The Cup on the Table

Maya, a five-year-old girl, lived in a cramped farmhouse on the outskirts of a small village named Sunda Baru. Her home was a single room divided by thin walls, and from the narrow kitchen, you could see straight through the living area into the dim corner of the only bedroom. Her parents, Pak Dirman and Ibu Sari, were simple farmers, but during the planting season, the government hired men from the village for a paving project. Pak Dirman worked from eight to midnight, leaving Ibu Sari and Maya alone at night.

One humid evening, as they sat on the wooden bench in the kitchen eating rice and fried tempeh, Maya felt a thirst. ‘Get the glass from the table in the living room,’ Ibu Sari said, pointing. Maya trotted through the living room, her bare feet slapping the cool tiles. As she reached for the glass on the low table, she glanced toward the bedroom corner, a place that was always dark because the single bulb in the ceiling flickered. There, standing motionless, was her father. He wore his usual work clothes—the faded blue shirt and brown trousers—and the same warm smile he always had. Maya felt a flicker of confusion, but then she remembered: her father was not home. He had already left for the project at eight. She stared, her heart starting to pound. The figure did not move, but its smile seemed to stretch too wide. A cold dread wrapped around her. She burst into tears and ran back to the kitchen, grabbing her mother’s hand.

‘What is it, child?’ Ibu Sari asked, alarmed. Maya sobbed, pointing toward the bedroom. ‘Bapak is in there!’ Ibu Sari frowned, her face turning pale. She walked briskly to the doorway of the living room and peered into the darkness. There was nothing there. ‘There’s no one, Maya. You must have imagined it,’ she said, though her voice was thin. But Maya insisted. That night, Ibu Sari did not let Maya out of her sight. She wrapped her arms around her on the bench, both of them staring at the bedroom doorway until the sound of Pak Dirman’s motorcycle came from outside. He came in, tired and dusty, and Maya ran to hug him, burying her face in his chest. He laughed. ‘What’s this? Did you miss me?’ But when Maya looked up, she noticed his shirt was clean, unbuttoned at the collar, and he smelled of sweat and soil. ‘You came home early?’ she asked. ‘No, it’s midnight,’ he said. ‘Did you see something?’ Ibu Sari exchanged a worried glance with him. They dismissed it as a child’s nightmare.

The next evening, the same thing happened. Maya was sent to fetch the cup in the living room. She had almost forgotten her fear, but as she stepped into the room, she saw the figure again—same clothes, same smile, this time slightly closer, leaning halfway out of the bedroom corner. She screamed and scrambled back to her mother. Ibu Sari did not find anything, but she felt a chill in the air, and the lamp flickered. When Pak Dirman came home, he found his wife and daughter huddled in the kitchen, refusing to go near the bedroom. He searched the room thoroughly, checked the windows, the small closet, the gaps under the bed. Nothing. But that night, as they lay in bed, they all heard a soft scraping sound, as if something was dragging a shoe over the floor in the living room. They froze, listening. Then silence.

The next day, Pak Dirman went to the village chief, who told him about an old legend: the ghost of a farmer who had died during the building of a well decades ago, and who had no family to mourn him. He was known to appear to children, wearing the clothes of his last living moment, and he would ask them for a cup of water. If the child refused, he would grow angry. But if the child gave him water, he would leave in peace. The chief advised him to leave a cup of water on the table every night before he left for work.

Pak Dirman was skeptical, but that night, he placed a glass of water on the living room table, right in the corner of Maya’s sight. As he left, he told Maya, ‘If you see the man, just point to the glass and say, ‘Drink, please.’ Do not be afraid.’ That night, Maya sat with her mother in the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the living room. At around nine, the shape emerged fully from the bedroom corner. It was not her father’s face—it was blank, like a smooth mask, with a mouth that stretched in an unnatural smile. Maya’s hands trembled, but she remembered her father’s words. She pointed to the glass and said, ‘Drink, please.’ The figure moved to the table, lifted the glass with long fingers, and drank slowly. Then it set the glass down, bowed its head slightly, and dissolved into the darkness. The cold air that had filled the house lifted.

When Pak Dirman came home, Maya was asleep on her mother’s lap, her face peaceful. The glass on the table was still full of water, but the water had turned murky, like mud. They never saw the figure again. But Maya never again walked near the bedroom corner without holding someone’s hand. And to this day, before they sleep, they always leave a cup of water on the table—just in case. The cup remains there, never touched, but sometimes, in the middle of the night, the water trembles as if something has just taken a sip.