The Hungry Ghost

by H. S. Norup

  Dad glances up at them.

  He didn’t use to work all the time. Or was it just that I usually only spent weekends and holidays with him? I’ve definitely never seen him read emails on his phone during a meal before.

  When Maya has taken the twins away to get them ready for bed, I ask about the girl in the white dress and the missing board in the fence.

  “Sorry, what was that?” Dad turns his phone so the screen faces downwards.

  “A missing board?” Clementine asks. “I’ll have to get a handyman in to fix it. I don’t want anyone running around in our garden.”

  Dad calms her down, saying, “Don’t worry. I noticed it yesterday. Not a living soul could get through that narrow gap.”

  “And the girl in the white dress, Dad, do you know who she is?” I’m watching him carefully. He was in the garden at the same time as the girl last night.

  “I don’t think any of the neighbours have children your age. I certainly haven’t seen any girls with long black hair around here.”

  “But—” I’m about to say that I never mentioned the girl’s hair, when Clementine interrupts.

  “How would you know? You’re never here,” she says with another giggle. “But you’re right. Most of the neighbours are middle-aged and have children at universities abroad. There’s the Chandrans with their new baby. And Mrs Lim’s grandson is living with her… Could it have been a boy?”

  I can guess which boy she’s talking about. “It wasn’t a boy.”

  “Caucasian or Asian?” Clementine asks. “Or perhaps a mix, like me?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “How did you know she had long black hair, Dad?”

  “You said that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then I don’t know, Freja. I’ve had a long day at work, and I slept badly last night. Had the weirdest dreams…” He frowns at something on his phone.

  “I saw her in the middle of the night too.”

  Dad’s head snaps up, and he exchanges a look with Clementine. He turns—not just his head, but his whole body—towards me and studies me with sad eyes. “Freja…” He sighs and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you absolutely certain we’re talking about a real girl?”

  I hold his gaze while I nod. “I don’t have imaginary friends any more, Dad.”

  “Perhaps you dreamt it,” Clementine says after a long pause. “I always get muddled after sleeping outside in the heat.”

  “Perhaps.” Chasing the girl up to the graveyard wasn’t a dream, but before I can tell them about that, Dad’s phone rings.

  “Sorry, have to take this,” he says, leaving the table.

  “I’d completely forgotten about Mrs Lim’s grandson.” Clementine twirls her chop sticks. “He’s a nice boy, Freja. I’ll talk to her to set up a play date. It’ll be good for you to have a friend in the neighbourhood.”

  Maya calls from upstairs that the twins are ready for their story, before I can tell Clementine that I’m too old for play dates and that there’s zero chance of Mrs. Lim’s grandson and me ever becoming friends.

  I’ll just have to find the girl tomorrow. Then Clementine will know I can make my own friends, and I can convince Dad the girl isn’t imaginary.

  —8—

  The next day I unpack. Not because I mind the mess and living out of a suitcase, which would make it easier to leave swiftly when Mum gets better. But when I come up to my room after a late breakfast, one of the twins is going through my stuff. He’s sitting on my floor among a scatter of T-shirts, unwinding my climbing rope and getting himself tangled into it. One loop of the rope lies around his little neck like a noose.

  “Don’t touch that!” I scream.

  For a moment, he just stares at me, then his face scrunches up and he lets out a siren-like wail.

  Clementine comes running from downstairs, and Maya from the twins’ room with a half-dressed boy on her heels.

  “I don’t want them in my room,” I yell to Clementine, while Maya carries the sobbing twin away.

  “Okay, Freja. Then make sure you close the door.” Clementine starts picking up and folding the T-shirts. “Would you like me or Maya to help you unpack?”

  “No. Thanks.” I take the stack of T-shirts from Clementine and stomp to the pink-and-white wardrobe. Knowing exactly where each item is can be crucial in an emergency.

  Behind me, Clementine says, “Let me know if you need help with anything,” before she leaves, closing the door.

