Do you believe in ghosts?

In the West, there is a type of TV program, where a crew of ‘ghost-hunters’ would visit places infamous for being ‘haunted’, and record their experiences exploring those ‘haunted’ abodes. They would bring all kinds of ‘special equipment’ with them, to record the ‘ghostly activity’ , and a big part of those shows for audiences would be laughing as the ‘ghost-hunters’ got scared out of their wits by doors slamming on their own, vases flying across the room, and people being dragged into a dark and dingy basement by some unseen force, amidst other shenanigans those content creators conjured up to get more eyeballs for their videos.

These days, such programs have moved on to YouTube and Netflix. Anyone with an iPhone and some decent skills in video and sound editing can explore some ‘haunted’ venue, and create ‘ghost-hunting’ content of their own. In Malaysia, such programs are not that popular. Sure, there are certain ‘haunted’ venues in Malaysia with interesting back-stories, but such content is not very interesting.  Those ‘ghost-hunting’ YouTube videos by Malaysian content creators do not receive many views, likes, or subscriptions. You know why?

Those venues are not haunted. Not at all. And people can tell.

I myself have been to a real haunted venue before. Years ago, my friends and I encountered such a place during our college summer break, so I’ll describe for you, what a real haunted venue in Malaysia is like. And it was terrifying.

***

“What do you guys wanna do for this summer?” I asked. We were in a cafe along Love Lane, in Georgetown, Penang Island, sipping some latte and just chilling out, figuring out what to do during the Summer 2012 break before our majors properly commenced.

“Our lecturers keep asking us to expand our portfolios, deepen our portfolios. They keep asking us to go on Fiverr and E-lance to find freelance work to gain practical industrial experience, it’s crazy! I just wanna kick back, relax, and not do anything at all! Our Arts foundation course was gruelling! I got Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from all that illustration practice. We deserve a break. Badly,” Ryan said, massaging his right wrist for emphasis.

Ryan Spittel was from Colombo, Sri Lanka, and he planned to study Industrial Product Design. With that qualification under his belt, Ryan wanted to work as a packaging designer for a big FMCG (Fast Moving Consumer Goods) Company in Malaysia, such as Unilever, or Proctor and Gamble. In addition to being charismatic, Ryan was tall, slim, with curly hair, and often dressed simply in a black tee and faded denim jeans, complete with sandals. However Ryan was the ‘cheeky’ one in the group, and if there was any mischief concocted up, Ryan was often the master-mind.

“Amen to that. You know how some people sleep-walk, or sleep-talk? My housemate caught me sleep-drawing. On more than one occasion. He said I had one hand in the air, and I was moving my hand in some strange erratic pattern. Like I was drawing in my sleep. It really freaked him out. We need some R&R before we are tortured again next semester.” Almarof Vee Hassan, or Alma as we used to call him, nodded in agreement with Ryan.

Alma came from a wealthy family of accountants in Kedah, who were the bookkeepers for many of the plantation owners there. However, Alma went off the beaten track and wanted to pursue 3D Animation, as he desired to work in a video game or animated film studio in the US sometime in the future. Thus he attended The One Academy (TOA) art college in Penang, and that’s how he met us.

“How about we go on a road trip? We never got to explore Penang during term time. It’s a good time to go on a road trip now!” Chris suggested, in between bites of his lemon cheesecake.

Christopher Vishwakarma, or Chris V,  was unabashedly gay and was from the small town of Taiping in Perak. He was the only one amongst us who could speak Mandarin, as he had studied in a Chinese school in Taiping. He often hustled a good deal for us with the local Malaysian Chinese pirated CD shop owners, for the pirated Adobe software we art college students purchased at the shady pirated software shops in the KOMTAR building, in downtown Georgetown, in the heart of Penang Island. He came from a family of doctors, but like Alma, wanted to pursue something other than the family trade, and attended TOA in Penang as he wanted to major in Fashion Design later on, and work in a big fashion company such as Chanel, or Givenchy.

“Awesome! You know, I always wanted to visit Hard-Rock Hotel, in Batu Ferringhi. It’s quite a drive there, from Tanjong Bungah to Batu Ferringhi. There are many restaurants and souvenir shops along the way, and I heard, some ghostly sights as well!” I said.

Unlike Alma and Chris, who were taking an alternate path from their family’s occupation of choice, I was following in the footsteps of my parents. My dad was the AVP (Assistant Vice President) of Mobile Content at Astro Cable TV, whilst my mother was the AVP of HR at the same company. I was planning on taking a Bachelor’s in Multi-Media Design, and it was my goal to apply to work at Astro’s User Interface Design department after my graduation. Hence I applied for the Multi-Media Design course in TOA art college, not some other art college, or local university offering the same course, as I heard the instructors at TOA were really strict and tough and made sure you knew your stuff before they even considered giving you a passing grade.

