In 1983, Tan Beng Soon returns from Sydney with

a degree in accounting and a Singaporean

passport that still smells like kerosene from

the ship’s deck. He’s assigned a 3room HDB flat

in Toa Payoh—his reward for “overseas talent”—

but the paperwork says his bonus is withheld

until his “ancestral lineage is verified.” No

one explains why.

The Housing Board’s new rule: all applicants

must submit a signed “Spirit Clearance

Certificate” from a licensed medium, stamped by

the Taoist Association. No certificate, no keys.

The rule wasn’t there last year. It appeared the

week after the last ghost story went viral in

the Straits Times’ “My HDB Experience” column.

Beng Soon, who once calculated compound interest

in his sleep, finds himself kneeling before

Madam Lim, a medium in a Kampong Glam backroom

who burns joss paper and whispers to the dead.

She claims his late grandfather is angry—he

never paid his debts to the spirit world. Beng

Soon laughs. His grandfather died of lung cancer

in 1952, selling his last pair of shoes to buy

rice.

Then Beng Soon’s own body moves. His hands grab

the incense sticks. His voice, thick with

Singlish, says: “Ting, you owe me 3000 yuan. Pay

in gold ingots or I haunt your new flat.” The

medium’s eyes roll back. She doesn’t know the

words.

Beng Soon realises—he’s not channeling his

grandfather. He’s channeling the ghost of a dead

fraudster: Ah Lian, a former kiasu accountant

who faked spirit seals for 47 HDB applicants in

1979, pocketing the “spirit fees” in dollar

notes stuffed inside red packets. Ah Lian died

choking on a bak kut teh bone, still clutching a

ledger.

The hard rule bites: only one medium per estate

per month. If Beng Soon doesn’t get his

certificate by Friday, his flat goes to a family

who bribed the clerk with durian.

So Beng Soon becomes the medium. He sets up shop

under the HDB block’s void deck, wearing his old

Sydney tie and selling “authentic ancestral

clearance” for $5 a go—no joss paper, no chants,

just a printed form with his own signature and a

photocopy of his grandfather’s death certificate.

The ghost laughs inside him, rattling his ribs

like a broken fan.

By Tuesday, 12 families get their keys. On

Wednesday, a woman brings her son’s NS uniform.

“My boy’s spirit says he’s scared to sleep in

the barracks,” she pleads. Beng Soon, sweating

under his shirt, channels Ah Lian again: “Tell

him to stop stealing other boys’ socks. That’s

not ancestral. That’s just kiasu.”

On Thursday, the Taoist Association comes. They

find Beng Soon’s forms—no seal, no ritual, just

his handwriting and a sticky note: “This ghost

is broke. He’s also a liar.”

They arrest him.

At the station, the officer flips through the

ledger. “Ah Lian?” he says. “That’s the guy who

vanished after the 1979 HDB scam. Died with 14

red packets full of fake gold leaf.”

Beng Soon grins. “He’s still in me. He just told

me: ‘Bro, you got 87 more applications waiting.

Let’s split.’”

The officer sighs. He takes the ledger.

On Friday, Beng Soon gets his keys.

The ghost doesn’t leave.

Every night now, as Beng Soon eats char kway

teow at the void deck stall, the ghost whispers:

“Next time, charge $10.”

And Beng Soon? He’s thinking about opening a

franchise.