The HDB block stands empty, its corridors choked
with dust and static. Power grid collapsed three
years ago. No more lifts, no running water. Only
the ghosts remain.
Auntie Liang, 68, clutches her amulet as she
warns the boy: “That flat on Level 5, Room 12 —
it swallows people. Not just ghosts.” She speaks
in Singlish, voice trembling. The boy, 22, nods.
His father’s funeral is two days away.
He climbs the stairs, torch in hand. The door
swings open without touch. Inside, the air reeks
of burnt incense. A faded photo on the wall
shows a family — his father, young, smiling. The
boy freezes.
A shadow moves. A voice whispers, “You’re late.”
The walls pulse. The boy’s phone dies. He runs,
but the corridor stretches. The flat’s doors
multiply. He stumbles into a room where his
father sits, alive, waiting.
“Come home,” the man says. The boy hesitates.
His father’s eyes are hollow. The boy remembers
the auntie’s words: “Some ghosts don’t want to
rest. They want you to stay.”
He grabs a rusted pipe from the wall. Hits the
father’s head. The man collapses. The flat
shudders. The doors snap shut. The boy staggers
out, blood on his hands.
The next morning, the HDB block is gone. Only a
crater remains. News reports say a gas leak
caused the collapse. No survivors.
Auntie Liang burns joss paper at the site. Her
amulet cracks. She mutters, “At least he’s free
now.”
The boy’s name is never found. But in the new
HDB estates, some say they see a shadow in the
lift, holding a pipe.
