The evening came as it always did. Alya buttoned her uniform with a tired sigh, the nightmare from the night before still gnawing faintly at the edges of her thoughts. But the shift passed quietly. The factory sat in silence, its empty halls still and uneventful. No whispers, no shadows—just the hum of distant machinery.
By one in the morning, her phone vibrated. The screen showed a name that made her chest tighten: Ibu.
She answered quickly. "Assalamualaikum, Ibu?"
Her mother's voice cracked on the other end, thick with grief. "Alya… your grandmother. She passed away tonight. You need to come back to the village immediately. They will bury her in the morning."
For a moment, the factory around Alya blurred. She pressed her hand against her mouth, nodding even though her mother couldn't see. "I'll come now. I'll drive straight there."
She didn't even clock out—just left, uniform and all, slipping into the still night.
---
The road stretched long and lonely, the headlights of her small car carving weak tunnels through the darkness. The world outside was silent, villages sleeping, fields swallowed by mist. Alya kept her hands tight on the steering wheel, whispering prayers under her breath.
Then, without warning, the car shuddered. The engine coughed and died, rolling to a stop in the middle of the empty road.
"No, no, no…" Alya muttered, turning the key again. Nothing. The silence pressed heavy against the windshield. She tried once more. Then again. Again. Still nothing.
Minutes crawled by, her heart pounding with each failed attempt. The shadows around her seemed thicker, as if the night itself was leaning closer. Finally—after twenty endless minutes—the engine roared back to life. Alya let out a shaky laugh of relief, forcing the accelerator down.
The relief lasted only five minutes.
Thud.
Something heavy landed on the roof of the car. Alya flinched, her hands tightening on the wheel. The car jerked, slowing unnaturally, as if something unseen was holding it back.
Her pulse spiked. She glanced in the mirrors, craning her neck—but there was nothing. No branches, no fallen debris. Just the pitch-black road stretching behind her.
She pressed the accelerator hard. The car groaned but crawled forward at a snail's pace, as though caught in a grip too strong for her to fight.
Then it came.
The sound.
A shrill, inhuman cry, like a woman screaming in grief and rage. It cut through the night, echoing from above her, circling the car. Alya's blood ran cold. She had heard stories from her grandmother, whispered warnings of the Pontianak, the restless spirit of a woman who died unjustly.
Her car crawled until the exact moment the dawn call to prayer broke through the silence—05:56 AM. The azan carried across the fields, soft but steady.
And with it came another sound: a rush of wings, violent and furious, retreating into the distance. The car jolted, then surged forward, regaining its normal speed as though nothing had ever happened.
Alya drove with white knuckles the rest of the way, whispering prayers until the first light of morning crept across the horizon.
---
When she finally arrived, her mother was waiting by the door, her face pale from grief and sleeplessness.
"You're too late, Alya," she said gently, though her eyes glistened. "We buried her a few hours ago."
The words hit her harder than the night itself. Alya stepped inside, her legs weak, the air of her childhood home heavy with mourning.
"You should rest, anak," her mother said, brushing Alya's arm. "Go to your room. We'll talk later."
Alya nodded numbly, retreating into her old bedroom. The familiar walls offered no comfort. She sat on the bed, staring at her shaking hands.
Her grandmother was gone. But the thing on the road…
That had been real.