It was 2006 when we made the move back to Australia. We’d just left behind the bustling chaos of Jakarta, where Jessica was born, and settled into a quiet, picturesque neighbourhood in Port Kennedy, Western Australia. The air was fresher, cleaner, and life slowed down considerably from the constant motion of Jakarta. It felt good to be back near the coast, with the soft whisper of the Indian Ocean not far from our new home.

We’d rented a stunning ex-display home, modern and spacious, with four bedrooms—more than enough space for the three of us. Jess, our little girl who was three and a half years old at the time, was thrilled to have her very own room. For the first time, she had her own sanctuary where she could escape into her world of toys and dreams. The house felt perfect, a new beginning.

But as we settled into our new routine, something began to unsettle us. Jess started mentioning, in that innocent way only children can, that she saw someone in her room at night. It began with just a casual mention over breakfast one morning.

“Mummy, Daddy, I saw a man in my room last night.”

We shared a glance, half-smiling, assuming she had been dreaming. After all, children have vivid imaginations, and moving to a new home could certainly spark strange dreams. We brushed it off and continued with our day.

But Jess persisted. Night after night, she told us about this ‘person’—a figure she saw standing in her room. The descriptions were vague, but what stood out most was her calmness about the whole thing. She wasn’t afraid. In fact, she spoke of the visitor as if he were part of the room, as normal as the toys scattered on her floor. But for us, it was different.

We grew uneasy. The thought that someone might be lurking outside her window crept into our minds. Could someone have been watching her? We checked the windows each night, making sure they were locked tight. But Jess’s descriptions didn’t fit. She said the visitor wasn’t outside. He was inside her room. This realisation chilled us.

Ita and I began to feel that sense of parental dread. The kind that keeps you up at night, listening to every creak and whisper of the house. We debated moving Jess into our room, just to be sure, just to keep her safe.

But before we could make a decision, an unexpected event occurred. A friend of Ita’s came to visit. She was Thai, an independent kind of woman with a certain mystical aura about her—someone who lived just slightly on the edge of the everyday world, with an uncanny knack for sensing things others didn’t. Jess’s story came up during the visit. Ita, feeling slightly embarrassed but curious, mentioned Jess’s nighttime visitor.

The friend, to our surprise, didn’t laugh it off or make light of it. Instead, she listened. Intently. Her face grew serious, eyes narrowing as she absorbed the story. Then, in a calm voice, she asked, “Do you have anything… strange in the house? Any paintings or objects you brought back from Indonesia?”

At first, we both shook our heads. Nothing came to mind. We hadn’t really brought anything unusual back with us. But then, a flicker of memory surfaced. I turned to Ita. “Wait,” I said slowly. “The mask.”

Her eyes widened in realisation. The mask! We had bought it in Perth from an importer who dealt in all sorts of exotic Indonesian artifacts. It was an elaborate, hand-carved Indonesian ceremonial facemask, full of detail and character. But we had never liked it. There was something unsettling about it, something that just didn’t sit right. It had been stored away in a cupboard, out of sight, out of mind.

We fetched the mask from its hiding place, presenting it to Ita’s friend. The moment her eyes fell on it, her expression changed. “That’s it,” she said firmly, without hesitation. “There’s your problem.” We were sceptical. A mask? Could this simple, long-forgotten object really be behind the strange happenings in Jess’s room? But she was insistent. “Get rid of it,” she said, “and the visitor will leave.”

Despite our doubts, we agreed. After all, what did we have to lose? The mask wasn’t something we cherished. We had no attachment to it, and if getting rid of it brought peace to our daughter, then it was worth it. We never liked the thing anyway, so off it went. I can’t even recall what we did with it—whether we gave it away or simply threw it out. But from that day on, the mask was gone. And, just like that, so was Jess’s visitor.

No more mentions of the man in her room. No more vague descriptions over breakfast. The nights became quiet again, and the sense of dread that had settled over us began to lift.

We never truly understood what had happened. Could it really have been the mask? Had something come with it, something unseen, attached to this seemingly innocent object? Or was it just coincidence, the power of suggestion weaving its own story? We didn’t have the answers. But the effect was undeniable. Once the mask was gone, so was the presence in Jess’s room.

To this day, I sometimes think back to that time and wonder. Did we brush up against something beyond our understanding, something that doesn’t fit neatly into the rational world? Or was it all just an eerie coincidence? Whatever the truth, the experience stayed with me. It makes you think, doesn’t it?

There are things in this world we can’t always explain, shadows and whispers that linger just beyond our grasp. And maybe, just maybe, that mask held a story of its own—a story we were never meant to fully understand.

It seemed like the perfect fresh start—our little family settling into a beautiful new home near the coast, leaving the hustle of Jakarta behind. But as the days passed, something strange and unsettling began to unfold, a mystery centred around our three-year-old daughter, Jess, and her unexpected nighttime visitor.