Today marks the anniversary of a milestone in women’s political power in America—the election of the first woman to Congress. We mirror that femininity in Singapore by celebrating the Samsui Woman, a female labourer commonly seen at construction sites in the 1950s and 60s. Opportunities for women have increased over the years—and her scarf, and spirit, live on. She wields the scarlet scarf of strength.
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The evening air was dense with the usual Singapore humidity–and tales once woven. Despite the tropical overwhelm, Singaporeans walked to the polls.
Outside on a railing was a scarf–red, fluttering in the November wind. It hung a poignant scarlet against the grey twilight. No one saw the woman who donned it, or her dust-streaked blue blouse.
A heavy blouse no wind could lift.
Mdm Ong was a Samsui Woman who lived in Singapore of the 1950s–a construction worker who laid bricks when women weren’t meant to construct. Along with others like her, she built a city that never knew–or wanted to know–her name.
She had toiled when families prayed, hauling beams twice her weight. She out-dreamt her pay.
She returned every Singapore election–not as a ghost, but as a witness.
An elections officer noticed her form in the glass, in a blue samfoo, head bound in a telltale red scarf. She watched as the women of the time filed past to the polling booths, pens ready to mark their chosen candidate.
She blinked, and the Samsui ghost left, leaving only the faint, but comforting scent of earth.
The elections staff sealed the ballot boxes. The scarf fluttered to the ground. The elections officer picked it up, and wore the proud memory around her neck.
🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬🧣🇸🇬
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All Souls’ Day blanketed the pavements and roads in velvet black and the dim light of street lamps; anything but a typical day for a little pet dog.
Snowball stationed herself at her home’s bay window, hoping to unsettle the
patrons at the coffee shop opposite with her insistent, barking overtures.
She didn’t have mischief in mind that day; instead, she stood at the window, each paw trembling, hackles raised.
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The air froze with biting cold; atypical for Singapore, a country with heat and
humidity as its middle name.
A chill numbed the air indoors; the smell of damp leaves pervaded the air. I
concentrated on my book review, for the first time donning an outdated cotton
sweater.
Then—the low, persistent growls.
Snowball had positioned herself in front of my bedroom wall, paws stiff, nails
clicking on the floor.
An almost-human whisper grazed my ear. My breath caught, and my jaw dropped. as it looked around.
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The little West Highland Terrier lunged at the wall. A long silence followed.
Too long.
Then, a faint shimmer—the ambiguous outline of a silhouette.
Lost.
Caught between Heaven and Earth.
Asking—
Just for a name.
My heartbeat synced with its pulse—
One that echoed for a presence.
The little dog had guided—
And found.
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“Snowball. It’s alright. No need.”
Her cue not to bark.
She obeyed and lay down, finally calm.
The room felt—
Lighter.
Warmer, with the whisper now unheard.
But the chill was a permanent guest.
Teasing a little dog wasn’t the name of the lost soul’s game—
It had asked the little terrier for guidance.
To where it belonged.
The whisper left. But at night, Snowball still faced the wall–and heard the clicks.
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Marilyn had just moved into the remote, backwater town of Scaresdale– not willingly.
The teen’s life was a jigsaw puzzle she was trying to put together within a new frame– and new town.
She and her family had just finished freeing a row of cartons of their contents–
Finally.
Some time to explore.
Hide and Go Seek occupied the children–
It was time for Marilyn to do some exploring of her own.
Somehow, the attic had become her center of attention.
An irresistible magnet.
She stepped in, and saw–
A door.
After fiddling about with it for 10 minutes, it was time to put up the white flag.
Then, a shadow beneath it caught her eye.
Sounds of movement within the space– it had to be a room– next door.
A wooden door– locked.
A curious beam of light from the shaft below.
Marylin’s hands tugged at the stubborn handle.
It didn’t budge.
She peered through the keyhole.
A flash of red.
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Rapid motion. Too quick. Too final.
An odd shape.
Familiar– yet not.
It recoiled from her vision–
As if knowing it had been seen.
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Marilyn froze, unsure whether to open the door–
Or run for her life.
The shadow broke apart in her mind, filling the empty spaces-
With dread.
That she couldn’t name.
The air pressed harder, swallowing her.
Her breath seemed to strangle– not relieve.
The room shrank, sandwiching her between its walls.
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The shadow enlarged, morphing into different shapes.
Then, distorted, creeping sounds below the door.
It crept up in different spaces–
Dark corners of the room.
On the glass.
On the television screen.
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The walls pulsed with voiceless whispers–
Terrifyingly quiet.
Beyond the keyhole–
Arms overlapping.
A smell of lavender perfume–too familiar.
