Today so happens to be International Retainer Day–one for the extra dental boost that we sometimes need.
Some things, like retainers, are meant to shape us.
Letting them go is letting go of important parts of ourselves.
But what if they want to retain us?
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Eighteen-year-old Molly’s retainer sat, layered by dust, in a barely touched drawer in the living room.
It stood out like a rotten tooth in a model’s smile–glaring.
But still…
After dousing it with water and much-needed retainer cleaner, it snapped into place with a soft click.
Days later, after revelling in her beauty, she heard whispers behind her molars.
“Remember us?
Molly blinked. Her computer wasn’t tuned to her latest YouTube subscription. The TV was silent. But her mouth?
It chattered.
With idle gossip.
“Bob’s got a new girlfriend.”
“Mary hates your new look.”
“We know about it.”
Know about what?
Molly tore it out of her mouth, ignoring the pain. Silence.
It writhed in her palm.
It even grinned.
Then suddenly–its voice.
It clipped painfully, like the chattering false denture it was.
“Know about me. You can’t forget our dates, babe. Even if you don’t like me all that much.”
With a huge leap, it slipped into her mouth like an acrobatic thief skittering over sensors.
Click.
“I’m staying till you’re old and grey.”
🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷
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Mr. Ding was that constant ghost in the neighbourhood–always smiling, in a suit so well-pressed that irons would heat up in shame. He loomed on one’s memory, like ivy weaving through windows; silent, sudden, impossible to miss. The children spoke of him, unsure whether he was waiting–about the house with lights that flashed dim, dying signals, struggling to keep time.
🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤
The air wrapped its heavy arms around Mr. Ding’s home on Halloween night, but it didn’t seem to have caught the joyfully screaming children on the street.
Still, the lights around his house flickered impatiently, almost aggressively–in slow, twisted time.
Little Liya knocked his front door, driven by candy canes and Hershey’s kisses.
Mr. Ding finally opened it—after a full half hour.
He smiled—in a thin line.
“Trick or treat,” the basket in Liya’s hands trembled.
No candy. He put something else in her hands.
A mask.
“It will keep you safe.” The chill in his eyes didn’t match his smile.
Liya grasped the mask in her hands–one that covered more than she knew
🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤
The air wrapped its heavy arms around Mr. Ding’s home on Halloween night, but it didn’t seem to have caught the joyfully screaming children on the street.
Still, the lights around his house flickered impatiently, almost aggressively–in slow, twisted time.
Little Liya knocked his front door, driven by candy canes and Hershey’s kisses.
Mr. Ding finally opened it—after a full half hour.
He smiled—in a thin line.
“Trick or treat,” the basket in Liya’s hands trembled.
No candy. He put something else in her hands.
A mask.
“It will keep you safe.” The chill in his eyes didn’t match his smile.
Liya grasped the mask in her hands–one that covered more than she knew.
🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤
Liya walked away from Mr Ding’s home, her steps anchored by an unseen weight. Halloween revellers scattered all over the path before her, walking with joy that was–
Off.
Children walked by her without a glance backwards. She was transparent glass to the adults.
And her voice? It wasn’t her own. Her mother acknowledged that with a pale face.
The mask wasn’t in her hands.
She glanced at herself in the hallway mirror.
A shriek that nearly broke it.
She made desperate clutches at her face.
No feeling.
Her smile wouldn’t disappear.
🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤
Halloween returned a year later, with Liya at home.
Her silhouette in the window.
Passersby who looked up walked past faster than their legss would carry them.
She couldn’t move. Wouldn’t– or couldn’t–talk.
But she could smile.
It was the only thing she could do.
Mr. Ding’s home no longer flickered– the pulse of the lights were even.
Satisfied.
There were knocks on Mr. Ding’s door.
Another child. Just a child.
Naively asking for treats.
At least, until Mr. Ding and Liya opened the door.
And Liya held out a tray, the permanent smile stretched across her face.
With a mask that he would wear to placate someone. Please someone. Calm someone.
But not himself.
🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤🎭🖤
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The gong in front of Eshan Ali and Marla Tan stood in its oriental splendour, waiting to be tolled.
Gargantuan, gleaming, waiting.
Its sheer weight claimed Marla with tradition.
Marla and Eshan had stood in front of it every year for the last five years.
Negara Community Centre, their work home, had a tradition like no other organization–employees rang the gong at 12 p.m.
Their lunch hour.
Every year, without fail.
Nine times.
The gong rang in Racial Harmony Day–the 21st of July–a day that Singapore chose to honour.
A day in the past she’d rather forget.
But had to mark, for the peace it demanded.
It was an unspoken rule–employees never struck the gong ten times.
A rule that made the rebel in Marla bristle.
She watched as Eshan struck the gong, feeling its heavy toll. A wall of silence seemed to have erected itself instantly around the employees–one that they never spoke of.
“It’s for peace,” Eshan touched her shoulder gently before pulling away.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Snowball and her owner, Michelle, loved the rustic charm of Weston–the lush, green fields and countless apple orchards made it every little dog’s dream.
And the neighbours. Weston was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone else. Friendship among Westonites was not optional–it was expected.
And so Weston basked in its sameness.
Until Elly, a hard-of-hearing teen, found a letter in her mailbox.
Coded.
In tactile morse.
Pointing her to Room 12, West Conservatory.
Of course, Snowball wanted to get her nose into everything.
Literally.
Tail wagging, she walked up to Elly, who held it limp in her hand.
But the little West Highland Terrier whined—before touching it.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾 🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
“Snowball, fetch.” Snowball, as usual, hid her expert recall skills.
“Hey, you know how to return that! Stop fibbing!” Michelle threw her hands up in the air. “All right, no reward.”
Snowball snuck forward and sat, cocking a contrite ear.
“Well, can’t get angry with you.” Michelle gave the mischievous pup a ruffle.
Their rhythm broke.
Elly.
She approached them, the letter in hand.
Michelle straightened herself, on instant edge.
Elly’s usual off-the-wall demeanour was–
Different.
Her hands were moving faster than an expert typist’s.
And Snowball–well–wasn’t Snowball.
The little dog fixed her gaze on Elly, her tail pointed straight up.
But Elly finally spoke.
“Michelle–I need to find out what’s going on with this.”She waved the letter. News travelled fast around Weston–it had reached Michelle two hours after the fact.
“Can I borrow Snowball? She bristled before I could even show the letter to you. Perhaps she sniffed something I couldn’t feel.”
Determination covered Elly’s face. She wasn’t asking lightly–this was personal.
Michelle drew back and stared, without a word.
At first.
But Snowball went over to Elly and sat by her.
Michelle’s gaze darted from her neighbour to her dog.
Its back arched and tense.
She finally spoke.
“Ok, just for a while.”
The little dog didn’t choose this case. It chose her.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾 🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
Michelle watched Snowball settle beside Elly.
But the little dog wasn’t sitting right.
Snowball wasn’t–relaxed.
Michelle knew it wasn’t her paranoia.
It was gut instinct.
She stepped forward, taking the letter from Elly’s shaking hands.
She read it, wordless.
After a while, she looked up.
“I know something about this. I’m so sorry the conservatory fire took your grandfather.” She continued, carefully. “You’re not the first in Weston to go looking for answers. But something there shouldn’t be–woken.”
She paused.
“Westonites say someone left the fire–quietly. Your grandad–” She placed a gentle hand on Elly’s shoulder–“Might have known something he shouldn’t.”
She continued.
“Room 12 is now locked. I know you need answers. Take Ball with you.”
The little dog looked up at her in acknowledgement.
“But if she starts barking–RUN.”
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾 🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
The West Conservatory was a mass of burnt ruins.
Fenced off.
Broken vines.
Rotting wood–a foul scent.
Snowball and Elly crept in and were greeted by burnt walls and warped metal.
On the floor was sheet music, half-melted.
Room numbers on the charred oak doors were visible–barely.
