The HDB block on Tampines Street 12 hummed with
the drone of aircon units and the smell of char
kway teow from the void deck. 17yearold Mei Lin
scrubbed her mother’s unpaid utility bills for
the third time this month, her fingers numb from
cold water and shame. Her mother, a widow who
ran a makeshift nasi lemak stall behind the void
deck, never slept — only counted coins,
whispered to ancestors, and blamed Mei Lin’s
OLevel results for their ruin. The kiasu
pressure had turned her into a ghost already —
holloweyed, shouting at the walls in Malay,
Chinese, and broken English, as if the house
itself owed her.
The old woman’s room, sealed since the funeral
three years prior, smelled of camphor and dried
limes. Mei Lin broke in not to mourn, but to
find a hidden savings book. Instead, she found
the ledger — bound in red cloth, pages filled
not with numbers, but with names and dates. Each
entry ended in a single word: Paid. Below her
mother’s name, written in charcoal, was the last
line: Mei Lin — 100k due. Due date: 18/10/2023.
That night, the lift in Block 312 stopped on
Level 7 — where no one lived. The doors opened.
A woman stood there, dressed in 1960s batik,
hair pinned with a broken comb, face blurred
like old film. She handed Mei Lin a plastic bag.
Inside: five $20 notes, a packet of kaya, and a
slip of paper — Paid for S$10,000. The next
morning, the bank cleared her mother’s arrears.
But the next week, her best friend’s father lost
his job. Then the neighbour’s son dropped out of
polytechnic. Each time, the bag appeared —
always on Level 7, always after midnight, always
with a smaller amount. The spirit wasn’t helping.
It was collecting.
Mei Lin’s mother collapsed at the stall,
clutching her chest, mumbling about Nenek’s
promise. The hospital bill was $8,000. Mei Lin
went back to the room. The ledger glowed faintly.
The next line was her own name. Beneath it: Your
turn. Pay with memory. She tore the page. The
lights in the HDB block went out. All 12 floors.
For 37 minutes. When power returned, her
mother’s debt was gone — but so was her voice.
She could no longer speak. Not a word. Not even
“kiasu”.
Mei Lin now sits at the void deck every evening,
selling kaya toast from a borrowed cart. The
ghost comes every Thursday. Always on Level 7.
Always leaves a bag. Last week, it held a school
report — straight As. And a single red envelope.
Inside: one $1 coin. And a note in Chinese
characters: You paid with silence. Now you owe
me your future. The building’s residents whisper
that the lift still stops on Level 7. Some say
they hear a woman humming Jiak Piah — the old
kampong tune. Others say the spirit is just the
weight of all the debts no one dares to name.
Mei Lin doesn’t answer. She just counts the
coins. And waits. Because the rules are clear:
you don’t break a pact with a ghost who feeds on
silence. You only delay the payment. And the
next one’s due next year.