Two shadows–
Close to her in age.
Too familial.
Clear– in her mind.
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Marilyn bounced a step back from the keyhole, a wrench around her mind.
The familiar, familial shadows.
The lavender perfume she knew too well.
The arms wrapping. Too close.
The scenes replayed in a mental tape recorder–
Gone awry.
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Marylin’s hand hovered above the doorknob–
But didn’t turn it.
Her finger stayed in place.
Numb.
Should she?
The family.
Her eye caught a photograph of them on the wall.
All smiles at her 6th-year birthday party.
The glass was cracked.
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The room felt–
Smaller.
Cramped.
Beyond the keyhole–
The familiar shadows still moved, too close.
The whispering of the walls grew louder.
Her mind swiveled–
To open the door,
Not.
A dark heaviness descended on her shoulders.
Her heart throbbed, an erratic rhythm.
Figures in the photograph she knew–
And loved.
This.
Her fingers wrapped around the door knob–
But couldn’t pull.
Cold sweat dripped down her fingers.
She had seen too much.
Ready–
To snap.
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The teenager couldn’t move.
She stood still, unable to speak.
Beyond the keyhole, the shadows diminished.
Finally.
But not in her mind.
The smell of the familiar perfume lingered in the air–
The scent too cloying.
The imprint remained.
Covered in mental dust.
A stain that wouldn’t vanish no matter how much remover she used.
Never entirely swept away.
The print wrapped itself around her mind–
When it stopped to see.
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Marilyn visited the house years later-
In her litigator’s capacity.
Her father had bequeathed it to her.
He felt he owed it.
A debt he could never repay in full.
The other familiar figure–
Too present.
At get-togethers. Family events.
Always kind.
Offering hugs and love.
Even support when she needed it.
But never comfort.
She had seen too much–
Through that keyhole–
But thankfully–
Didn’t snap.
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Original keyhole mystery by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Lara stood on the championship golf course, waiting for the tee-off. Whispers drifted from the stands–everyone wanted to see if she would return. A title that was hers–unless fate planned otherwise. The murmurs of the crowd were far away–as if the world had converged on that grass patch. She felt the familiar hunger of ambition, in answer to the crowd. Too loud, too urgent. Then a glint that drew her gaze. Waiting Patient. Demanding. From the 7th tee. The others were too caught up in the game to notice. The smell of cut grass strengthened and swallowed. Around her, leaves blew, rustling– Without wind. But a warning.
Lara reached downward, her fingers wrapping around the glinting tee. The shot was too perfect. Straight and equidistant. Of course, cameras did equally perfect zooms. The commentators hailed the miracle Then the green grass around it wilted, and the sand split. Fissures appeared on a nearby mound. A lone red robin appeared on it– Dead. Her caddy hollered a warning; not that the officials heard. But she was too close to the title to stop her swing. A crack. Under her feet. Lara kept swinging and winning. Each swing carved into the mound, making cracks. Deeper and deeper.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
Lara took her final swing. The ground responded, trembling more than the St. Andreas Fault. The fissures were invisible–at least to the clamouring spectators. Roaring the win. They raced towards her, unknown to them. But Lara knew– Her perfect putt had carved too deep. The trophy was within sight– On cracking ground.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
The spectators cheered in a roaring wave, moving forward, oblivious to the danger. The ground beneath Lara crumbled into a gaping hole. Wider. And wider. Applause rose, blind to the widening chasm. She grasped the trophy– The Earth gave way faster than a sonic boom. She had to decide–to hold with both hands and fall– Pride’s prey. Or release— And breathe. At last.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
Lara’s fingers were in iron cuffs; the fissure threatened to swallow.
The roar of the crowd deafened, a drum that lured.
The gaps between Lara’s fingers turned chasms themselves.
into an open palm.
Sweaty, but breathing.
She released.
With a breath that finally soothed her overwrought limbs.
Salved her heart—and spirit.
The spectators gaped, mid-stare.
The silence washed over the greens, a gripping shroud.
Then, they scattered their disappointment felt—but forgone.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
The hole swallowed the crowd, its cheers curdling, then dying off.
The crowd’s roar had dulled into silence.
A leaf rustled, accompanying the lone golfer.
It was a magnificent scar on the course—one some reporters hailed a legend.
Others, a tragedy of Tsunami magnitude.
The iron cuffs—off her hands.
Lara’s trophy had lodged itself within the wide crack, gleaming to applause—
That would remain heard—
Only by Lara.
⛳🍃✨🌫️🏌️♀️
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights 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.
An after-hours nurse, Rin had made cleanliness his life—Marie Kondo would have called his dedication to sterility an obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Nothing could be out of order.
