Work | Uncle Shom Part 1

But we children knew the truth. Uncle Shom wasn’t just an old man. He was a gatekeeper. A custodian of things that squirmed in the dark. And this is the story of how I learned that some legends are not just stories—they are warnings.

We slipped through one by one. The yard was a jungle of overgrown ferns and something that looked like lemongrass but smelled like burnt honey. The soil was black and wet, even though it hadn’t rained in three days. My flip-flops squelched.

He spoke rarely, and when he did, his voice was like stones grinding together. Uncle Shom Part 1

We called ourselves the Lorong Gatal Trio. Our mission that holiday: find out what Uncle Shom kept in his back shed.

But it was his eyes that froze my blood. They were no longer old-man brown. They were white. Completely white. No pupil. No iris. Just two orbs of milk-colored emptiness that somehow saw everything. But we children knew the truth

I followed their gaze.

It was a cage.

“What if he wakes up?” Aisha whispered, her voice trembling.