed."

It wasn't a question.

Alya nodded. "The night she died... she left me everything she had been trying to protect me from."

Outside the interview room, thunder rumbled faintly across the afternoon sky. No one spoke.

Somehow...

They all knew the story had only just begun.

The room remained silent long after Alya finished speaking.

Outside, the rain finally began to fall, tapping softly against the window as gray clouds swallowed the last traces of afternoon light. None of them seemed eager to break the silence.

Dirga was the first to move.

He reached for the recorder resting on the table but hesitated before pressing the button.

"This statement isn't about the hit-and-run anymore."

He looked at Alya.

Alya nodded.

"I know. It stopped being just an accident a long time ago."

Dirga studied her carefully.

For the first time since they had met, he wasn't looking at her as a suspect.

He was looking at someone who had spent her entire life carrying a burden no one else could see.

Slowly, he switched off the recorder.

"I think there's another story we need to hear first," he said quietly.

Aditia understood immediately.

"The night your grandmother died."

Alya's fingers tightened around the silver ring as she gave a slow nod.

"I was nine," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I still remember every second."

She closed her eyes.

"I remember the rain. The smell of burning incense. My grandmother's hands pushing me toward my father's wardrobe."

A shiver ran down Aditia's spine.

He had heard countless ghost stories throughout his life, but none of them had ever begun like this.

Alya drew a trembling breath.

"She told me not to come out... no matter what I heard."

Lightning flashed beyond the window, followed by a low roll of thunder.

No one in the room spoke.

Very slowly, Alya opened her eyes.

"The thing outside..." she swallowed, "...was calling my name."

The room seemed colder than before.

Even Dirga, who had spent decades investigating crimes that defied explanation, remained perfectly still.

Aditia lowered his gaze.

He had the unmistakable feeling that everything he thought he understood about his father's work was about to change.

Because this time, the story wasn't about a lost soul searching for the way home.

It was about something that hunted the living.