Or dirty.
Not a speck of dust.
He got into bed one morning, put out after his shift.
But woke with a start. His apartment was clean—too clean. He was a neat freak, but this level of cleanliness was enough to send someone as fastidious as he was over the edge.
Odd—an operating theatre too clean.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
There was NOTHING to look at.
Nothing except broken images that looked like outstretched hands—
Gangly.
Wieldy.
Like glitching glass veins.
Pulsing.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Startled, Rin touched a window to see a hand—
Not his.
NEVER his.
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KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
The glass pulsed. To the knock’s rhythm.
The veins in the glass throbbed harder.
Brighter.
Red.
Then white.
KNOCK.
Thud. His chest answered.
The window fogged.
Scrawled letters on the frosted pane.
KNOCK.
Cracks appeared, a mangled spiderweb, across the mirror.
His own pulse skipped. It sounded just like the knock.
The fingers grew longer.
More gangly.
Pressing harder on the pane.
KNOCK.
It rocked—like a petrified heart.
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The crack in the windows widened—light bled through, as if bones had split.
In the middle of the fracture—an eye.
It blinked—and winked.
Too close.
Too knowing.
Another knock—within his chest.
Then a finger passed through the glass.
It pointed—at him.
Dripping static and leaving a dripping trail of red.
Rin’s ribs tightened, locking him in place.
The rhythm had bound him.
The apartment door rattled to its urgent beat.
Then, something within the mirror moved.
The lights followed the pulse—Vibrating.
Too exact.
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The mirror’s surface stretched—-bulging, bated breath from within its depths.
The eye within the fracture multiplied, blinking.
Syncing with the knock.
The veins in the window lashed—its binds tightening.
The door creaked—the knob turned.
A tad.
The lights flickered again—Rin’s pulse quickened to the same rhythm.
Static crept into the air—his ears buzzed.
Then, a shadow.
Seeping in from the gap below the door.
A crack within the mirror formed.
A mouth.
Gaping.
Teeth within—sharp.
The door handle twisted fully.
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The mouth moved.
Not speaking—whispering.
The shadow under the door thickened, spreading across the floor——
An irremovable stain.
The door shook uncontrollably.
Then—stopped.
Silence.
KNOCK.
From within the room.
White lights flared—turning a garish red.
The mouth opened wider—-the frame ripped apart.
It. Crawled. Out.
🔀🔀🪞🧍🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍
It slithered out of the doorframe, bending—
To him.
It approached, raking its fingers across the wall.
Creating sparks from within each scrape.
Then, the mouth snapped shut.
But the light from the glass still bled.
The shadow under the door seeped around him, circling his feet.
Locking him in place.
His face-half his, half static.
His teeth flickered.
The knocking continued—from within his chest.
In time with his breath.
Pulse.
Fear.
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The sparks from the wall burned the veins in the glass—fire crawling through arteries.
The shadow wound tighter around his ankles, dragging him.
Rin saw himself at work, masked, a scalpel in hand.
Wiping the operating table the surgeon was working on—
Incessant.
Continuous.
The thing’s mouth opened—not to breathe out, but breathe in.
Sucking his breath.
His chest collapsed with its rhythm—each knock sucked a heartbeat.
The mirror quaked, a fractured web.
🔀🔀🪞🧍🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍
The fire veins were a virtual tarantula, bursting through the mirror’s cracks.
The Thing drew a final breath in—
Deep.
The glass veins snapped—
A shower of red light.
The shadow around Rin shrilled, yanking the fissure, along with the Thing.
Rin fell back on his chair, collapsed.
Breathing.
His room, as it was.
Just cracks.
In the mirror.
And himself. Scalpel. Disinfectant.
And cloth.
In his mouth.
The knocks continued.
🔀🔀🪞🧍🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍🔀🪞🧍
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
Its silent gaze pressed on Janine’s ears, shrinking their calls.
Todd stared at it through the window, a picture of calm.
Too calm, like he already expected him.
Janine, meanwhile, noticed little things in the house—
Not in sync.
Lights flickered, fickle sparks in the night air.
Her phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.
Everything in the home jittered in disharmony, refusing her rhythm.
Heeding a will not her own.
Todd drew the being close.
Too close.
The figure drew his spirit, almost locking him in.
The young preteen whispered about what he shouldn’t know at his age-almost to an intimate, imaginary friend.
The figure whispered into his bones, carrying the weight of memory.
A weight–unlearned. The branches of the trees in the garden swayed, bending to the windows, as if responding to a conductor–
The figure in the backyard.
Todd’s knowledge, untamed, began to corrode.
