Shroud: Jinn

27 - Anomalous

1953.

Two years of cold December months have passed, but the constant rainy weather did not dampen me at all. I was about to be a father again.

I still held my current job. Everyone at the hospital was pleased that I was no longer in low spirits, specifically Dr. Renard. Once, he joked that I had a particular glow and asked if I had remarried.

If only he knew the truth; I kept it from everyone I knew.

I had moved into another kampung that was far away, in the western part of Singapore. Starting anew in a place filled with unfamiliar faces was critical to me. It was a good thing that the newspaper article did not mention my name. It was easier to have a fresh start.

Most importantly, I did not want Melati to remember.

Melati remembered every single detail of our time together, especially the day that we first met. Our right hands went for the same kuih jongkong, a dessert made of pandan flavoured custard, coconut milk and sugar steamed in banana leaves, sold at the side of the street, beside the mosque near the hospital that I worked. It was as though it was fated for us to meet. The way both of us blushed in sync as we politely offered the last piece to the other, only to have the dessert bought by someone else. It was all because we did not have the heart to take the last piece for ourselves.

She remembered everything about me, us, our family - our likes and dislikes, our characters and personalities, our bad habits and good ones, and inside jokes that we often shared. However, the last memory that she had was seeing the penanggal appeared in front of her during her labour. She only recalled blacking out afterwards. She asked where Saleha and the newborn baby was, but I had unintentionally let it slip that both of our daughters had passed away. She would tear up whenever something reminded her of Saleha. It was a painful reminder that she had lost two daughters.

Yes, I did not want Melati to remember her death; I wanted Melati to stay alive.

To be alive. And she is.

Saleha and my other daughter appeared to me only once since their deaths. I had not seen them since. I doubt they knew where we were. It saddened me but knowing Melati, seeing them would upset her even more. I just wanted to keep my wife happy.

It was bittersweet.

The house that we moved in was atypical from the ones in the kampung. Most of the structure was designed from wood, however, the exterior at the back of the house was encased in bricks in an odd, asymmetrical design that appeared unfinished as though the previous owner upgraded their humble abode halfway. There were thick lines deeply embedded on some of the bricks. At first, I thought it was part of the design. Upon closer examination, I discovered that they were long and irregular scratches, as though a group of beasts tried to claw their way inside. I had run my fingers over the marks. I wished I did not. The marks felt-

Frantic. Brutal. Animalistic.

I wished I had done a background check on the house before I moved in.

According to the villagers, the house once belonged to a Javanese dukun (shaman) who originated from Madura, an Indonesian island off the northeastern coast of Java. The woman had a difficult death. She was a verbose woman but had not spoken any words leading to her demise, only low guttural grunts as she glared at people with soulless eyes. She walked among the living, but her body had decayed for over a month. Her heart was no longer beating, yet she walked around as though she was still breathing. Her soul was hindered from departing her body by vengeful spirits that were under her care. They refused to let go of their master and they harmed anyone that came close. That included a few ustaz that attempted to exorcise the demons out of the body.