📍 Balai Polis, Ipoh
🕛 6:00 PM
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It's been hours. I sit handcuffed to a cold metal chair in the police interrogation room, the ticking clock louder than my own heartbeat. A storm of thoughts swirls inside me - how on earth am I supposed to explain what happened?
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Would anyone believe me? Or would they dismiss me as crazy, just like everyone else always has?
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Still, I promised myself one thing: I will tell the truth. No matter how unbelievable it sounds. No matter how insane people think I am. What do I have left to lose, anyway?
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Since childhood, no one ever believed me when I spoke about my dreams - nightmares, more like. But I never stopped being myself just because people judged me.
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I remember the day that changed everything.
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I was eight. A scrawny kid, spinning my gasing with friends in front of the house. My mother returned from work that evening, but something was off. She didn't greet me. She just walked straight inside.
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I was too busy trying to win the game to pay much attention. Eventually, I did win, but by then my friends had gone home for prayers. I went inside.
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The house felt... wrong.
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The sofa cushions were still messy, the floor unswept, and the radio - always blasting my mother's favourite program - was silent. Normally, she'd clean the house while sipping her teh tarik and humming along to the station. But that day, nothing.
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Her room was locked. I thought she might be in the bathroom, so I shrugged it off, showered, and started watching Power Rangers Wild Force.
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Thirty minutes passed. My stomach growled. I knocked on her door. No answer.
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Uneasy, I ran to my neighbour's house. Aunt Rani rushed back with me. She banged on the door, calling my mother's name again and again. No response. Then her husband, Uncle Deva, came. I'll never forget the look they exchanged. She whispered something in his ear, and he immediately began breaking down the door.
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"Aunty, why?" I asked, confused.
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She pulled me away, clutching me tight. When the door gave way, Uncle Deva went in. Aunty followed - and came running back out in tears. She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe.
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But I broke free and ran inside.
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That was the day I saw death with my own eyes.
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My mother, hanging from the ceiling fan. A black rope twisted around her neck. The fan blades bent, her pale face frozen, her tongue swollen and protruding slightly.
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I screamed.
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My father had died serving the country as a soldier. And now, my mother was gone too.
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That night, something inside me broke. Sleep became impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, the nightmares came. My mother appeared in them, standing in a cemetery, blood streaming from her eyes like tears. She always pointed at me. Always.
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Doctors, psychiatrists, therapists - nothing helped. I learned to live with the nightmares, but they scarred me. Dark circles, bloodshot eyes, messy hair. Kids whispered that I was cursed, possessed. Some even believed my mother's spirit haunted me.
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Years passed. I grew older, changed my appearance, tried to leave the past behind. But rumours followed me everywhere - into college, into adulthood. A handful of friends stood by me, a few lecturers respected me, but the whispers never stopped.
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And then one night... everything changed again.
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Because after years of torment, I finally saw something new in my dream.
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A symbol. It was more like a third eye.
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And I knew - it was the first clue to the truth behind my nightmares.
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and then Add to home screen.