Chapter 4 Whispers from the Night Shift

Krek... krek... The static from the old radio dominated the stall's silence, overpowering the remnants of "Keramat" that had earlier made Damar's hair stand on end like a marching army. His ears were still buzzing from the cheerful yet cold laughter of the headless child (or maybe it had a head but it wasn't clearly visible in the darkness under the table?).

00:13.

"Om Damar... you remember me, right?" The whisper still echoed in Damar's mind, even though when he looked down again, the space under the table was completely empty. Zilch! Only the shadows of the chairs that looked like the legs of giant spiders hiding, and a small blue flip-flop that looked wet and dirty, as if it had just been dragged out of the haunted well behind the stall. Splash!

Damar held his breath. The scent of damp earth and something metallic still filled the air. He stepped back slowly, unknowingly bumping into the rickety frying rack. Thud! Blackened used cooking oil dripped slowly from the plastic hanging above the empty wok drip... drip..., like nostalgic tears from fried snacks that were cold and longed for the warmth of hot oil.

Silence. Dead silence. So quiet that Damar could hear his own heartbeat pounding like the bass drum of a metal band performing a concert in his chest.

And just as his brain sent the signal "RUN!!!" to his entire body, the stall door creaked open-krieeek... again. This time, there was no piercing child's laughter, no melancholic dangdut, and no cheerful yet cold little footsteps.

Instead... fog. Syuuut...

The fog just entered, uninvited, like illegal cigarette smoke that knew exactly which cracks were safe to sneak through. It swirled around the bamboo support pole of the roof wussssh..., deftly seeping into the gaps of the rusty zinc roof ngiik..., and then... stopped. Solidified. Standing upright right in front of the cash register full of coffee stains and fried snack crumbs.

The figure slowly formed a body. Not a human with all their flaws and advantages (especially the habit of gossiping). But not entirely a monster with terrifying claws and a deafening roar either. It was as tall as a double-door refrigerator whose doors often got stuck. Its skin looked like moving clumps of gray clouds, with small flashes of light like lost lightning inside zzzt... zzzt.... It was truly a sight that made Damar think, "This must be the effect of sleep deprivation and watching too many cheap horror movies."

Damar-who had almost reached the "used to it" level with all the weirdness in this stall (level 3 out of 10)-still cautiously took a step back. Sreeek!

The foggy creature took a long breath. Hoooh... The sound of its breathing was like thousands of elevator doors in a skyscraper opening at the same time. Truly a sound that made Damar's hair do a second flash mob.

"I'm tired, Mas Damar."

The voice... was strangely soft. Soft and heavy at the same time, like a kindergarten teacher confiding while leaning against a bus stop in the middle of the night after a long day of looking after hyperactive children.

"I work the night shift. Filling the dreams of insomniacs."

Damar opened his mouth, wanting to ask, but then closed it again. He tried to digest the information that had just entered his already smoking brain. While silently, he placed the small wet flip-flop under the table, hoping its owner wouldn't suddenly appear and demand it back.

"Dreams...?" Damar finally asked, with a cautious tone like asking for the secret recipe of a witch doctor's spell.

"Yes," the creature replied, slowly sitting down on one of the wooden benches that immediately groaned in protest krieeek... kraaaak... as if it would break into pieces. "My job used to be pleasant. Making people sleep soundly. Flowers blooming. Rainbows after the rain stopped. Meeting an ex who suddenly became nice and didn't hurt you. But now... it's just nightmares. Trauma everywhere."

It bowed its head, the gray cloud clumps of its body seemed to tremble. Then, drops of gray water fell to the floor plip... plop..., like sad drizzle on a silent night.

"Have you ever, Mas Damar, been an extra in the dream of someone who just lost their child? Or become the shadow of a husband whose wife hasn't come home, no one knows where? It's tiring, you know! Sometimes I get carried away by the emotions myself. I cry too, even though I don't have eyes to shed tears."

Damar remained silent, processing the confession of the creature whose profession was filling nightmares. Life was indeed tough, even for supernatural entities. Instinctively, he took two used plastic sachet coffee cups. One he filled with the remaining cold chocolate milk in the thermos, the other with plain water from the battered dispenser that sounded like someone gargling. Because for some reason, this creature seemed like the type of customer who was spiritually thirsty and longed for attention, not just bitter coffee without hope.

