The 1947 HDB block on Toa Payoh sat halfbuilt,
steel bones jutting into the monsoon sky. The
new electrical system had just switched on — no
more kerosene lamps, no more blackouts — but the
power ran unevenly, flickering like a dying
breath.
Mrs. Lim, retired from the Colonial Civil
Service, lived on the fourth floor with her
grandson. She’d spent decades writing records of
Malay village petitions, Japanese wartime ration
books, and postoccupation land deeds. Her files
were sealed in a tin box beneath the bed.
Then Mr. Tan from 4C died in his sleep. No signs
of illness. Just cold hands, eyes wide open,
mouth twisted as if screaming at something
unseen. The coroner ruled it natural causes. But
the neighbours whispered: he’d been shouting
“They’re still here!” before collapsing.
That night, the lights dimmed. Not a flicker — a
full plunge. In the silence, Mrs. Lim heard
footsteps on the landing. Not walking. Sinking.
Like someone dragging feet through mud. Then a
voice — not human, but layered, ancient — spoke
in a dialect she hadn’t heard since childhood:
“You signed the paper. You made the choice.”
She went to the door. No one there. But the air
smelled of damp earth and burnt incense. And on
the floor, in the dark, a single footprint in
the dust — too large for a man, too small for a
ghost.
She opened the tin box. Inside, a document
stamped with the British Resident’s seal:
“Transfer of spiritual stewardship – Kampong
Geylang, 1942.” She’d never seen it before. Yet
her hand trembled as she read the name: hers.
The next morning, the power surged back —
violently. Every light in the block exploded.
Ten flats plunged into darkness. But in 4C, the
ceiling fan spun slowly, backwards, and the
radio crackled with static — then played a
recording of a 1943 radio broadcast, announcing
the creation of a new spirit registry, enforced
by local officials.
Mrs. Lim stood at the doorway, watching the
flameless lamp in her flat pulse once — like a
heartbeat. The electricity now followed no
circuit. It obeyed the old rules. The dead were
no longer silent.
She pulled out a pen. On the back of a
government form, she wrote: “I am not the last.”
And the lights stayed off.
