Rachel’s near-death experience last night has prompted me to write more about the hazards of the common house gecko—a creature that, as it turns out, is capable of psychological warfare.
11:30 PM: The Call of Terror
I was in bed, eyes closed, body drenched in exhaustion, drifting into that sweet, pre-dream state where everything feels weightless.
Then— my phone rang.
It was Rachel.
Before I could even say hello, a spine-chilling scream erupted from the tiny speaker. She had skipped the pleasantries and gone straight to full-blown horror-movie mode.
Between incoherent, one-syllable shrieks, I managed to piece together the situation:
A gecko had landed on her windshield.
Now, for most people, this wouldn’t be a crisis. But Rachel is terrified of geckos. She would rather endure dental surgery without anesthesia than be within a 10-foot radius of one—even if separated by shatterproof tempered glass.
To make things worse, she was alone, driving on the highway from Shah Alam to KL.
High-Speed Panic
Adrenaline kicked in. My brain snapped into emergency mode.
“Listen to me, you need to stop the car. Right now. Pull over before you crash!”
“I CAN’T!!!!” she screamed. “IT’S STARING RIGHT INTO MY EYES!!! ARGHHHHH!!!”
I tried reasoning with her. She needed to calm down and regain control before attempting anything.
But the only response I got was more blood-curdling screams.
It was clear— panic had taken over.
Calm, logical reasoning was no longer an option.
So I switched tactics.
In my most authoritative, no-nonsense voice, I boomed:
“YOU’VE GOT TO PULL OVER NOW! FUCKIN’ PULL OVER BEFORE YOU KILL SOMEONE!”
Not my proudest moment, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I needed to snap her out of it before she plowed into another car because of a tiny reptilian intruder.
Imagine explaining that to the police.
“Officer, the accident report reads: ‘Gecko made eye contact. Driver lost will to live.’”
Radio Silence
Through sobs, she finally whispered, “Call you back later.”
Then—the line went dead.
I immediately dialed back.
No answer.
Instead, I got that soul-crushing recorded message:
“The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep.”
Beep.
For 45 minutes, I stared at my phone, heart pounding, wondering if I had done the right thing.
Had she decided to drive off a cliff in a final, kamikaze attempt to eliminate the gecko? Had she suddenly found the Hollywood-style bravery to “take down” the windshield invader, even if it meant paying the ultimate price?
Sweat began to bead on my forehead.
I dialed again.
The Message from the Gecko
The phone rang.
Then—she answered.
“Hello, are you okay?!” I asked, bracing for the worst.
I heard soft sobbing, but relief flooded through me when she said:
“Ok already lah.”
She was stationary. Out of the car. Alive.
“What happened to the lizard?” I asked.
“It took off,” she replied, then paused—long enough for me to realize she had just shuddered at the thought.
Then she added, in a tone that sent a chill down my spine:
“It gave me a message.”
I frowned. “A message?”
“Yes. It told me to lay off exposing them. It told me to tell you to stop writing about them.”
I stared at my phone in disbelief.
“Wait– what?”
“It wanted me to know it wasn’t kidding. And before it left… it pissed on my windshield.”
I was speechless.
“Then it deployed its parachute and floated off somewhere along Jalan Tun Razak.”
The geckos.
They know.