  While I stow my things safely on top shelves and in desk drawers, Lizzie watches from the summit of Mount Everest. The sky behind the glass gives her rubbery body a blue tinge.

  Splendid view from up here, she might be saying, but why did you scream at the mini humans?

  “I don’t know,” I mutter.

  Heavy rain drums on the roof, making it easier to ignore the whinging boys who bump against my door, and Maya saying, “No, that is Freja’s room.”

  Late afternoon, when the rain has finally stopped, I tiptoe downstairs, carrying my hiking boots by their laces. They’re still encrusted with mud from the summer camp, and I don’t want to give Maya extra work. Every part of my body that isn’t covered by my long-sleeved top and combat trousers has been doused with mosquito spray. My Swiss Army knife, a map and Dad’s old compass—you can’t rely on an app for survival—is in one pocket. Another holds my phone, my key, a snack bar and a small notebook and pen. A book of matches, the magnifying glass, a small first-aid kit and a packet of tissues are distributed among the remaining pockets. My torch hangs from one of the belt loops, my water bottle from another.

  I’m prepared to enter the rainforest graveyard and search for the girl.

  Clementine, Maya and the twins are at a first birthday party for “one of their little friends”, who I suspect is the child of one of Clementine’s friends. She wanted me to come along, as they’re staying for tea, but I told her I was tired. I won’t starve—Maya has prepared a plate of sandwiches for me. They’ll be home late and so will Dad. It’s the perfect opportunity to explore the graveyard.

  The sky hangs low and grey like on a chilly autumn day, so the heat outside surprises me. It’s so hot and humid my T-shirt is clammy before I’ve finished lacing up my hiking boots.

  Making my way up the road, I carefully avoid stepping in any of the soggy offerings.

  The boy calls out to me when I pass his house. He pops out of the swing chair that hangs from the ceiling of their veranda.

  “Are you chasing that girl again?” he asks, while walking to the gate and brushing crumbs off his shorts. There’s a smear of melted chocolate on his green polo shirt.

  “I’m going to search for her. You wanna come?” I’m not sure why I ask. It’s not like I want to be friends with him, but it’s as if he was just sitting there waiting for me.

  “To Bukit Brown? With you? No, thanks!”

  My cheeks burn. He’s clearly not looking for a friend or he wouldn’t be so rude. “Okay. And just so you know, August is the eighth month,” I say as I walk away.

  From behind, the boy calls. “You shouldn’t go up there. There’re snakes and monkeys and wild dogs and stuff. And just so you know, it’s the seventh month in the Chinese calendar. The Hungry Ghost Festival month.”

  Rude and a chicken. I’m still fuming when I arrive at the cemetery.

  Stomping—to scare any lurking snakes off—I reach the nearest small tree and cut a long stick off with my Swiss Army knife. That ought to help ward off snakes and monkeys and dogs. I’m not sure about the “stuff”.

  I stop to examine the tree with the aerial roots. It’s a banyan tree—I looked it up. It grows downwards, starting from a seed up in another tree, and eventually strangles its host, until no one remembers or cares what kind of tree originally stood in its place.

&nb
sp; I haven’t brought my rope, so I climb up and saw off a three-metre-long root. From a nearby branch, a black bird observes me with its blood-red eyes. When it cuckoos, I realize it’s a koel. Like other cuckoos, koels lay their eggs in another bird’s nest, preventing the bird babies in the host family from surviving.

  Not for the first time, I wonder why Dad wants me in his happy family.

  After tying the root-rope around my waist, I crawl under the dense shrubs that blocked me yesterday. Dead branches snap and brown leaves the size of placemats crackle under my feet. A musty smell of decaying wood rises from the ground. Birds call out over the high-pitched background song of cicadas. One of them sounds like a persistent car alarm. The koels cuckoo. Raindrops on the greenery glitter in the weak light. It’s as if I’ve crossed the boundary to a magical, prehistoric world.

