Uncle Shom Part 1

I tried to scream, but my throat had turned to cement.

On a low wooden table sat a clay bowl. Inside the bowl, something smoldered—not with fire, but with a cold, blue smoke that drifted upward in curls, defying gravity. The smoke formed shapes. Faces. Faces without bodies. Faces that opened mouths without sound. Uncle Shom Part 1

Little guests.

“He won’t,” Din said with the overconfidence of an eleven-year-old. “My mom says he hibernates like a bear.” I tried to scream, but my throat had turned to cement

The shed stood at the back, a small concrete block with a corrugated tin roof. Unlike the house—which was merely sad—the shed was wrong . The door was too short. The single window was covered not with glass but with thick, yellowish plastic that bulged outward slightly, as if something inside was pushing against it from within. The smoke formed shapes

The rumor had started a week earlier. Pak Mat, the goat herder who lived two streets over, had lost three goats in a single night. Not stolen—goats are noisy, and no one had heard a truck. Not eaten by a wild animal—there are no tigers in suburban Malaysia. The goats had simply... vanished. Their pen was untouched. The gate was still latched. But the animals were gone, leaving behind only a faint smell of burnt camphor and damp earth.