Before Gita can decide, Sumarni is already turning the cap of the golden bottle. In the distance, Gita hears a wrenching howl. The death cry of a hound. The wail comes ever closer. No. The cry is her own. She is on top of a cliff, her hands and feet bound, her flesh scraping against a sharp rock face. Suddenly, she sees a figure above her, soaring. The creature has a skull with long pointed ears, and its black robes obstruct the sky. Gita sees only darkness. The creature descends slowly towards her until their bodies touch. It is so thin, but its weight makes her gasp. She struggles. The face of the one in the black robes inches closer, until its hard, cold lips graze Gita’s. Its mouth opens. It emits a rancid stench and a deafening screech. Gita turns away, clamping her eyes shut.

Sumarni hastily reseals the bottle. She puts her arm around Gita’s shoulder and strokes her hair. She leads her guest slowly out of the room.

Gita sits on the pale green sofa in the living room, biting her lips, covering her eyes with her hands.

Sumarni sits next to her.

‘Did you see it? I keep every noise, so that it doesn’t place the kiss of death on them, so that they don’t disappear unburied.’

‘I really have to go now, really… have to –’ Gita stammers. ‘Thank you for everything.’

Gita says goodbye to Sumarni, and goes to the door. Outside, the rain begins to pelt down.

‘Your house is so sombre. Now I know why no light enters. But understanding doesn’t make everything simple.’

‘Child, you forgot something.’ Sumarni is leaning against the door and clutching a bottle. ‘This is yours.’

Gita shakes her head. ‘You’re mistaken.’ She shakes her head more firmly and quickens her pace. She doesn’t want to look back.

Sumarni smiles sadly.

‘I’ll be sure to hold on to it,’ she says. She is quite certain her guest hears her. ‘My door is always open for you.’

The Queen

Maybe you don’t believe in the supernatural. I didn’t either, until my best friend Herjuno’s life was upended by a mocking, mystical force.

One night, Herjuno had a strange dream. He saw a man dressed in sumptuous, glittering robes. The man sat, cross-legged and eyes closed, on a tapestry embroidered with gold threads. A sharp aroma wafted from the offerings that flanked the bed. Torches provided the only light. A dome, like a cloche, stood above the scene, supported by teak pillars. Soon came thunderbolts, rain, a fierce storm. With a roar, the gusts burst the door open and a greenish glow flooded the room.