Buana sipped his coffee slowly, trying to ignore the din around him. The rich, bitter aroma seeped into his nostrils, easing the boredom that had been closing in on him for hours.
“How does it taste?” Akmal dragged his chair closer, producing an irritating squeak of friction. Buana turned and saw the young man’s slightly raised eyebrows, though his eyes were fixed on the cup in Buana’s hand.
“Good,” he replied, understanding what Akmal meant.
“This is Banaran coffee. It’s the local specialty. One of these days, I’ll take you to Kampung Kopi Banaran, and we can walk around the coffee plantation while we’re there. The view looks straight out over Rawa Pening. Have you ever been there?”
Of all Ahmad Buyani’s staff, Akmal was the friendliest, quickest, and apparently the most dependable. On the road, he wasn’t merely a driver—he was an all-purpose errand boy. Usually, as soon as they arrived, he got to work: straightening the chairs, arranging the tables, hauling the sound system, checking the schedule, and organizing the security personnel. Ahmad Buyani and the other staff only added a few finishing touches. The rest of the time, Akmal was the one rushing back and forth.
Buana smelled the coffee again. Its aroma really was extraordinary, radiating a soothing warmth. “Not yet. I only just heard of it. Is it a café? Or a tourist attraction?”
“Kampung Kopi Banaran started out as a plantation, but now it’s basically a resort. We can go tomorrow if Mr. Ahmad doesn’t have a recess schedule.”
“How many more places do we have to visit?” This was the fifth location they had visited in two days. It was exhausting.
“Tomorrow’s off.”
Good, Buana thought. At least he’d have time to rest. Since arriving in this city, Buana had only had time to drop his clothes off at Eka’s house before being dragged straight into Ahmad Buyani’s string of recess events. They were like marathon runners who weren’t allowed to stop.
“Maybe not tomorrow, Mal. I need to rest. Maybe I’ll try writing first and summarize what I’ve gotten so far. The recordings are still with Indra, right?” During the recess trips, Buana had deliberately entrusted his phone to one of Ahmad Buyani’s staff members to record every conversation throughout the events. The recordings weren’t merely documentation; they were tools to help him work—to map the politician’s thought patterns, identify him, and ultimately acquire him. That way, Buana could write more effectively about Ahmad Buyani’s recess tour.
Akmal craned his neck, looking for Indra, who was still sitting near Ahmad Buyani. “He took it earlier. It should be safe.” He looked at Buana, seeming to think for a moment. “Have you written this kind of thing often?”
“Not really,” Buana replied as he sipped his coffee. “I mostly write fiction.” Buana fell silent for a moment, remembering how his experience had ebbed away over the past year. He hadn’t written a single sentence in the last six months. “Novels, movie scripts, short stories. Sometimes I send them to newspapers,” he continued between breaths.
“Do you write horror stories too? The kind they show in movie theaters?” Akmal made no effort to hide his interest.
“I have. Why?”
“I’ve got plenty of horror stories. Back when I used to climb mountains all the time, I had quite a few strange experiences that still give me chills whenever I remember them. Maybe they could be turned into a story. I can’t write, but I want to learn.”
Buana gave a faint smile. “Interesting.”
Akmal then told him about one of his experiences meeting someone, only to find out the next day that the person had already died. He also mentioned haunted houses that often became the subject of stories in the city.
“Oh, right. Where are you staying now?”
“In … Kecandran, at the Alam Cemara Housing Complex—or that’s what it’s called, I think.” He couldn’t remember.
Akmal suddenly shifted in his seat and turned fully toward Buana. “What a coincidence! Mr. Ahmad owns a house there too. But he rents it out. Did you know there’s a huge empty house across from the complex? They say it’s haunted.” He emphasized the last sentence as though underlining it.
Buana stared at him, trying to read his expression and unsure how to respond. He hadn’t even slept at Eka’s house yet.
“I’m serious! There are tons of stories about it. Maybe it could inspire something you write,” Akmal continued.
Buana tried to look interested, though so far Akmal’s rambling sounded like a clichéd ghost story. Kuntilanak, wewe gombel, genderuwo, white shadows floating through the air—it was all too generic, like a copy-and-paste horror tale assembled from urban legends found anywhere. People often embellished their experiences so much that things that should have been frightening lost their essence.
But all of Buana’s assumptions changed when Akmal drove him home that evening.
Around five in the afternoon, Ahmad Buyani’s group arrived back in Salatiga. Cool air greeted them as they exited the toll road, with a majestic mountain rising in the background, its slopes partly veiled by clouds. The city sat on the slopes of Mount Merbabu, 500 to 600 meters above sea level, and fog often descended as evening approached. The chill grew denser as their vehicle traveled along the southern ring road, where tall trees cast shade over the roadway.
After dropping the group off at Ahmad Buyani’s residence, Buana said goodbye. The politician had actually offered to let Buana stay the night, but he refused because he felt he needed to rest. Truly rest, without interruptions. Akmal promptly offered to drive Buana to the Alam Cemara Housing Complex, to Eka’s house, where Buana was temporarily staying.
The vehicle sped along, passing through fairly crowded village roads. Then Akmal deliberately slowed down as they passed the large house he had described that afternoon. “There it is—the one I told you about. Creepy, right?”
Buana looked at it. At first glance, the house appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary old building. But there was something—something that left Buana speechless.
The faint sunlight made its truly miserable condition unmistakable. In Buana’s mind, the house needed only a little fog, a wolf’s howl, a flash of lightning, and perhaps a drizzle. Even the two gaping windows on the second floor seemed to be staring out at the world with mournful eyes. An empty house steeped in loneliness and horror. Yet of everything about it, the most striking detail was its location: it stood directly across from the house where he was staying.
Tonight, even with his view filtered through tangled brush and blocked by the rambutan tree whose branches reached in every direction, Buana could see something inside. Something moving slowly—something that, in his imagination, was … someone!