He also grabbed a sugar donut that had hardened like a brick since that afternoon from inside the open plastic container.

"Here. The donut's hard, but... the sweetness is sincere," Damar said, offering the donut with a thin smile.

The creature accepted the donut with a slow movement. The donut floated slowly towards the swirling mist at its front that probably served as a mouth. Crunch! It bit into the hard donut. Powdered sugar scattered on the floor like sad artificial snow.

"Thank you, Mas Damar. In my world... no one sells things like this. Everything is too serious. Everything is too fast. No time to chat while eating hard donuts."

Damar nodded. He knew exactly how that felt. Since being fired from a start-up company whose name he couldn't even pronounce correctly (what did "quantum" have to do with "cats" anyway?), his life felt like a blank page in a notebook that had been forgotten to be rewritten.

"Why did you come here?" Damar finally asked, breaking the silence that was starting to feel familiar.

The creature stared-or at least, the direction of its "face" pointed directly at Damar's eyes. That eyeless gaze somehow felt more piercing than an ex-girlfriend's cynical stare.

"Because only this stall... is willing to listen to the complaints of something considered unreal. In the dream world, everyone is focused on their own dreams. No one cares about shift workers like me."

For a moment, the stall was silent again. But this time, a silence that felt warm and understanding. Like two people sharing the burdens of life, even though one of them was a faceless clump of fog.

The old wall clock ticked softly tik... tok..., no longer threatening. Outside, the faint crowing of a neighbor's rooster could be heard kukuruyuk..., not loud and demanding, but like a whisper from the real world calling Damar back, even though he himself wasn't sure where his "home" was right now.

The creature slowly stood up. Its body trembled again and slowly transformed back into an increasingly thin clump of gray fog. Syuuut...

"I have to go on. There are still many nightmares that need mending tonight. Pity those who can't sleep soundly."

Damar just smiled faintly. His hand waved slowly.

"If you have time, stop by again. But don't forget to pay. The 'venting fee' here is quite expensive."

A small, trembling laugh was heard from the increasingly disappearing clump of fog. Hihihi... Then it vanished completely, leaving behind a fainter scent of damp earth and a small gray piece of paper under the glass of chocolate milk.

The writing was just one line, written in ink that looked like rainwater mixed with dust:

"Don't stop guarding the door between dreams and reality. There are those who need a place to just stop by and feel heard."

00:17.

Kriiiit... The stall door trembled softly, as if an invisible wind was knocking politely.

The old radio turned on again by itself. Krrrr... jreng! But this time, it wasn't the mournful strains of dangdut or deafening static.

Instead... a news broadcast. The voice of a radio announcer with a flat and slightly hoarse tone. Strangely, the language sounded familiar yet foreign, like Indonesian spoken with an accent from the future.

"Reported missing since three nights ago, Damar Setiawan, 27 years old, a former literature student working as a coffee stall attendant in the vicinity of the old banyan tree, Jalan Kenangan. The police are still conducting an intensive search and urge the public who have information to report immediately..."

Glek! Damar swallowed, his saliva feeling like a handful of sand. His hands suddenly trembled violently.

"Huh? What's this news? I'm still here, aren't I? Watching the stall. How can I be missing?" Damar muttered in confusion, pointing at himself with a trembling index finger.

But when he unconsciously glanced at his reflection in the dusty windowpane-zilch! No reflection.

Damar panicked. A cold sensation spread throughout his body. He felt his own neck. His pulse was still weak deg... deg.... He was still breathing. Still alive... wasn't he? But the old wall clock above the shelf suddenly spun... backward. Kriet... kriet... kriet...

00:16.

00:15.

Time felt like a tangled cassette tape being played in reverse. The night wind blew hard again, making the bamboo curtains in front of the door swing wildly kriat... kriut....

And someone was knocking on the stall door.

Three times. Softly. But heavily. Like the knocking of a hammer on a coffin. Tok... tok... tok...