  I can already imagine the light in Dad’s eyes when I tell him about it. He’ll want to find his gear right away, so we can get going. I’ll lead him along the track, and he’ll be nodding and saying, “Not bad.” When we leave the trail and he sees this surprising wilderness, he’ll forget all about his phone and work. Because this is a place for an explorer: an untamed jungle, with secrets and stories to discover.

  “Hello!” I call. The sound is muted, absorbed by the rainforest. “It’s me, Freja!”

  Everywhere—under the branches, next to the trail—graves litter the ground. Some are crumbling bricks or greenish cement that stick out of the mass of dead leaves and tree roots and new shoots. Others are decorated with faded colourful tiles and lichen-covered Chinese statues.

  I’ve just decided that this is my favourite place in Singapore, even if she doesn’t show up, when I spot her.

  —9—

  Although the girl is close, I still can’t quite see her features in the low light under the leaves.

  “Can I help you with something? Or d’you just want to play?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, but before she turns and darts away, she glances over her shoulder. I’m certain she wants me to follow her.

  She moves much slower than yesterday, weaving in and out between the trees. Tapping the ground with my stick, I crash through the undergrowth behind her. She stays ahead of me, but never tries to lose me, slowing down whenever my breathing becomes laboured.

  We cross a potholed asphalt pathway and a kind of half-open shed made of metal plates. Wet clothes hang limply on a washing line between the shed and a tree. Maybe that’s where she lives. Next to the shed stands a rusty bicycle and a metal structure with at least eight yellow rubber boots stuck on the rods, upside down. It looks like a fantastical tree that grows wellies.

  Perhaps we’re running in circles—there’s no time to check my compass—but we don’t pass the welly tree again.

  As we’re sprinting downhill, she speeds up. A stitch is prickling in my side. I have to stop. Where does she get the energy? I was going on twenty-kilometre hikes in the spring, and I’m used to racing around, exploring in the forest at home. This girl could be a marathon runner.

  “Wait!” I call.

  Ahead, she disappears behind a mass of green shrubs.

  The ground is squelchy with rain. Cicada noise surrounds me. The bushes are dense with prickly thorns. The girl seemed to slide through them, but there’s no obvious path.

  I’m suddenly unsure what I’m even doing here, following a strange girl. Perhaps I should just turn around and find the way back. It’s getting late. Clementine and the twins might be home soon. My clothes are clammy.

  A chill runs through me. Something tickles my scalp. I brush a hand over my hair to get rid of whatever’s prickling my skin, hoping it was only an insect and nothing creepy… At the last thought, I try to stop my imagination running amok. I blame Mrs Lim’s grandson and his talk of ghosts.

  After taking a gulp of cloying humid air, I tuck my chin down towards my chest and pull the T-shirt up to cover my face. I’m holding it in place, jutting my elbow out in front, as I push through the thorny twigs. They scratch my hands. It stings.

  The girl’s sitting on an overgrown gravestone. We’re in a small grove, encircled by the dense shrubs. The crowns of tall trees come together high above us, creating a kind of den and shutting out what little light there is. The air feels fresh and cool and hushed. I can’t even hear the cicadas any more.

  “Is this your secret place?” I ask. “It’s perfect.” This is the kind of secluded spot where you could play for hours, pretending to be in a different world.

  I take a few steps forward. Her dark eyes are staring at me. The girl’s hair is so long it touches the gravestone. It hangs straight down, making her neck appear extremely long and thin. Her cheekbones protrude above her sunken cheeks. Thin arms stick out of the sleeves of her dress, which is still surprisingly white, without any of the splashes of mud I have on my clothes.

  One more step and I might be able to reach her.

  A sudden gust of chilling wind blows into my face. I close my eyes; it’s a reflex. When I open them a moment later, she’s gone. None of the shrubs move, like they would if someone had just run through them.

  “Hey! Come back. I’ll stay further away, if you want,” I call.

  She doesn’t answer.

  The cicada noise returns. Somehow the place is less magical without her, and much darker.

