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By Mihar Dias October 2024
Nena had finally done it. After years of hard work and careful saving, she moved into her dream home: a sprawling 4500 square foot condominium in one of Kuala Lumpur’s most upscale neighborhoods. The unit was on the first floor, a deliberate choice, given her debilitating fear of heights. She paid a steep price for the apartment, but to Nena, it was worth every ringgit. This was hers, her sanctuary. Her pride was palpable when she invited us over to celebrate her first night in the new place.
We arrived around 8 p.m. My wife and I were greeted by Nena’s exuberance as she gave us a grand tour of her impressive new home. We settled in for a long night of laughter, indulging in gourmet food ordered from nearby expensive restaurants. Everything seemed perfect. The air in the apartment was crisp, the lights warm, and Nena glowed with satisfaction.
But as the evening drew on, the atmosphere shifted. The first sign came when we heard the unmistakable sound of plates crashing onto the kitchen floor. Startled, we looked at each other in confusion.
The maid, a quiet woman who had been diligently serving us, darted toward the kitchen. When she returned, her face had drained of colour. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Ma'am, there are no broken plates... nothing is on the floor.”
Nena frowned, unconvinced. She excused herself and went to check. She returned moments later, her face now mirroring the maid’s pale terror. “She’s right. There’s nothing broken in the kitchen.”
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. We tried to laugh it off, resuming our dinner, but the unease had settled deep into our bones. Then, once again, the crash of plates rang through the air—this time from the spare room, a room Nena used only for storage.
The maid made a move to investigate, but Nena stopped her. “No, you don’t need to. We don’t keep anything breakable in there—only books.”
Despite the assurance, the maid insisted on checking. When she returned, she looked even more rattled. “Nothing, ma'am. Nothing’s on the floor.”
It was then that Nena, trying to remain calm, suggested we search the apartment. "Maybe it’s just a prank—someone hiding speakers." We dutifully followed her from room to room, searching every corner. But the walls were solid concrete, no signs of hidden devices.
After an hour of fruitless searching, we decided it was time to leave. Nena assured us she’d be fine, but the tension in her voice was unmistakable. We left with a vague sense of foreboding, urging her to call the building guards if things got worse.
At 5 a.m., the phone rang. "I’m in pain," Nena’s voice croaked. “I can’t move. Can you call an ambulance?”
Rushing to the hospital, we found her bent over, groaning in agony. After hours of waiting, the doctor diagnosed her with kidney stones and a urinary tract infection. Relieved that it was nothing more serious, we thought the worst had passed. But Nena’s maid pulled us aside. Her eyes wide with fear, she whispered, “I slept in Nena’s room last night. Something kept pulling my ears whenever I tried to sleep.”
Back at the condo, Nena’s anxiety had grown. "Do you think it’s... something paranormal?" she asked, voice trembling. She wanted to consult someone to perform prayers and rid her home of any evil spirits.
My logical, Western-trained mind balked at the idea, but my wife, ever practical in matters of faith, reminded me that there are things beyond our understanding.
The next day, I contacted a man my brother recommended—someone who specialised in cleansing homes of spirits.
When I relayed the situation, he was calm. “There are five jinns lingering in the apartment, left behind by the previous owners. They’ve been curious about Nena’s presence. We’ll take care of them for a fee—491.25 ringgit. It will be done in three nights.”
Nena was skeptical, wondering if it was a scam, but we agreed to proceed. The first night after the ritual, Nena reported strange sounds—muffled struggles echoing from the living room. But nothing appeared out of place. She was too terrified to sleep, her nerves frayed by the constant disturbances.
The second night was worse. Nena called, her voice shaking. “There’s something... I don’t know what... in the living room. I heard people fighting, but when I looked, there was no one there.”
We tried to reassure her. “Give it one more night. They said it would take three nights.”
On the third morning, Nena finally called us—her voice calm, almost serene. “It was so quiet last night. No crashes, no voices. I slept like a baby. It’s... peaceful.”
To this day, I’ve never asked how the jinn were persuaded to leave or what happened during those three nights. Nena’s apartment remains a haven of tranquility, but there’s something unsettling about the quiet. Something about the way the shadows linger just a bit too long in the corners, the way the air feels unnaturally still after dusk.
Some things, I’ve learned, are best left unexplained.
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