“Screw the ghostly sights! But Hard Rock Hotel in Batu Ferringhi sounds tempting,” Chris made a face, as he sipped some Hazelnut latte.

“Wow! Great idea! I heard we could enjoy all kinds of exciting sports at Hard Rock Hotel Batu Ferringhi! Like Para-Gliding, and Jet-skis! Whooo Boy, we gotta try the Jet-skis!” Alma said excitedly, before taking a bite of his caramel brownie.

“That’s settled then. Hard-Rock Hotel Batu Ferringhi, here we come!” Ryan gave his seal of approval, before downing his Matcha Latte in one gulp, and the matter was settled.

As such, we rented a silver Toyota Innova, and all piled excitedly in the large Mini-van, eager to embark on our road trip to Hard-Rock Hotel Batu Ferringhi. Along the way, we would encounter the most terrifying experience of our lives.

“Err guys. There’s something wrong with the engine,” Chris pointed out. He was the designated driver, and I was sitting on the front passenger seat beside him, helping him navigate the wide, meandering hillside roads connecting Tanjung Bungah to Batu Ferringhi.

“I don’t hear anything,” Ryan said, straining his neck, leaning forwards from the rear seat, and trying to hear what Chris was referring to.

“There! It’s there again! That whirring noise!” Chris said.

“Oh, I can hear it now. Oh, Shit!”

PrrrrRACK!

“Oh, Jesus!” Chris exclaimed. He swerved, as a black cat suddenly jumped out of nowhere in front of us, its black fur silky obsidian in our yellow headlights, just as our engine died, and we almost hit the curb. Thanks to Chris’s excellent driving, we managed to pull up on the side of the road shoulder a few feet away, away from any incoming traffic, and assess the problem.

“Ah fuck. The timing belt is busted. We gotta have the Innova towed away, and the timing belt replaced,” Ryan said, after he popped open the bonnet, and examined the engine.

“What shit luck. Did it have anything to do with that black cat we encountered earlier on? Black cats are bad omens, indicators that some terrible mishap is about to occur,” I said.

“Choi! Touchwood. No such thing. It was just a coincidence that we encountered a black cat earlier on,” Alma said.

“Well, what are we going to do now? It’s 10 pm at night, there’s hardly a soul on the road. None of the garages or car-repair shops are open. We’re just stuck here, on some hillside road, in between Tanjung Bungah and Batu Ferringhi,” I said.

“Give Hard-Rock Hotel a call. Tell them we have a busted timing belt, and we’ll be coming only in the morning tomorrow. In the meantime… hey look at those bungalows!” Ryan said, pointing to his left.

“What bungalows?” I squinted in the darkness, trying to see what Ryan was referring to.

“Oh, those pair of bungalows over there. Looks abandoned, judging from the terrible condition they are in!” Chris observed.

“No choice. Let’s head over there. Maybe we’ll spend the night there. In the morning, we’ll call for a tow service to come to pick us up.” Alma said.

“Sounds like a plan.” I agreed. And we unloaded all our belongings from the back of the Innova, and proceeded to spend the night at one of the bungalows.

“Oh my god, it’s so stuffy and hot inside here,” I said, as we entered one of the hillside bungalows. Copper wiring dangled from the ceiling. Doors and windows were missing. There was black mold, and hair-line cracks on the walls and sections of the bungalow even had its bricks exposed.  The style and decor of the bungalow were very old, perhaps 1930s, maybe 1920s even, and there was a blood-curling feeling inside as if violent and terrible events occurred inside before. The kind of bloody vibe that was prevalent in the Colosseum in Rome, and the cobble-stoned streets of Edinburgh.

“What, you rather stay outside, where it may rain anytime? C’mon, where’s your sense of adventure?” Ryan joked. He cleared a space on the ground in front of him and laid down a sleeping bag. He did not even bother to thank me for insisting we all bring one sleeping bag each, in case of emergencies like this. After sitting down, he set his luggage beside him, and from his backpack, retrieved a packet of Ruffles Cheddar crisps, tore open the bag, and started munching.

“Too bad we can’t light a fire in here,” Alma said, as he cleared a space in the living room of the abandoned bungalow, and laid his sleeping bag down too. He lay on the sleeping bag and gestured for Ryan to hand him a can of Pepsi from Ryan’s backpack, and the latter complied with the request.

“Oh god, guys. This place is filthy! I’m sorry, but I’m with Jaideep on this one. I’m sleeping outside,” Chris protested.