He lifted his head.
And turned.
The air hummed where the figure still stood.
Angry. Edgy.
Janine’s phone froze, responding dutifully to the sirens’ calls.
The backyard tenant was closer each time Janine looked away.
Not moving.
Always nearer, though she never saw it move.
It collapsed distance–still.
Neighbour’s eyes peeked, on edge, from behind the curtains,
Waiting.
Then, Janine knew.
The civil readiness drills weren’t meant to protect–they were coined to foster obedience.
Conformity.
To a being that defined–for others.
And, like clockwork, the neighbours stepped into their backyards.
Walking in perfect sync to the movement of its arms.
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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.
September is a month of transition, when our lives become–Busyness.
Our lives can run the mill–sometimes uncontrollably. But we have to sometimes put that aside–at least, long enough to notice the little things.
Ignore the subtle–at risk.
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Todd had gotten on the bus to school just a few hours earlier, and Janine was already ready to throw in the mummy towel. But it kept wrapping around her. The single mother still had to plod on– she went through her routine in the small town, trying frantically to rush through endless errands before her son returned for lunch.
The small town prided itself on its civil readiness– all citizens responded in synched time to the call of sirens. Lockdown practice was mere child’s play. Janine barely noticed the peaking decibels, chalking them up to traditions that did chaotic dances in her ears. But this sounded more—
Alluring.
Persistent.
Like a call to somewhere– unworldly.
Still, she brushed the thought aside and paid quickly for her groceries. She didn’t want to leave a little boy wailing outside her home.
This year’s call seemed–
Different. The wails refused to end.
Hurried breaths over a YouTube video broadcast.
The street emptied of her neighbours almost as quickly as it ended.
“Mommy, everyone ran home faster than the Flash.” The 11-year-old Todd whisked his head around, taking in the chaos. “What’s happening?”
“Just an extended drill, Todd. Don’t worry about it.” But her words and heart were an uneasy mismatch. The hairs on her arms stood on end–
Too straight.
She was at the cutting board, trying to execute perfect slices of cucumber, when she felt a tugging on her sleeve.
It was Todd.
Her usually stoic son’s fish was deathly pale.
He gestured wordlessly to the backyard.
A figure that at the pots of dandelion she had painstakingly nurtured from scratch.
Unmoving.
Featureless.
Hollow eye sockets.
It remained still, watching,
Janine froze herself, knife in mid-air.
The figure turned–just enough for it to catch the corner of her eye.
The sirens wailed louder.
Todd whispered, pointing. “Look Mum. It’s swaying. Like your dandelions.”
Janine’s pulse quickened–Todd.
She moved towards it, knife in a tight grip.
The figure stretched towards them. The doors creaked.
Todd pulled her back. “Not now.”
The figure tilted its head– its teeth were in a sharp snarl.
Blood seeped out of its temples.
The sirens deafened.
Janine’s breath caught. Todd.
It was fight– or flight.
The figure moved towards Todd, arms outstretched.
Janine’s knuckles were white on the knife’s grip.
Then, the siren softened.
The figure backed into the garden.
Facing them. Staring.
Todd nodded. “It moves with the call.”
The figure lingered in the garden, fixing them with an empty gaze, its presence louder than the sirens.
Not to be ignored.
👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️
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.
No flower was supposed to bloom in the barren soil.
Yet, a single Black Rose blossomed every winter, its petals pressing too closely against the window of widower Bob Vance.
Eleanor Rise was a seamstress with a relationship with the dead was—
Beyond the pale.
Eleanor had a seeing eye–her left. It discerned shadows that wore gowns–not with exquisite sheer–and far from elegant.
They fit.
Like coffins.
The skilled embroiderer knew not only her craft–she understood the lost souls of those who had crossed the inevitable bridge.
🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀
Late that evening, the rose’s shadow lengthened, almost stalking, across the workshop. Candlelight flickered, forming its long shape.
A man entered Eleanor’s workshop, face covered in tears.
Bob Vance. The recent widower.
“I have something to ask, Eleanor, and I must know.” Distress was in his quivering voice.
With his distress came shadows–darkness that only Eleanor could discern.
Then, whispers.
With a frosty chill.
“You’ve tried to bring back the past, haven’t you?” Her eyes passed over him, wary.
He touched his quivering fingertips, not meeting her gaze.
Abruptly, he rose. “Thank you for your time.” An almost indiscernible mumble, and he stalked out of the room.
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Bob returned to his mansion, its detailed, arched windows shuttered and shadowed.
Casting furtive glances around his garden, he planted a small thorn–one from the black rose in Eleanor’s store–and began to tend it.
It grew.
