Since childhood, Buana's imagination had always been wild and uncontrollable. His mother often asked him, “Why do you always draw those terrifying monsters?” And Buana could never answer her.
Strange shadows inhabited his mind, arriving uninvited almost every day. They simply passed through, came to him, haunted him, but never hurt him. They took countless forms. At first, he was terribly afraid, but over time he learned to tolerate them and came to regard them as part of himself.
It all began when he was five. Little Buana was playing ball in the yard on a bright afternoon. His kick sent the ball flying onto the porch, where it struck a pile of tools that had been precariously stacked on top of a cabinet. The items tumbled down and slammed into his father's motorcycle. The body was scratched, and the mirrors and front headlight were smashed.
Buana's father, a hot-tempered police officer, rushed outside when he heard the commotion. His eyes immediately caught sight of the shattered glass on the official motorcycle. His blood boiled. His gaze shifted to Buana—a look filled with fury.
“YOU!!” His anger flared even higher. His wife had just complained that the household money was never enough.
“YOU LITTLE BRAT!!” Without another word, he yanked off his belt. The vehicle wasn't his. He had borrowed it from a coworker, and now it was damaged. Money for repairs? There was none. His argument with his wife still smoldered in his chest. And now Buana's recklessness had just poured gasoline on it.
Buana trembled, gripped by fear. Instinctively, he ran in uncontrolled strides. He didn't see where he was going because his instincts forced him to think only of saving himself.
He ran. He kept running, crossing the edge of the housing complex. He was more afraid of that belt whipping him. More afraid of his father's eyes. He feared that man more than anything in the world. He leaped, charging forward—and disastrously, his body slammed into a pickup truck speeding along the main road. He was thrown hard, and his head struck the asphalt.
The world went dark, but he could still hear his father. Like a monster roaring and filling his entire mind.
A small miracle occurred: Buana survived. After receiving treatment, the wounds on his body healed. But something inside his head never returned to normal. The neurons in his brain no longer worked as they should. A few months later, petit mal seizures began to attack him.
When a seizure struck, Buana would freeze for a moment, his consciousness vanishing completely. To other people, he looked like a statue, staring blankly without responding for fifteen seconds before resuming his activities as though nothing had happened. But to Buana, those fifteen seconds felt like forever. In the darkness of his mind, terrifying monsters appeared one after another, drawing near with threatening smiles and gripping him in fear. Whenever he tried to tell his mother about them, the woman would only chuckle, dismissing it all as the overactive imagination of a child who read too many fairy tales.
From then on, Buana chose to remain silent. The fear he couldn't express in words eventually poured onto paper. His drawings grew more detailed—the monsters' bulging eyes, the sharp teeth jutting from their mouths, their long, thin hands seemingly ready to snatch him away.
As he grew older, the seizures began occurring less often. In their place, however, he frequently felt as though something was following him—something invisible. He knew it might be nothing more than a feeling, but whenever he walked alone through a deserted alley or stood in a crowd, the sensation appeared: unseen eyes watching him, faint footsteps behind him. Because of that unsettling situation, Buana eventually trained in martial arts.
That night, after Akmal returned home, Eka came by to visit. On his way home from the afternoon recess, Buana had already told Eka he was back. The man brought Buana egg martabak and a jug of mineral water. “Use this pump, Na. I don't have a double dispenser.”
Buana waved his hand, signaling that Eka didn't need to go to any trouble. He shifted a chair on the veranda, letting his friend sit beside him. The smell of the still-warm martabak mingled with the scent of tobacco as they began blowing cigarette smoke into the night air.
“Where were you for two days with Mr. Ahmad?” Eka asked, slipping a cigarette between his fingers. Eka was five years younger than Buana. Thin and tall, his proportions often made Buana feel as though he looked like a line drawn too long. Eka had a pointed chin and sharp nostrils, giving the impression that he could smell something beyond everyone else's reach. Though his face had become better cared for since he got married and his finances more stable since he went into business, his attitude toward Buana hadn't changed. He still regarded Buana as his big brother, his savior.
“Dunno. I don't remember. There was Simo, Boyolali, somewhere else … Just some remote places like that. I couldn't keep notes, so I only recorded everything.”
“The important thing is that you went along. You were directly involved. You can just transfer it later.” Eka picked up a piece of martabak and chewed it casually.
“Quite a crowd showed up for his visits, too. Whether they came voluntarily or because they were paid.”
Eka gave him a crooked smile. “He's been in office for ten years, Monkey. Of course he has plenty of supporters.”
“And plenty of money, too. Money ….” Buana took a drag from his cigarette, then shook his head with a grin, unwilling to continue. “He seems to have a lot of businesses. I haven't had a chance to talk to him privately. He's always busy.”
“A lot, Monkey. People like him have a lot of opportunities, a lot of connections, and a lot of houses, too.”
“According to Akmal, Ahmad owns a house here, too. Didn't you say this was subsidized housing?”
Eka nodded in response to Buana's sarcastic question, then exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke into the air. “Two houses, as far as I know. One over in that corner and one at the far end near the prayer room.” He pointed in two different directions. “'Subsidized' is just the government's term, Monkey. For rich people connected to the government, it's an opportunity to get cheap houses.”
“Then why did you choose a house over here?” Buana asked, moving his chin toward the grand, empty house standing across from them. Eka's house was too ‘alone,’ especially because its position made it seem separated from the rest of the housing complex. And Buana's gaze was now fixed on that house.
“Because it's on the corner. It has a side lot.” Eka gestured toward the side of the house, which was still vacant land to this day. “I bought it from a civil servant who needed money back then.”
“Wasn't your wife scared? Or was that house still occupied back then?” He moved his chin toward the empty house again, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the table and sending ash cascading down. Something moved near one of the empty house's windows.
“When I bought it, the house was already empty, but it still looked well-maintained. The weeds weren't that tall, and the trees weren't that thick. It still looked like a house. The lot's huge, Na. You interested?”
“Interested? With what money? I can barely afford to eat. I only got this job from you, and that's how I can afford food!” Buana took a deep drag from his cigarette. He was sure there had been a slow movement over there just now.
Interested? Of course he was. Buana was intensely curious about what was inside. Someone or something that somehow appeared and disappeared in the second-floor window. He didn't want to tell Eka, because Eka would definitely just laugh at him. He knew Eka wasn't someone who believed in the supernatural. The man was far too realistic.
“But that house really is interesting, Ka,” Buana said.
“Interesting as a murder setting. I know what you're thinking. Come on, don't think about that yet. Finish your assignment with Mr. Ahmad first! Have you started writing?”
“Yeah. I started with the part where I want to strangle Ahmad. What a rotten style he has. If he weren't the one paying me, I'd have to be insane to write about the goodness of someone like him.”
Eka snickered. “Don't let him end up as the murder victim in your story!”
Buana fell silent for a moment, staring straight at the house across from him. “How much do you know about that house?”
“Seriously interested?” Eka took a deep drag from his cigarette.
Buana really was interested, because when he stared longer at the second-floor window, someone appeared in full view. A man, standing straight as if challenging him, staring back in Buana's direction. A question thundered through his mind: Was it a delusion, or …?