The girl and dog sensed that the building hadn’t just burned.
It wanted.
Room 12 wanted.
Closure hadn’t touched it–yet.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
Elly and Snowball stepped in front of Room 12’s half-hinged door.
She gripped the door handle.
Inside was a charred piano–the odour of burnt wood assailed her nostrils. On top of it sat a box labelled–
For Songbird.
Someone had addressed it–to her.
She pried the tactile morse lid open. Inside was a reel recorder. A taped confession.
Snowball snarled.
Guttural.
Low.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
Fingers shaking but brave, Elly pressed the recorder button.
Soft, measured footsteps.
A tape-recorded message.
“You were never meant to find this. But somehow, I hoped you would.”
In front of them stood an older man, his hand scarred. His face, half-burnt, bore no recognition of Elly.
But he did know Snowball.
He faced the dog.
Snowball bared her teeth.
“You should have stayed out of this.” He waved a knife in front of the little Westie.
It hit Elly.
The knife.
The voice.
The scar.
Grandpa’s killer.
Bob Greene, the conservatory’s main conductor.
His green eyes couldn’t ignore her Grandad’s success with the conservatory’s students.
The fire was not about silence–it was about secrets.
Elly placed the recorder within hearing reach.
She recalled Michelle’s warning.
“If she barks….”
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
Snowball barked–she wasn’t friendly.
Michelle’s warning rang louder in Elly’s head.
She ran to the door.
Snowball stayed, growling. She slowly approached the man.
“You were never meant to find this…”
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
The tape-recorded message triggered the sprinkler system–set by Elly’s grandpa.
It left an escape route–just for her–and a very wet Greene.
She’d heard the truth.
🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🐶🦴🗣️🐾
Elly darted out of the conservatory, soaked but safe. Snowball shook off the sprinkler’s water, the daylight creating rainbow hues within each droplet.
Elly was pale.
But resolute.
Nearby was Michelle–waiting for them, face worried.
The two girls exchanged glances–wordless, but ripe with meaning.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Da Xiang had all been forgotten–an obscure village tucked away in Pulau Udang’s remote woods. As if someone had grown the trees to seal it off.
The forests of Pulau Udang were dense.
Dark.
Morose areas of troubled vegetation–except for a colonial terrace, once clothed in European grandeur.
Its walls were now lined with overgrown bougainvillea, its rooms–the room–cages of grief.
Trauma therapist Clara Lum’s own trauma still left mental scars. Scars left by the room in the abode of affluence–that she had not discussed with anyone for 18 years.
Then, her mother passed.
Clara knew that the past didn’t rest until faced and buried. And doors, though familiar, never opened the same way twice.
That pulled her back to the house–home remembered differently.
Planning to sort out the nitty gritty of the estate’s matters, Clara reluctantly moved in.
But she avoided the room upstairs.
The room.
Until the third night, when she finally heard a familiar, but unwanted hum.
Carina’s lullaby.
She opened the room door a tiny crack. The things inside were just as she left them 18 years earlier–two made beds, a shared diary, and a window, still ajar.
But the status quo didn’t remain.
She searched for her therapist’s notes before a meeting one afternoon and found them.
Not unusual.
Except they were covered in blood.
And in the bathroom attached to the room where she slept, a second toothbrush.
She fell asleep, though not without tossing and turning.
A familiar little girl appeared in her dreams.
Laughing.
Then, a voice she’d heard before–and never wanted to again.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
This is not history, but tragedy, remembered by Dedalus, who remained.
Heed the call…or someone bears the toll. For memory blurs–in grief.
🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽
They say– He fell by force Of a summer’s harsh gale But I do recall this last flight– Do I?
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He stood Feathers unfurled The ledge behind his heels. Peered at the sun through lidless eyes– And flew.
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He tried. But flight was naught. Shattered bones and wing wax. Left under the scorching sun’s rays To melt.
🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽
A lie. There was no heat But false hope in great wings And a call not to place one’s faith In wax.
🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽
I called
But did he hear?
