The air in Block 417 still smells of dried fish
and incense ash when Auntie Lian slips the
conscription notice from under Mei Ling’s pillow.
She burns it at the void deck altar, mutters to
the spirit of the old kampong well, and replaces
it with a forged number—her dead son’s. The
system doesn’t notice. The army takes it. The
family breathes.
But that night, the ceiling above the kitchen
cracks open like a mouth. A voice—half Hokkien,
half Malay—whispers the name of a soldier who
died in Bukit Timah in ’45. The next morning,
the HDB lift stops on Level 12 when no one
presses it. The water in the kettle boils
without fire.
Auntie Lian starts sleeping with a red thread
tied to her big toe, tied to a photo of the boy
she lost. She knows the rules: no ghost can
claim a living man’s number unless the debt is
unpaid. The British left debts. The Japanese
took more. Her son owed a soldier who never got
his burial.
On the third night, the ceiling drips black
water that smells of burnt rubber and durian
rind. The voice says: “You stole my body. I take
his soul.”
Mei Ling wakes to find her NS callup date
changed—moved forward by two weeks. Her mother’s
hands shake as she packs the rice dumplings, the
kaya toast, the talisman from the temple in
Geylang. The army won’t delay. The ghost won’t
wait.
Auntie Lian walks alone to the old Japanese
bunker under Pasir Ris Park at midnight. She
doesn’t beg. She doesn’t cry. She drops the
forged draft number into the rusted metal box
where the soldiers’ bones were buried after the
surrender.
The next morning, Mei Ling’s name appears on the
conscription list—same date, same unit. But the
letter has no signature. Just a smear of red ink
shaped like a fivepointed star.
Auntie Lian is gone. No note. No body. Only her
slippers, left neatly by the door.
And on the fridge, a single durian peel, curled
like a question mark.
The ghost got its due. The system didn’t blink.
The family still eats.
But now, every HDB block in Tampines hums just a
little louder after dark.
