The Midnight Shuttle

Chapter 11 : The First Night

Abah Jaya's house stood at the very edge of the village.

Beyond the small wooden fence stretched nothing but towering pine trees and the narrow footpath leading toward the mountain. By the time Aditia parked the angkot beneath the stilted house, the afternoon sun had already begun sinking behind the western ridge.

The old man slid the wooden door open, revealing a simple house with polished wooden floors, handwoven bamboo walls, and a small prayer corner near the eastern window.

"It's not much," he said. "But it's dry."

Aditia stepped inside first.

Everything was spotless, yet every piece of furniture carried the quiet weight of age, as though generations had lived and waited within these walls.

Alya paused near the entrance, the faint scent of sandalwood lingering in the air.

"It smells like Grandma's house."

Abah Jaya smiled without looking at her.

"She used to say the same thing whenever she visited."

For a brief moment, the house felt warm—almost ordinary.

They shared a quiet meal before sunset: steamed rice, salted fish, and wild vegetables gathered from the mountain.

No one spoke much, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable.

It felt respectful.

As though everyone understood tomorrow would change something none of them could yet put into words.

When darkness finally settled over the village, Abah Jaya lit a single oil lamp and placed it in the center of the room.

Its gentle flame pushed back the shadows just enough to reveal their faces.

"No electricity?" Aditia asked, frowning slightly.

"There is," Abah Jaya replied calmly. "We simply don't use it tonight."

"Why?"

The old man turned his gaze toward the window, his expression unreadable.

"Some lights attract things better left wandering in the dark."

The room fell silent as the mountain outside disappeared into the night, leaving only the wind moving softly through the pine trees like a distant whisper. Abah Jaya rose to his feet and looked at them both.

"Remember what I told you. Whatever you hear tonight... do not answer it."

He extinguished the lamp, and darkness swallowed the room.

A heartbeat later...

Something knocked on the window.

No one moved.

The knock had been soft.

Almost polite.

Yet in the suffocating darkness, it seemed loud enough to fill the entire house.

Tok.

Tok.

Tok.

Aditia instinctively turned toward the window.

He couldn't see anything beyond the thin wooden shutters. The mountain had disappeared into the night, leaving only a wall of darkness pressing against the glass.

Another knock followed.

Exactly three times.

Tok.

Tok.

Tok.

Beside him, Alya slowly tightened her grip on the cloth pouch resting in her lap.

She didn't speak, and she didn't need to. Both of them remembered Abah Jaya's warning—whatever you hear... don't answer it.

The silence stretched.

Then, from somewhere outside the house, a woman's voice drifted through the wind.

"Alya..."

It was soft, gentle, almost tender.

Alya's breathing caught. She knew that voice. Every instinct in her body urged her to stand, to open the window, to look outside.

"My dear..."

The voice came again.

"I'm cold."

Aditia glanced toward her. She had gone completely pale.

"That's impossible," she whispered. "My grandmother... used to call me that."

The room fell silent once more.

Abah Jaya remained seated near the doorway, his eyes closed as though he had expected every word.

He neither reacted nor looked toward the window.

He simply waited.

Outside, the wind faded.

The voice returned one last time.

Closer now.

Close enough to sound as though it were standing just beyond the wooden wall.

"Alya..."

"Open the window. I only want to see you."

Alya's fingers trembled as Aditia slowly reached over and took hold of her wrist before she could move. Without looking at her, he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't."

The knocking stopped.

For one long heartbeat, everything became silent.

Then something slowly dragged its fingernails across the outside wall, from one end of the house to the other.

The scratching stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Silence settled over the house once more, so complete that not even the wind dared disturb it.

Aditia slowly released Alya's wrist, though neither of them moved. Every instinct told him to look outside, to confirm that nothing was there. He didn't.

His father's voice echoed through his memory.

Curiosity has buried more people than courage ever saved.

Across the room, Abah Jaya finally opened his eyes.

"Good," he said calmly. "It doesn't like being ignored."

Alya frowned. "It?"

The old man gave a slow nod. "It has worn many faces over the years. It has borrowed many voices. But in the end... it always grows impatient."

Almost as if answering his words, a dull thud echoed against the outer wall. Once. Then again.

Not a knock this time.

More like someone leaning their full weight against the house.

The old bamboo walls groaned softly. Dust drifted from the ceiling. Alya instinctively held her breath.

"Can it come inside?" she whispered.

Abah Jaya looked toward the front door. "Only if someone invites it."

The answer should have been comforting. Instead, it made the silence even heavier.

Another thud. Closer.

This time the floor beneath them vibrated ever so slightly.

Aditia's hand slipped into his jacket and closed around the worn leather cover of his father's notebook. For reasons he couldn't explain, holding it made him feel less alone.

Outside, something circled the house—slow, patient. Its footsteps never hurried. They simply moved around the wooden walls, one careful step after another, as though searching for the smallest mistake.

Then they stopped.

Right beneath the window beside Alya.

The voice returned.

No longer pleading. No longer gentle.

It spoke with quiet certainty.

"You won't stay awake forever."

No one answered.

The thing outside waited.

Then, very softly, it laughed.

The laughter faded into the darkness, leaving behind a silence so heavy it felt as though the mountain itself was holding its breath along with them.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Then, from somewhere far away, a rooster crowed.

Once.

Aditia frowned. "It's still the middle of the night."

Abah Jaya nodded without opening his eyes. "It isn't the rooster."

A chill ran down Alya's spine. "What does that mean?"

The old man finally looked toward the window. "It has learned another voice."

As if answering him, the crow came again—closer this time. Too close. Not from outside the village, but from just beyond the wall.

The sound was almost perfect.