Or spread his waxen wings
With no care that the scorching sun
Would foil?
🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Tension between local communities–the Chinese and the Malay in particular–had bubbled over.
One spark.
A city in flames.
Street clashes. Over-filled buses turned into flashpoints.
Shops shuttered.
Lots of children–not in school.
A silence, not of peace–but in pause.
Names faded into silence.
Never to be said aloud–
again.
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Each apartment block mirrored the other.
Tall. Boxy. Decked in red, white and yellow.
Singapore’s colours.
Colours of Pride
Familiar, but too similar.
The cookie-cutter architecture wasn’t helping Detective Boon do his job.
He stretched and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day–one that hadn’t borne much fruit.
Number 7 wasn’t supposed to be occupied. But someone–or something–was charging the night sky with sparks loud enough to rattle dead souls awake.
The only thing louder than the offending firecrackers?
Taro, the CID’s canine detective sleuth.
The stoic Boon knocked on the door of the only remaining tenant in the complex, Madam Pang.
“Hi Aunty, Wo ke yi wen yi xie wen ti ma? Shi guan yu pao de shen ying. ( Would you mind if I asked a few questions? It’s about the firecrackers being set off in this complex.)”
She eyed Boon up and down, finally eyeing him squarely.
“Wo bu tai ching chu. Zhi zhi dao you ke chuan di ku de nan hai si zhou pao.”(I don’t know much, but saw z barefoot boy , in shorts, running about like it was the apocalypse).”
She eyed him with quiet disdain.
“Ta pao shi ying wei mei ren ting.” (He runs because no one hears).
A sharp bark.
Boon snapped his head around.
Taro poked his nose around a crumbling stairwell. The German Shepherd continued his forage, finally bringing to Boon a rusty harmonica, a burnt schoolbag, and a flyer.
Urging resistance.
Then, a strange scent of sulphur and jasmine.
A little Chinatown history, roused by the sound of firecrackers.
🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨
Then, Taro stopped sniffing. He sat, ears perked.
Still.
Alert.
Boon crouched beside him.
“What do you see, boy?”
The air beneath the stairwell thickened.
Warmed up.
The scent of sulphur and jasmine filled the space, teasing his nostrils. It lingered, curling into his throat.
Then–
A distant tap.
Repeating.
The lights flickered–but too steadily for a gust. Too coincidental.
Boon’s mind slipped to his history lessons—the race riots in Singapore in 1964.
School closures.
The names no one wants to say.
“Ta pao shi mei ren ting…”
The old woman’s words were a haunting echo.
Taro growled, not at the stairwell, but at the corridor below.
Nose lowered.
Tail stiff.
Then, the raw note of a harmonica.
Slightly off-key.
Just once.
Then, silence.
Then, a faint trail of fireworks.
But they didn’t explode.
They imploded–
In light.
The estate clock ticked.
Louder.
Taro walked to the void deck and stood, alert.
Boon followed.
🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨
The long hand of the clock shifted.
So did the air.
7:47 p.m.
The gentle pounding of bare feet.
The boy.
No shoes.
In his hands was a package–Boon couldn’t tell what it was.
Then, explosions.
He guessed.
The boy ran through Boon, unseeing.
A tragic memory, unwilling to fade.
Boon didn’t say a word. He raised his hand, but didn’t stop the ghostly drift.
He raised it to his head–in a salute.
The boy reappeared, giving Boon a quick glance.
And a smile.
He vanished.
No sound.
Like light into the night.
Boon covered his eyes with his hands, slightly stunned.
His harmonica lay at Boon’s feet. No longer rusty, but whole;
Taro whines once.
Plaintive,
Then sits, paw raised.
The clock ticked, it’s time—synced.
Later, in Singapore’s National Archives, Boon found his name.
Tan Teck Huat.
Killed on July 21st, 1964.
He never got to celebrate Singapore’s National Day.
But the sound of his firecrackers remained–blended.
Taro lay beside Boon, head between his paws.
🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨🧨
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 