“Suit yourself. It’s a free country,” Alma said, popping up his can of Pepsi, and taking a nice long sip. Beside him, Ryan said nothing and continued munching on his Ruffles crisps.

“C’mon Chris. Let’s set up our sleeping bags outside. It’s cooler,” I told Chris. The two of us then trudged our way outside, and laid down our sleeping bags in front of the house, just in front of the entrance, where it was the least dirty, or shrouded in green weeds.

“Good night Chris,” I said, turning over to the opposite side, my back facing to him, and I fell fast asleep.

“Good night Jaideep,” Chris said, and he fell asleep too. We would cram in several hours of sleep before I was shaken awake sometime after.

“Wake up. Wake up!”

“Huh…?” I stirred uneasily. I sat up and looked up at the person who shook me awake. It was a lady. She was dressed in a grey Peranakan outfit, and had short hair she wore in an old-fashioned bob haircut She squatted beside my sleeping bag, and looked at me seriously.

“Your friends are in trouble,” she said in fluent English.

“Huh? What do you mean my friends are in… Holy Shit!”

It was then when I heard the screams. I turned around, and I saw Ryan and Alma, not on their sleeping bags. They were on their knees on the ground, inside the bungalow, constricted by some invisible force. Around them stood a few figures. The figures were dressed in some sort of strange officer’s uniform, with red armbands on one arm and floppy berets with a golden star at the center, and knee-high boots. The figures had very Asiatic faces, with squinty eyes, and broad cheekbones and their faces were contorted in expressions of malicious glee, as they gazed down on Ryan and Alma, and reveled in whatever sick torture that was being inflicted on my two poor friends.

“ARRGHHHH! ARGHHHHH!” Ryan and Alma screamed as bloody gashes tore across their arms, chest, and abdomen, tearing across their t-shirts. From the way their faces were contorted and angled, it was as if invisible beings were holding them down from behind, as other invisible beings were carving large bloody gashes into their flesh. Their eyes were wide with terror, and I wonder how I could have slept through all the loud screams they were giving out earlier.

“Chris! Chris! Wake up! We gotta save Alma and Ryan! Quick Chris! Wake up!” I knew I could not save Ryan and Alma alone, and proceeded to wake Chris, who was sleeping soundly beside me.

“Mmmm? What happened. Err hey, what’s all that screaming… HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!” Chris jolted up, after he heard the screams, and turned to see Ryan and Alma being tortured.

“Quick! We gotta save them!” I urged, and we both ran over to the entrance. The door was bolted shut, and from the inside, several of the ghosts in strange officer’s uniforms simply turned and laughed at us.

“Stand aside Jaideep!” Chris yelled. He hoisted up a massive rock from the side, swaying slightly under its weight, and I gave him a wide berth. With a stunning display of strength for one so skinny, Chris smashed the doorknob clean off with the rock. We then wrenched the door to the entrance free and ran in to rescue Ryan and Alma.

“Baka-Yarou! Nani-shta?!” Came a ghostly disembodied voice. The smell of sweat. The heat and the humidity. The closing pressure all around us, suffocating us, making it exceedingly hard to breathe, as if a mass of invisible bodies were closing on all sides. Murderous intent blazed around us. Each step Chris and I took was utter agony, but we gritted our teeth and struggled for dear life, me pulling Alma out of there, and Chris pulling Ryan. Red bloody gashes appeared on our arms too, and across our chests and abdomen, tearing through our t-shirts as well, as we fought desperately to save our friends. The figures in strange officer’s uniforms started swirling around us, shouting all manner of verbal abuse in harsh tones that were incomprehensible. But in the end, we made it, and we dragged Alma and Ryan out of the front door, and the invisible force constricting us ‘vanished’. Alma and Ryan rose to their feet, and Chris and I could move as freely as we wanted.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” Ryan all but shouted, panting with terror.

“I don’t know, but I sure as hell ain’t sticking around to find out!” Alma said. We four ran for our lives, not bothering to pick up our belongings, or even look at our abandoned Toyota Innova. We ran as far, and as fast as we could until we encountered a lorry on the way towards Batu Ferringhi.

“Oh my god. What happened to you guys?” The driver, a wizened old Chinese uncle said. He stopped his lorry, as we were in the middle of the road, obstructing his path. He looked at the many bloody gashes on our arms, chest, and abdomens, and the tears on our t-shirts, and saw our terrified expressions, and told us to get on the back of his lorry. Amongst a cargo of pineapples that looked freshly picked, we sank down in the back of the lorry, gratified to have escaped from the horrifying ordeal with our lives. I checked my wristwatch. It was 4 a.m.

