Prologue

Each August, Taoists and Buddhists mark the Hungry Ghost Festival—a nod to their ancestors, with offerings of food, incense and paper money.

Wandering, hungry souls are included in those offerings–and remembrance for our own.

🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚

Light from burning incense candles danced on the tree-lined, Singaporean streets of Sembing, Singapore, guiding footseteps–

Along with the Unseen.

They burned in human-crafted clusters, their smoke curling in waves, opening an unobstructed, tree-lined path.

Shadows stretched across the pavements, the candles their trustworthy sentinels–guardians of eternal devotion.

🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚

20-year-old Alvin Cheng watched as his Father scattered prayer sheets near the incense bin, his eyes tracing the flickering lights of the candles.

“Boy, offer a joss stick to our ancestors.” It was Alvin’s turn to burn one for his grandfather.

Alvin’s hesitant hands reached for the incense stick and a ream of paper money–the currency of the ones who had left.

He bore the weight of forgotten ancestors –and his young shoulders sank uncomfortably.

🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚

He threw the paper money into the bin, the flames consuming each note with ethereal gusto.

The streets echoed with promises once made.

He appeared, his form gently pressing against the trees. He stopped at the bin, eyes turned to Alvin, quietly pleading without words.

With a spectral hunger that needed acknowledging. He turned his pale face to the packet of chicken rice on the grass, his face etched with longing.

🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚

It was a look that vanquished Alvin’s Gen Z scepticism–and fear.

The spectre was seeking vengeance, or the petrified gazes of those who still lived—it simply wanted to eat.

A place.

A name.

The young sceptic took the joss stick from his father’s outstretched hand.

He lit it and placed it at the side of the pavement.

The spirit drifted over and hovered.

Its spectral form gleamed.

The light from the candles danced with its fresh glow.

Alvin placed the packet of chicken rice in front of joss sticks. The aromatic scent of succulent chicken, herbs and spices wafted in the air, teasing his nostrils.

And the spirit’s.

It gazed at Alvin, the pale, yet unclear features of its face slowly bending-upturning in a faint smile.

🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚

The ghost drifted away from the candle, hovering near the incense bin.

Tapping his father’s shoulder–almost with urgency.

Its features came together, now vivid, striking.

Alvin gazed at them–they were

too familiar.

But beamed with generational kindness.

In that instant, he knew the offering of chicken rice wasn’t mere kindness–it was piety.

The elderly spirit faded–but not out of the young man’s mind.

“Stay full, Ah Kong (grandpa).”

For the deceased–unknown and familiar.

🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚🕯️🍚

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.