Petals, black.
Beautiful.
Thorns–unweidly. Sharp.
And whispers began.
Short. Just barely discernible.
The mirrors in Bob’s home didn’t just reflect–they came to life.
At least, the reflections within them did.
Chairs in the dining room were–
Misplaced.
As the roses’ petals drifted onto the wooden floor, there was a faint whisper.
Almost a taunt.
“You called?”
Bob’s mother, who had come to assist with his laundry, laid eyes on the dark flower.
A shrill cry.
The plate she carried clattered on the wooden floor.
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Night turned to dawn in Bob’s mansion.
The whispers grew louder.
The silverware Bob laid on the table changed positions on the dining table when he laid eyes on them.
Bob had an inkling of the reasons for the events.
He tried to uproot the single black flower in his garden.
But the plant remained rooted.
Defiant.
Its petals dropped.
Protesting.
Scattering themselves across the floor–each time he cleared them.
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At his mother’s insistence, Bob resigned himself to leaving the rose alone.
But he still heard whispers in the hallway.
He turned to look, expecting quiet.
After all, he’d left it alone.
But in the mirror, a face.
A stretched smile.
His.
And hers.
One.
The rose lingered in his garden, petals fiercely rooted in the soil.
Elegant.
Black.
Faint whispers.
“Still here.”
Across town, another black rose pressed against a window’s glass.
Eleanor Rise passed it with a grim nod.
Unheard, they grow.
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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.
Based on actual circumstances. Names have been changed.
Beware the website you visit – it may not welcome.
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Tara was a sceptic –the paranormal was more than financial fodder for her blog. The horror junkie combed through bytes of data daily to keep her website thriving –debunking paranormal myths for a living.
The introverted and avid writer had few friends –save for two dogs, Mop and Cloudy. The black-and-white duo kept vigil by her side –Mop calm and loyal, Cloudy, senses tingling.
And so it was on a typical Wednesday afternoon –Tara was drawn by demonologist Lara Chong’s legacy, with Mop and Cloudy perched close by.
Lara Carter’s website opened. Then, a sudden growl.
Mop had turned to face the wall. Typically placid, she growled louder than ever.
Cloudy had joined her, teeth bared, gaze fixed on the same spot.
A photo on the wall tilted at a slight angle –but there was no wind.
Tara’s screen flickered in unseen anger –the air was an iron against her chest.
The snarling went on for a full ten minutes. Then, barking.
Unrestrained.
Angry.
The usually muffled Mop bared her white teeth in a tense snarl. Cloudy’s stretched fully across her face.
They stayed by Tara’s side that day — refusing to leave for dinner.
She slammed the laptop shut and slept with the lights on, nerves in tatters.
The placid black Mop passed some time later. In one of Tara’s dreams, a voice.
Low.
Dissonant.
“Life is always gentle and soft…”
She adopted another black dog, Zorra –but she has never barked like that since.
Tara is still the sceptic –with a twist.
She knows some websites keep. And never opens them.
After all, logic cannot explain the truths tucked away in the heart’s recesses.
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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.
Dance steps still echoed through the halls of Encore Dance Studio, flowing with the eerie rhythm of the chandeliers.
Only shadows moved beneath them, synced to the charming, yet poignant chorus of the Blue Danube. It flowed through the vacant halls, a tune drenched in memory, donned like a ghost’s lullaby.
From a forgotten music box in the corner, the tune whispered, a shattered musical promise, fragile as glass. It whispered, not a melody, but a beckoning.
Young Johann discovered it carefully buried beneath a loose floorboard. He wound it—he believed it offered comfort.
Curiosity won- it spawned Johann’s tune, its notes a web of silk threads winding around him in a cocoon.
A dark shadow danced with the blissfully unaware Johann, shifting and stretching, ever-changing.
And she appeared–pale, gaunt, hollow eyes filled with yearning. She extended a frail hand.
Thinking it would lead him to a land of wonder, he took it.
Her grip was ice, hard, fastidious.
It wouldn’t let go.
So he danced with her–and danced, passing between light and dark, slowly fading as he moved.
As they danced, she told him his name.
She bore his surname.
She had been a top dancer at Encore–bright, graceful, envied.
But she had vanished beneath the floorboards—they say he had pushed.
The three shared the same surname.
The two flowed with the melody, without stopping—until Johann no longer existed.
Just his movements. Only his memories.
He had taken her hand without question. He trusted it–they shared the same surname.
Now a mere shadow, he lurked beneath the floorboards. All because he followed, without asking where.
The music box still waits under the floorboard, waiting to be opened.
Not every hand leads the right way.
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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 Getting Literal Writing Alcove 