Chapter 3: Rising Action
Aiman wasted no time, swiftly securing Dukun Hassan's address and setting off in his car. He messaged the number he got from his relative and was replied with a simple 'okay'. The journey took him through the bustling streets of Kuala Lumpur, the city's skyscrapers and vibrant buildings. As he approached the address, he found himself in a residential area, the buildings a mix of old and new, their facades a patchwork of colors and styles. He parked his car and stepped out, the heat of the day already intense, even at this early hour. The apartment building loomed before him, a modern structure with a glass facade that reflected the bright sunlight. He registered himself as a visitor at the security guard, went on the elevator and knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a man with a warm smile and eyes that held a wisdom beyond his years. Aiman was taken aback by the stark contrast between this man and the stereotypical image of a witch doctor he had in his mind. Instead of the wizened, gnarled figure she had imagined, he bore a striking resemblance to M. Nasir, a renowned singer in Malaysia, with his tidy shoulder-length hair and a physique that was both bulkier and more muscular than Aiman had anticipated.
The apartment was a far cry from the dark, cluttered spaces he had imagined. Instead, it was a bright, open space with minimalist furniture and a clean, white color scheme. The air was filled with a faint, spicy scent, a mixture of ginger and other exotic spices that tickled his nostrils. A small, flickering candle sat on a worn wooden table, the spicy scent seemed to come from that candle. The few tapestries that adorned the walls were faded and worn, their colors muted by time. The overall atmosphere was one of quiet domesticity, rather than the eerie, foreboding aura Aiman had expected. As he took in the scene, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt if Dukun Hassan was really a master of the dark art
As they stepped inside, Dukun Hassan offered some coffee which Aiman took a sip. There was an awkward silence as Aiman had multiple thoughts in his mind. Dukun Hassan, his face a mask of impassivity, finally broke the tense silence. "What brings you here, Aiman?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the very bones of the house. Aiman hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. "I seek your help, Dukun Hassan," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wish to exact revenge on a friend of mine, Haziq." As Aiman spoke, Dukun Hassan's expression remained unchanged, but the flickering candle cast eerie shadows across his face, making him appear more menacing than ever. He closed the heavy curtains, plunging the room into near darkness, the only light coming from the small candle he held aloft. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, the once vibrant hall now feeling cramped and stifling. The room seemed to close in around them, the walls pressing in with an almost palpable sense of foreboding. The once bright hall now felt like a tomb, the shadows dancing and twisting in a macabre ballet. Aiman could swear he felt an icy chill run down his spine, as if the very presence of evil spirits lingered in every corner of the apartment. His resolve wavered for a moment, but the thought of Haziq's betrayal and the pain he had caused hardened his heart once more.
Dukun Hassan's small laughter shattered the oppressive silence that had settled over the room like a shroud. It was not a warm, hearty sound, but a cold, sinister chuckle that seemed to seep into the very air, leaving a chill in its wake. He turned to Aiman, his eyes gleaming with a malevolent light, and warned, "Once you choose to continue with your plan, Aiman, your life will never be the same. There are rules to be obeyed, restrictions that must not be broken. Remember, the path you tread is one of darkness, and the consequences will be severe." Aiman tried to clear his mind, to focus on the task at hand, but the fiery embers of vengeance and anger burned within him, consuming all rational thought.
Aiman, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest, agreed to Dukun Hassan's conditions without a moment's hesitation. The old man's eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity as he began his dark ritual, his voice rising and falling in a foreign tongue that Aiman could not comprehend. The room seemed to shiver in response, the air thick with an almost palpable energy. Aiman felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him, and the shadows that danced at the edges of his vision began to take on sinister forms. He tried to focus on the small candle flickering before him, its tiny flame a beacon of light in the encroaching darkness. The shadows seemed to mock him, their forms twisting and contorting as they danced around the room, their whispers a cacophony of unintelligible sounds. The hums that filled the room grew louder, heavier, as if the very air was being warped by the power of Dukun Hassan's incantation. Aiman's breath came in short, sharp gasps, his body trembling with a mix of fear and awe. He could feel the power in the room, a tangible force that seemed to press against his skin, threatening to overwhelm him. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the hums stopped, and the shadows vanished, leaving the room bathed in an eerie silence. Dukun Hassan, his face a mask of concentration, pulled back the heavy curtain, allowing the cold, harsh light of the streetlamps to spill into the room. It seemed many hours had passed and the bright sky outside had changed into a dark night
Dukun Hassan, his eyes gleaming with a mix of greed and malice, extended his hand, palm upturned, as if to catch the very air. "Payment," he rasped, his voice a low, grating sound that seemed to scrape against Aiman's nerves. Aiman, unfazed by the man's audacity, reached into his pocket and withdrew a thick wad of cash, peeling off a few thousand ringgit with a practiced ease. Money was no object to him; his family's wealth was as vast and unyielding as the ancient forests that surrounded their estate. He handed the money over, the crisp bills rustling softly in his hand. Dukun Hassan's eyes flicked to the money, then back to Aiman, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "And now, for the final part of our arrangement," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, intricately carved needle, its tip glinting menacingly in the dim light. "You are to hold this needle all through the night," he instructed, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "And when you meet Haziq in the office tomorrow, you are to poke him with it. Just a small prick, mind you. Enough to make him bleed." Aiman's grip tightened on the needle, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat that seemed to radiate from his body. He felt a surge of satisfaction, a dark, twisted pleasure at the thought of finally getting his revenge. He nodded, a grim smile playing on his lips. "Understood," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. As he drove back home, the needle clutched tightly in his hand, Aiman felt a strange sensation, a sense of unease that seemed to seep into his very bones. He tried to shake it off, attributing it to the late hour and the strange task he had been given. But as he lay in bed, the needle still clutched in his hand, he felt it again - a presence, dark and malevolent, that seemed to press against the very edges of his consciousness.