1983, HDB Block 412, Toa Payoh. Ah Beng—once

boss of the Jalan Besar Boys, now selling char

kway teow at 4am—gets a letter: his mum, now a

ghostchasing kiasu auntie, bet $15,000 at the

temple that he’d fail NS and end up in jail. If

he passes, she dies. If he fails, she lives. The

temple priest, a former kampong medium, said the

bet was sealed with her last breath of durian

puff smoke.

Ah Beng didn’t fail NS. He passed. With honours.

But the system didn’t care. His mum’s ghost

appeared three nights later, perched on his sink,

holding a 1982 PSLE result slip she’d stolen

from his school. “You got A+ in Maths,” she

hissed through the air conditioner’s drip, “but

your life? F.” Her ghost didn’t cry. She laughed.

Like a radio playing static at 3am.

The flat started changing. Doors locked when he

tried to leave. The fridge hummed the National

Anthem backwards. One morning, his char kway

teow oil turned into red bean paste—his mum’s

favourite. He knew the rules: if a ghost’s tied

to a HDB flat, you can’t sell it, can’t move,

can’t die till the parent’s shame is burned

clean.

He tried calling the police. They said ghost

complaints go to the Town Council. He tried

burning her photo. The ashes turned into his NS

drill sergeant’s face, screaming: “YOU STILL A

BOY!” He tried stealing the neighbour’s cat to

sacrifice. The cat pooped on his NS discharge

certificate. Then it spoke: “Your mum’s not

haunting you. She’s haunting the system.”

On the night of the Great HDB Power Cut—when

half of Toa Payoh lost electricity and the ghost

lights flickered green—he lit a match. Not to

kill her. To burn the flat. His mum’s ghost

screamed, “YOU’RE THE FAILURE!” But then she

laughed. Hard. Like a kiasu auntie who just won

the lottery. The flames didn’t consume wood.

They consumed the floor plans. The walls peeled

back like old posters of Lee Kuan Yew.

Underneath? A chalkboard. Her handwriting: “I

bet you’d fail… so you’d never leave me.”

The fire didn’t spread. It just… dissolved. The

next morning, the HDB board sent a letter: flat

decommissioned. Demolition scheduled. Ah Beng

got $28,000 compensation. He bought a stall in

Tiong Bahru. Sold fish ball noodles. His mum’s

ghost sits on the wok now, stirring. Sometimes,

she adds extra chilli. Says it’s “for the boys

who didn’t make it.”

The flat’s gone. The ghost’s still there. And

every night, when the hawker lights dim, she

hums the NS march tune—offkey, but proud.