His crime editor used to advised him to wash his feet everytime before entering the office, after covering a suicide or murder crime scene. An advise which he used to refute and take lightly until it was proven true when one night, while working on a night shift after covering a suicide case, he heard footsteps of someone walking from the corridor of the pathway that led to the parking lot and into the floor he was working in, which by that time, was dimly lit.

The lights in certain places had been turned off to conserve energy as the young journalist, the only one on the floor, tried to stay calm by Facebooking. He kept hearing the sound of keys clinking as the footsteps grew louder and louder.

The final straw was when the door opened slightly but no one walked in. Trying to not panic, he turned on the music on his computer and pretended as though he did not hear anything. And that’s when he heard a woman’s voice next to him, “Buat aper tu?”

He turned and to his horror he found a wrinkly old woman clad in white tudung, pale as a dead body with no face, but staring at him.

“Buat aper tu?” it repeated again.

Enough was enough, he ran helter skelter downstairs to where the security guard sat.

He heaved a huge sigh of relief when he saw a silhouette of a security guard, his back against him, smoking. He ran up to the security guard and told him everything.

“The security guard, his back still against the young journalist, turned around suddenly and asked, “Was she faceless just like me?” And amid the screams of the young journalist, the faceless man repeated, “Buat aper tu?”


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