The Latch That Never Caught

I was eleven when we moved into the old house on Jalan Kelicap, a narrow two-story with peeling paint and a front gate that always hung crooked. It wasn’t my choice to go there; my father’s job had transferred him to the northern part of Malaysia, and we had to live somewhere until our own place was ready. The house belonged to a retired professor who had gone abroad, and the realtor said it was a steal. I remember the first night, lying in my new room with the ceiling fan clicking overhead, I felt a strange weight in the air, like the house itself was holding its breath. But I was a kid, and I chalked it up to the unfamiliarity of everything.

That first week, nothing truly odd happened, just small things. A door I thought I closed would be ajar again. My mother would ask why I left the kitchen tap running, though I hadn’t been near it. I started to think the house was just drafty, old. But then came the Friday I will never forget. I had come home from school, my shirt soaked with the afternoon downpour, and I trudged up the stairs to change. My room was at the end of the corridor, its door slightly open. I pushed it open, stepped inside, and as soon as I was over the threshold, the door slammed shut behind me with a force that rattled the frame. I spun around, my heart hammering, and I saw that the window was shut—I had closed it that morning before leaving. There was no wind, no draft, nothing. I felt the cold panic rise in my throat, and then I heard it: a high-pitched giggle, right behind me. I didn’t turn. I just bolted, fumbling with the door handle until it gave, and I tumbled out into the corridor. I ran down the stairs, calling for my mother, but she was in the kitchen, on the phone, and she just waved me off, annoyed, saying, ‘Don’t be silly, it was the wind.’ I knew it wasn’t.

After that, I became hyperaware of the house’s moods. I would rarely stay alone in my room unless necessary. The laughter would come at odd times—a chuckle from the ceiling, a snicker from beneath my bed. My parents noticed my nervousness, but they blamed it on adolescence, on my too-active imagination. They never felt anything wrong. My father would often sit in his study, reading, and he would fall asleep there, claiming the house was peaceful. I couldn’t understand it. How could they not feel the eyes that prickled the back of my neck whenever I walked down the corridor?

The second encounter happened when I was thirteen, just before we migrated. My father had bought me a secondhand laptop for my birthday, and I was obsessed with it, staying up late to watch videos and chat with friends. One night, he came in to switch off the lights, telling me to go to sleep. I pretended to comply, but as soon as he left, I turned on the laptop screen again, its glow illuminating my face. The clock on the desk showed it was past 3 AM. I was watching a silly video, the sound low, when I heard a knock on my door. I didn’t answer, assuming it was my father again. But the knock persisted, soft but insistent. Then a voice, in Malay, clear as day: ‘Cepat, pergi tidur.’ (Quick, go to sleep.) It sounded like an old woman, croaky, with a hint of amusement. I froze. My father never spoke Malay to me, and my mother was asleep in her room down the hall. I didn’t respond. I just stared at the door, waiting. The knock came again, louder, and then the door handle turned slowly. I grabbed my blanket, pulling it up to my chin. The door creaked open an inch, and I saw a shadow move in the gap—but there was nothing behind it when it fully swung open. The room was empty. The hallway beyond was dark and still. I heard that high-pitched giggle again, but this time it came from inside my room, from the corner by the wardrobe. I shut my laptop and dove under my blanket, not sleeping a wink until dawn.

The next morning, I told my parents I had seen something, heard a voice. My mother sighed and said, ‘Maybe it’s just the house settling.’ But my father looked at me, his eyes serious, and for the first time, he said, ‘We are leaving in two weeks. Just hold on.’

Those final weeks were tense. I avoided my room as much as I could, sleeping on the sofa in the living room. But on the last night, I had to pack my remaining belongings from my room. I went up at dusk, determined to be quick. I opened my door, and there, in the middle of the floor, was a small, dusty photograph face-down. I flipped it over: it was a picture of an old woman with sharp features, dressed in a white kebaya, her hair pulled back tightly. On the back, there was a faded date and a name: ‘Cik Puteh.’ I felt a chill. I had never seen that photo before. I dropped it as if it were burned. I stuffed my backpack and fled downstairs.

We left the next morning. The realtor came to collect the keys, and as we drove away, I looked back at the house. For a split second, I saw a figure in the upstairs window—a slim, dark shape, too still. Then we rounded the corner, and it was gone.

I’ve never told this story at length to anyone until now. I’m fourteen, living in Australia, and sometimes, when I’m alone in my room at night, I think I hear a faint knock on my door, and a soft, old woman’s voice whispering, ‘Quick, go to sleep.’ But I always check, and the door is always closed. Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever shake off the feeling that I left something behind in that house, and that it might follow me across the ocean. But I guess that’s just the stuff of nightmares.