  Why did she leave after guiding me all the way here? What is it she wants me to see?

  There are other tombstones in the grove. They jut up from the ground at odd angles, half-swallowed by the rainforest. I crouch by the one she sat on, tear off creepers, and brush dead leaves away from the crumbled stone. Underneath appears the remains of an etched inscription, but I can’t read it. The signs are Chinese.

  I take a photo of them with my phone, using flash. I’m not sure it’s clear enough, so I hold a page from my notebook against the gravestone, while I rub back and forth with my pencil, creating a silver-grey copy of the signs. One of them looks like a running, mirrored capital ‘E’ with legs. The other’s almost crumbled away.

  It’s only six forty, but—unlike in Denmark, where it stays light until late, in summer—it’s beginning to get dark. I turn my torch on and sweep it around the grove.

  Behind the gravestone, a long, flat plate-like stone lies on the ground. It isn’t covered by moss or lichen or even fallen leaves. Instead, on top of the stone, pebbles and matchsticklength twigs are laid out in a pattern.

  The kind of pattern I recognize.

  Morse code.

  —10—

  For a moment, the whole disappearing thing and the crumbling Chinese letters on the gravestone had me spooked. But seeing the Morse code message calms me right down. The girl’s probably a fellow scout. Or a girl guide. In Denmark, we’re all scouts; boys and girls aren’t separated. Perhaps they are here. Maybe, if we become friends, she can bring me to meet her troop.

  I feel a tingle of excitement as I light my torch on the message:

  The letters are easy to decipher: U and Y and Æ. But the last letter doesn’t exist here. It’s a special Danish letter. And even in Danish UYÆ doesn’t mean anything. Are there different Chinese Morse letters perhaps?

  I cross the stone to study the pattern from the other side. Now it’s:

  CQD

  Still nothing meaningful. Perhaps it’s a random row of bits that have accumulated over the years. Then again, perhaps it isn’t. It doesn’t look random, and the tiny sticks would’ve been washed away by rain if they had been here earlier today. The girl must have placed the message immediately before I came into the grove.

  I take a photo and copy the pattern into my notebook, trying to be as precise as I can—perhaps it isn’t Morse at all but another kind of code. Afterwards, I find more pebbles and sticks and arrange them into a new pattern. I have so many questions, but until I know if she ca
n answer, I’ll only ask one:

  WHO ARE YOU

  The girl is so thin, and if she lives here in the cemetery, she must be poor. I wonder if she’s hungry. The snack bar in my pocket is a bit squashed and I’ve already broken off a bite, but I place it next to my Morse message.

  “I’ve left food for you,” I call, and hope she finds it before it’s carried off by ants or monkeys.

  I wish there was something else I could do for her. Something to show her I would like to be friends.

  The creepers I pulled up around the gravestone have small yellow flowers. They make me think of the chains my friend Denise and I used to make out of daisies or dandelions when we were little. After positioning my torch, I sit down and plait the creepers into a garland. I’m out of practice, and the result isn’t pretty. I don’t even know if the girl will understand what it means. But it’s my only idea, and I feel better after seeing the ring of tiny suns brighten the drab grey stone.

  Before I leave, I mark the location on the map on my phone, giving it a small star, and jot the exact GPS coordinates down in my notebook. It’s unlikely that I’ll lose both my phone and my notebook.

  The star on my map is far from any of the roads. I’m closest to the PIE, the Pan Island Expressway, which is south-south-west of here and must be the road I ran under. If I hold my breath, I can hear the distant hum of cars.

  Clutching my stick in one hand and my torch in the other, and stopping often to check the direction on my compass, I slowly make my way out of the wilderness.

  Once, I smell bonfire smoke and hear voices coming from an orange glow to my right, but I continue on as straight a course as the rainforest permits, until I reach a single trail that runs along the expressway. Here, the world is normal: three lanes of cars rush past in one direction and three rows of red brake lights snake their way in the other.