This day–17 July–is World Emoji Day.

It’s about faces–frozen in planned expression.

It’s all about the masks we wear–

To placate.

To please.

To calm.

But do they placate, please or calm–ourselves?

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

The nondescript youth centre was where Jia wanted to work –understated, with angsty youth who needed a hand-up, not a handout.

The 33-year-old counsellor had her work cut out for her. The knives below her underprivileged charges’ feet made them bare their teeth; budget cuts made designing revolutionary programs near impossible; staff came into the workspace bleary-eyed and walking on tenterhooks.

In fear of what, Jia couldn’t understand. She stared at the vacant workspace before her.

But one name always surfaced.

Elaine.

Elaine had been the counsellor before her, now painfully absent.

The Counsellees’ favourite, not least because —

she connected.

No photos of her, no files. Her desk was empty, save for a poster board filled with Post-It notes with her signature motivational quips, the handwriting on it cursive.

Rounded.

Heartfelt.

An empty chair remained, rooted –like a full-stop no one dared to position.

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The first few days at the centre were an emotional tidal wave for Jia. Her teen charges wanted another Elaine –her handwriting. Listening ears.

Heart.

They spoke of her as if she still graced the community centre’s halls —

“She told me my silence still meant.”

Elaine was not cut from the typical counsellor’s cloth. She didn’t talk at them –she talked with them. She did things that mattered.

She knew their phone numbers at the back of her hand.

She used nicknames.

She let them draw on the table with erasable ink –to vent.

She let them sit under desks —

To cry.

When they needed space.

She was a counselling welterweight –impossible to overlook.

Desperate to live up to expectations, Jia scoured through employment records –but no Elaine.

The teen’s stories didn’t match.

She was a heavy whisper –invisible but felt.

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One of the centre’s regulars, Khai, had visited after hitting his mother –she had just told him about the divorce.

But it was Counsellor Jia.

Not Elaine.

Jia froze, tongue-tied.

A frazzled Khai stormed out of the room.

She sat behind her desk in the office, face wet, sobs almost strangling her.

She felt the community centre and its charges slipping through her fingers.

She remained behind her desk after everyone left, furiously typing.

“Dear Mr. Lim,

It has been a pleasure working for you. However, the teenagers who come here need someone…they know.”

She couldn’t help the ellipsis.

She later returned to the counselling room, eager to collect her counselling materials.

She didn’t find them —

Not at first.

In their place was Elaine’s chair.

With a sticky note attached.

Addressed to Khai.

“The quiet ones may not speak. But they listen. And hug.”

Dated –the next day.

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She paid the director of the community centre a much-needed visit.

But not to resign.

“Mr. Lim,” Jia raised her voice –a few decibels above its usual pitch. “I need the truth.”

He glanced at Elaine’s chair for a long moment.

“Alright, young lady. I know these last weeks have been tough –we do have a handful here. You deserve to know.”

He paused.

For a long while.

“You see, there was –is — has never been an Elaine. We created her to encourage the kids, to give them someone to believe in.

“Each time she was to conduct a session, one of us would try to do something quirky –to help them connect with us. With themselves.”

He paused again.

“The kids began to create their images of her. Then, she became everything.”

Jia dropped her files.

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Mr. Lim’s revelation stayed with Jia –all night.

She tossed and turned beneath her blankets.

But the lightbulb lit.

Elaine was not a fraud –she was hope. A name given to comfort in the worst moments. To build needed courage.

Jia didn’t erase her. But she did pen stickies –in Elaine’s signature rounded cursives.

She placed them under desks, in bags, under books.

From Elaine.

And one day, she received one.

Taped to her chair.

On it: “With love, from someone who needs to learn.”

Elaine –now Jia, was Care. When no one else could be.

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Elaine’s empty chair remained.

Jia sat in it when she needed her inspiration.

At other times, she left it vacant. Just in case one of the teens needed to find a sticky note on it.

The room was now warm –with her memory.

She still lived, in what she thought.

In what Jia did.

The chair always felt warm.

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Original story by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.

I can’t share this story without delving into a little culture–mine.

I’m Chinese, with an ethnic twist. A straits-born, South East Asian Peranakan Chinese whose ancestors embraced Indonesian and Malay traditions.

And merged them with Chinese conventions.

The dumpling festival referred to in this story is one…the prayers with the Kasut (beaded slippers) are uniquely Peranakan.

Do enjoy this story.

When heritage isn’t honored, it haunts.

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Duan Wu Jie (The Dumpling Festival) made its usual appearance in early June. The dumpling steam in Bibik Li Lian’s kitchen clung tighter than sweat–usually enticing, it now had an unusual heaviness that made Mei dread them.

Bibik Li Lian folded the dumplings every 5th day of the 5th Lunar Month, tighter each time–she packed grief together with pork and rice in banana leaves. She told Mei stories–that they were to remember Qu Yuan, the legendary Chinese poet who ceded his life to the river after his country betrayed him. The people of his town raced in dragon boats to locate him, throwing dumplings to feed his ghost. “But not all spirits leave when fed.” Bibik Li Lian’s warning was distinct. Ominous.

And so, they returned every June–in some shape or form.

The dumplings were a Ratings harvest for Mei–every inch the content creator, she wanted to capture a “Heritage Haul” video featuring Bibik’s Great Grandmother’s Kasut Manek (Beaded Slippers worn during festival prayers). The Gen Z in her wanted to give the slippers new life to merge with the video’s aesthetic–authenticity with a nouveau spark. But she received no Grandmother’s blessings.

It was a cut of Bibik’s sharp tongue instead.

“Those slippers are for prayers, not show. They bind—the other world to ours. A widow’s grief stains each of those threads. DO NOT TOUCH THEM.”

The cryptic remarks were water rolling off Mei’s back. They were too small to notice–were they?

She slid some surreptitiously into her bag. In her room, she sewed them onto a new pair she bought at Haji Lane.

The prayers to consecrate the dumplings were set for that night–Mei was late, as usual, not able to resist one last look in her mirror.

And she didn’t look good.

The girl in the mirror didn’t look like Mei–she didn’t blink when Mei did. Her limbs moved–just a second faster than Mei’s. The people in surrounding family photos weren’t where they used to be.

Aunt Lin wore a different dress. Grandpa now tracked her with his eyes.

Beads from the Kasut Manek fell to the floor like broken taboos.

Then the cracks appeared. Broken glass fell onto the floor.

The mirror –no more a boundary.

Mei glanced at her feet–and shrieked.

She was wearing Bibik’s Kasut Manek–not the one she’d stitched up in a hurry.

The dumplings in the steamer came apart, one by one, with old blood and bones within.

Mei dropped to the floor. 

Mei’s stitched pair of slippers did return, tucked beneath the altar when the festival ended. Along with looks laced with fear. 

Bibik simply marked the date on her calendar. June would require new Kasut. 

Mei would have to stitch them with the beads she had taken.

Bead by bead, step by step…she sewed.

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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.