Tag: Book Review

The Last Stop on Mann’s Tour

Some hauntings don’t rattle chains. They wait in your notifications.

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I gathered with Elvis and the rest of the group, ready to grace ghostly lanes with gentle tiptoes. 

Our guide, Mann, was a fellow who engaged…though without unnecessary pomp. 

The buildings around the park were old. The streets, narrow.  Lamps hummed in a slightly strangled way, as if they hadn’t enough Strepsils.  

And we followed behind Mann like obedient shadows.

Mann launched into his spooky stories. But…they were…oddly personal.

Someone chortled suddenly. Uncomfortably.

The air thinned as the guide came to each stop.

The stories narrowed, like a zoom camera.

Oddly familiar – and tied to each group member. 

A woman who declined her mother’s last call – that same woman was now frantically tapping her mobile’s keypad. 

Then, there was the tale of the man who chose profit over humanity. That same man was shoving company leaflets. 

Then, there was the teen who caught footage of people falling off their bikes. He was filming a boy skidding past on a skateboard, yielding to the pavement.

Then Mann stopped with an abrupt flourish. He swiveled around from his position in front to face the group.

“These stories aren’t recorded hauntings. They’re our regrets. Our behaviours. Choices that replay in a Youtube loop long after we’ve made them. Check your phones.

Each group member scrolled through their message feeds and looked up, sheepish. 

With a missed notification. An unread message.       

“These spirits don’t flood buildings. They’re ours. Our neglected responsibilities.”

Suddenly, we weren’t afraid of darkness. Our fear? What awaited us at home.

The silence was loud. Clanking. 

Reminding.

And regret swarmed in, dark, hungry flies.

It crept over us quickly, a dangerous blanket. We dispersed, trying vainly to avoid it.

Mann again.  With a new group of ghost tourists. 

With their stories. Stories they must complete. 

🕯️🌫️🚶‍♂️📖✨

Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

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The Mayday Influencer

Cracked bowls are often better than polished porcelain ones.—Michelle Liew’s tattooable of the day

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Cedarvale was a suburb haven in full bloom—picture postcard perfection. Clover Wen was the idealist greeting card writer —her ‘just so’ attitude could put Marie Kondo to shame. Her kitchen towels were on rotation. Her cupboards—colour coded. And her spice rack? Alphabetized.

But the idealist had a creative secret—she was the pen behind a famous authentic lifestyle influencer.

It was her comfort zone—it was where she could chase her curated influencer dreams—everything crafted twice over—without the fear of cosmetic judgement. It was where she could hide her fear of blandness—coming out as a lifestyle influencer too ‘jigsawed’ to show herself.

But Clover’s life was a postcard lie—even hardy clovers wilted when over-watered.

Among her pastel promo drafts was a threatening note—one penned in her style, demanding that she confess her ghostwriting exploits or risk losing the utopian life she had sculpted in Cedarvale.

And so began her frantic search for mano sinistra—the evil maestro who composed the note. Perhaps it was Philomena—the cheeky handwriting analyst neighbour would pen something like that. Or her mother—the old one was lost in filters and fonts. He or she had baked clues into the thousands of drafts in what was now a crime scene—a compost pile of tattered ideas.

She filtered through the torn leaves of mental sparks—her mind an un-Cloverlike, confused warp. It was about to spin beyond control when it hit her–the mano sinistra was none other than herself. Her Breakdown—made of half-eaten cake and drafts— had penned it in a hurry, one her well-honed self was too ready to deny.

The handwriting was hers—because her porcelain finish had cracks. She had been the one yelling Mayday. The mano sinistra was herself.

And she hit a jarring note—the only way to ease the chaos in her too-right self was to publish the note. And she did. In all its messy honesty. Philomena winked her support. Her mother gave her a hug.

And her authentic lifestyle influencer gave her his blog. It turned out that cracked bowls sold better than polished porcelain ones.

Now Clover still writes—but embraces off-page scripts when they blend in.

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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.