The dream returned.
Screeching tires. The taste of blood. Jahe's eyes—wide, confused, then gone.
But this time, there was more.
A shadow behind the crash. A figure watching from the trees.
And laughter—low, mechanical, not human.
Bawang Putih woke choking on air. His throat dry. The sheets damp with sweat.
Jahe stood at the foot of the bed.
"Don't listen to her," he said softly.
Putih sat up. "To who?"
Jahe didn't answer. He just stared toward the hallway.
The door downstairs was open again.
For the third night in a row.
Bawang Merah had started locking it herself. He knew that.
Putih stood in the kitchen, watching the door sway. A soft creak. In and out.
Outside, the wind was still.
Jahe stood behind him.
"It's not her," Jahe whispered. "She's letting something in."
Putih turned. "What are you talking about?"
But Jahe just stepped back into the shadows.
Gone.
The next morning, Putih asked about the lock.
Bawang Merah frowned. "I deadbolted it before bed."
"Someone opened it."
Her face tightened. "It was probably you. Sleepwalking again."
Putih stared at her. "Have I done that before?"
She hesitated. "Once. After the accident."
He leaned forward. "What else are you not telling me?"
Her eyes didn't waver.
"There's nothing left to tell."
But Putih noticed the twitch in her fingers.
She was lying.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He sat in the hallway with a kitchen knife and a thermos of coffee.
The house was quiet.
Until 2:13 AM.
The door creaked.
Not open—but pushed.
Something on the other side.
He stood slowly.
And for a moment—just a flash—he saw a figure standing in the yard.
Thin. Wrongly shaped. Like a person drawn by someone who'd only heard about humans secondhand.
He blinked—and it was gone.
When he turned back, Jahe was behind him.
"They're getting closer," he said.