Almost.

But something was wrong. It lingered too long, its final note twisting into something no living bird could make.

Aditia felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "It imitates everything?"

"Not everything," Abah Jaya replied calmly. "Only the things that make people lower their guard."

The crowing stopped.

A heartbeat later, something brushed lightly against the wooden shutters—not a scratch, not a knock, just the slow, deliberate glide of fingertips across old timber.

Alya lowered her gaze. "I don't want to hear it anymore."

"You don't have to."

Abah Jaya reached for a small woven pouch hanging beside the prayer corner and quietly scattered a pinch of coarse salt across the windowsill and beneath the front door. He murmured a prayer too softly for either of them to understand.

The room seemed to grow warmer.

Outside, the footsteps paused.

For the first time that night, they retreated—one step, then another—slowly disappearing toward the forest.

Aditia released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Is it gone?"

Abah Jaya tilted his head, listening beyond the walls before answering. "No. It has only realized we're not opening the door."

Silence settled over the house once more.

Then the old man looked directly at Alya. "Try to sleep. You'll need your strength before dawn."

Alya nodded, though she doubted sleep would come. She lay down on the thin mattress beside the wall, clutching the cloth pouch against her chest.

Aditia remained seated, his father's notebook still resting in his hands.

Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour.

Gradually, the house grew quiet again.

Alya's breathing slowed. Her eyes finally closed.

Outside, the mountain stood motionless beneath the moonless sky.

And somewhere deep within the forest, something opened its eyes.

Alya opened her eyes and found herself standing alone beneath the enormous banyan tree in the center of Ciburuy Village. The square was empty—no villagers, no wind, no birds—only silence. Morning light filtered gently through the branches above, bathing everything in a pale golden glow. For a fleeting moment, it felt peaceful.

Then she noticed the cloths.

Every strip of white fabric that had hung from the branches that afternoon was gone. In their place, hundreds of black ribbons swayed slowly overhead.

Alya's breath caught as she took a cautious step backward.

The village no longer looked the same. Every house stood abandoned. Doors hung open. Windows gaped like empty eyes. The warmth she had felt only hours earlier had vanished without a trace.

"Alya."

She froze.

The voice came from behind her—soft, familiar.

She turned.

Nenek Lastri stood a few steps away, wearing the same simple kebaya she had worn on the last night of her life. Her face was gentle, peaceful, exactly as Alya remembered.

Tears welled in Alya's eyes.

"Grandma..."

She started toward her, but Nenek Lastri slowly raised one hand.

"Don't come any closer."

Alya stopped.

"Why?"

Her grandmother smiled sadly.

"Because this isn't where I am."

The words sent a chill through Alya's body.

She looked around.

The village had begun to change. The black ribbons hanging from the banyan tree twisted violently without a single breath of wind. The ground beneath her feet darkened. Cracks spread silently across the earth.

Nenek Lastri's expression grew urgent.

"Listen to me carefully. You must not leave the path. No matter what you see... no matter who calls your name... stay on the path."

Alya took another step forward.

"I don't understand."

"You will," her grandmother said, her voice already sounding farther away. "So much sooner than I wished."

The world around them trembled. The houses blurred. The banyan tree dissolved into drifting mist. Nenek Lastri's figure slowly faded with it.

Before she disappeared completely, she spoke one final sentence.

"The mountain doesn't hide the truth..."

A long pause followed.

"It hides the door."

Everything went dark.

Alya woke with a sharp gasp.

The oil lamp had been relit. Pale blue dawn filtered through the bamboo walls. Abah Jaya was already standing at the door, waiting.

"It's time," he said quietly.

"The mountain is awake."

The village was still wrapped in darkness when they stepped outside.

Only the faintest trace of dawn lingered along the eastern horizon, where the sky had begun to fade from black to deep indigo. The mountain loomed silently above the treetops, its summit hidden beneath a blanket of drifting mist.

The air was cold enough to sting their lungs.

Abah Jaya locked the front door before slipping the old brass key into Aditia's hand.

"You'll need this before the sun reaches its highest point."

Aditia looked down at the tarnished key.

"What does it open?"

The old man adjusted the strap of the worn canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

"You'll know when you see it."

Without another word, he started toward the narrow trail leading into the forest.

Aditia and Alya followed close behind.

The village disappeared surprisingly quickly.

Within minutes, the last wooden house had vanished behind the trees, replaced by towering pines whose branches blocked out the growing light. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the distant rush of water somewhere deeper in the valley.

No one spoke.

It felt wrong to disturb the silence.

As they climbed higher, the path became narrower.

Roots twisted across the ground like sleeping serpents, forcing them to watch every step. Moss-covered stones glistened with morning dew, making the climb slow and careful.

After nearly an hour, Abah Jaya finally stopped.

Ahead of them stood a weathered stone gate, half-swallowed by vines and centuries of creeping moss.

Ancient carvings covered its surface, though time had worn most of them away, leaving only one symbol unmistakably clear: a circle surrounded by four handprints.

Abah Jaya rested his palm against the cold stone.

"This..." he said quietly, "...is where your father turned back."

Aditia stared at the gate.

"He never told me about this."

"He couldn't."

The old man didn't take his eyes off the weathered carvings.

"He promised he wouldn't."

Silence settled over the forest. Even the birds had stopped singing.

Then, from somewhere beyond the ancient gate, a single child laughed.

The sound echoed softly through the mist.

Alya felt every muscle in her body tighten.

"There are no villages beyond this mountain..." she whispered.

Abah Jaya slowly closed his eyes.

"I know."

No one moved.

The laughter came again, closer this time, followed by the sound of tiny footsteps running somewhere beyond the gate.