“Our Innova broke down by the roadside last night. 10 p.m. We couldn’t call a tow service. Couldn’t call a car repair shop. We spent the night in one of the abandoned bungalows by the hillside, some distance back,” I explained. The others were all panting, and could hardly speak, as they were catching their breaths.

“Oh goodness! You spent a night at those bungalows!” The old man was horrified by my revelation.

The old man then explained: Those old bungalows were occupied by the Japanese during the Second World War, used as torture and interrogation centers for local resistance fighters. As such, the bungalows were occupied by the most brutal and cruel Kempetai interrogators,  the secret police force of the Japanese. The Kempetai used all sorts of cruel and harsh interrogation methods to extract information from the local resistance fighters they caught.

“I thought they all looked weird. The ghostly figures surrounded us and laughed at us whilst we were being tortured. They all wore strange officer’s uniforms and were translucent in the moonlight. I think I did hear Japanese being garbled in the background too.” Ryan said.

“Luckily Jaideep woke me up to save you. I slept through all your screaming,” Chris panted. He was still trying to catch his breath.

“I was fast asleep too! I only woke up because the lady in grey woke me up,” I admitted in a sheepish voice.

“Lady in grey? What lady in grey? I didn’t see any lady in grey,” Chris asked, bewildered.

“I didn’t see any lady in grey either,” Alma concurred.

“The lady in the grey Peranakan outfit. Didn’t you see her? She was squatting beside my sleeping bag, and shook me awake,” I said.

“Didn’t see anyone.” Chris insisted.

The old man went on to explain the lady in grey that woke me up was probably Chun Xiang. She was a resistance fighter who smuggled water and food to the prisoners trapped in those bungalows. But one day, she was caught.

“Oh no! What happened to Chun Xiang after that?” I asked. But I already knew the answer.

“She was tortured and raped, before being killed. I think her body was buried in a shallow grave in the area around the bungalows,” The old man said in a grim voice. I fell back against the place I was sitting at, in the back of the lorry, and my heart sank. I couldn’t believe such a brave and selfless girl met such a tragic end.

Perhaps what was more tragic, was that according to the old man, the abandoned bungalows were owned by a wealthy merchant family. Chun Xiang was the only daughter of that family. However, when the Kempetai occupied the bungalows, they massacred Chun Xiang’s entire family, and she was the only survivor. It was her desire for justice and vengeance that drove her to join the resistance shortly after that.

The old man with the lorry, who we later found out was a Mr. Pan, owned a pineapple farm close to where the abandoned bungalows were. He drove us to his pineapple farm, where his wife gave us water, helped clean our gashes, then bandage them, and provided us a safe place to sleep, until 10 a.m. the next day. Mr. Pan then arranged for a tow truck to pick up our Toyota Innova, to be driven to the nearest car repair shop in Batu Ferringhi. He even came to help us collect our belongings left behind at the abandoned bungalows.

Suffice to say, we were so shaken by our ordeal, we had no mood to stay at Hard Rock Hotel any longer, so I canceled our booking. After the Toyota Innova’s timing belt was replaced, we drove straight back to George Town, and followed our lecturers’ advice and obediently stayed in our college dorms and rental apartments, and searched for freelance work on Fiverr and E-lance to expand our portfolio of experience and industry work.

Today, in 2021, I am head of the User Interface Design division for Astro Cable TV,  and sometimes I think of Mr. and Mrs. Pan, the kind pineapple farmers in Batu Ferringhi. I recall their wizened and tanned faces, as they looked after us, just after our ordeal at the abandoned bungalows.

In the Covid 19 pandemic, someone like me would be fortunate enough to be able to work from home. For farmers like them, however, they would be hard hit, as wholesalers and supermarkets were closed, and no one would buy their pineapples. I suppose some home bakers might order small quantities of pineapples from them, to bake pineapple tarts for Hari Raya, or Chinese New Year, but I doubt it would be enough.

I prayed the Pans would persevere and endure through this trying time, and come out of it relatively unscathed. Thinking of the Pans also made me recall my favorite pineapple curry fried rice dish at my favorite Thai Restaurant, Aroy Thai, that was located in the Gurney Drive mall, which I had not enjoyed for some time. I prayed Aroy Thai survived the Covid 19 pandemic too.

In addition, I also thought of Chun Xiang, the lady in grey, who was the unequivocal mistress of the abandoned bungalows. From beyond the grave, she was still helping people. Even in death, she was still continuing her resistance against the Japanese. I prayed for her soul too, that she might one day move on from that shallow grave in Batu Ferringhi, to a place of rest more befitting a selfless and courageous freedom fighter like herself.

Cover image by Photo by Akin on Unsplash. The copyright of this piece belongs to the author of this literary work.  

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