The Night the Cicadas Held Their Breath

The December heat in Kampung Lemal was a blanket that clung to your skin, and the air smelled of ripe rambutan and damp earth. My family had come to spend three days at my grandmother’s wooden house, a place that felt like a time capsule, with its creaky floorboards and the constant hum of insects. My mother, heavy with her fourth child, had reluctantly agreed to the trip, and my younger brother, Amin, and my sister, Siti, were already running around the yard, chasing the stray cats. I was just happy to be out of the city, away from the constant glare of screens, and into a world that felt simpler, even if it was only for a few days.

Daytime was a symphony of bird calls and the rustle of leaves as monkeys swung from tree to tree. We helped my grandmother pick vegetables from her small garden, and she told us stories of her youth, her voice a warm rasp. But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, the air changed. The cheerful chirping faded into a tense silence, and the shadows grew long and hungry. My grandmother would always light the kerosene lamps early, pulling the curtains tight, muttering something about the night not being for the living. I thought she was just old and superstitious, but there was a tremor in her hands that said otherwise.

The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The excitement of the new place, the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, and the cacophony of nocturnal sounds kept my eyes wide open. My family had fallen asleep, their breaths rhythmic in the dark. I lay on my thin mattress, scrolling through old games on my phone, the only light in the room. At around midnight, the sounds outside seemed to stop all at once. The cicadas, which had been a constant drone, went silent. The frogs stopped croaking. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath. And then I heard it: a soft, deliberate knocking on the front door. Thump. Thump. Thump. Three times, slow and measured.

I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen. I looked at the clock on my phone: 12:03 AM. Who could be visiting at this hour? My grandmother’s house was at the edge of the village, surrounded by oil palm plantations. The closest neighbor was at least a hundred meters away. My mind raced with possibilities: a lost traveler, a stray animal, maybe even the police. But the knocking came again, more insistent this time. Thump. Thump. Thump. I slid off the mattress and tiptoed to the window, pulling back the edge of the curtain just enough to peek out. The porch light was off, but there was a faint moon. I saw nothing. Just the shadow of a rusted swing swaying gently, as if someone had just stopped it.

My heart pounded in my ears. I wanted to wake my father, but my legs felt rooted. The knocking stopped, and a long silence followed. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Then, a voice, low and guttural, called from outside: ‘Assalamualaikum, is anyone awake?’ The voice was distorted, like it was coming from a deep well. I knew it wasn’t human. The pitch was wrong. The rhythm was off. I backed away from the window, my back hitting the wall, and I stayed there, staring at the door, until the first light of dawn. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I told my grandmother about the knocking. She didn’t react with surprise. Instead, she pressed her lips into a thin line and said, ‘You must have dreamed it, dear. But if you hear it again, do not answer. Do not look out the window. And whatever you do, don’t open the door.’ Her words sent a chill down my spine. I tried to brush it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had, indeed, seen something. The swing had been moving, and there was no wind.

The second night, I was determined to stay awake, to prove to myself that it was just my imagination. I placed a small flashlight beside me. At exactly midnight, the same silence fell. The cicadas stopped, the air grew heavy. I held my breath, waiting. Then, the knock came again, but this time it was different. It was heavier, more desperate, and it wasn’t at the front door. It was at the back door. And then the back window. And then the side wall, right where I was lying. I could hear something scratching the wood, like claws. I pulled the blanket over my head, trying to drown out the sound, but it only grew more frantic. ‘I know you’re awake,’ the voice said, now right outside the wall. ‘Let me in. Let me in.’

I felt something cold touch my ankle through the blanket. I screamed, thrashing, and the touch retreated. Then came a sound that made my blood run cold: my little sister, Siti, started crying in the room next door. The thing outside let out a horrid laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all—it was a mix of clicking and wheezing. I heard my father’s heavy footsteps as he rushed to comfort her, and just like that, the sounds outside stopped. The cicadas resumed their drone as if nothing had happened. I stayed frozen, my heart racing, until my mother came in and found me shaking. She asked what was wrong, but I just said I heard a bad dream.

On the final night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided I had to know what it was. I armed myself with a small parang from the kitchen and positioned myself behind the front door, peeking through a crack. At midnight, the world went silent again. I waited, holding the blade. The knock came, and I heard the voice, but this time it was different. It was pleading, and it spoke in a language I didn’t recognize, but somehow I understood. It said, ‘I have been looking for my baby for a hundred years. They say you have a new one. Let me see her.’ My blood froze. My mother was sleeping with my unborn sister in her belly, and little Siti was just a few rooms away. I screamed, ‘Go away!’ and the voice wailed, a sound so high-pitched it hurt my ears. The door rattled violently, as if someone was trying to break it down. I stumbled back, and my grandmother appeared, holding a kerosene lamp, her face stern.

She walked past me, opened the door a crack, and said something in a language I’d never heard her speak. The rattling stopped. A cold draft swept through, and then, a soft crying, like a baby’s, faded into the night. She closed the door and looked at me, her eyes tired. ‘It was a forest spirit. It lost its child long ago. It seeks new ones. You were right not to open the door.’ I never asked how she knew the words to say. The next morning, we left. As we drove away, I saw in the rearview mirror that the swing on the porch was moving, even though there was no wind. And at noon, when the sun was high, I swear I heard three knocks from the back of the car. I didn’t look back. I never went back to that village again.

It’s been years since that December. My little sister is now a teenager, and she sometimes asks me why I always visit my grandmother alone. I can’t tell her the truth, because she wouldn’t believe me. But there is one thing that still haunts me to this day: as we drove away, I could’ve sworn I saw a figure standing by the side of the road, watching us, its form shimmering in the heat. And in its arms, it held something that looked like a baby, but with too-long limbs and eyes that were all black. I blinked, and it was gone. But the image is burned into my mind, a reminder that some places hold secrets better left undisturbed. And that the night, especially in a place where the cicadas hold their breath, can be far more terrifying than any shadow or scream.