In the heart of 1970s Singapore, where my childhood unfolded, our house stood just a stone’s throw away from the Christian cemetery. The mornings were shrouded in an eerie tranquility, and yet, this proximity never discouraged my early excursions with my father. Together, we sought solace in the cemetery’s embrace, a haven adorned with trees and an oasis of peace. It was during those pre-dawn hours, when solitude reigned supreme, that the cemetery truly revealed its mysteries.
The darkness within those cemetery grounds held no fear for me; instead, it became a canvas for my childhood adventures. Amongst the tombstones, hide and seek echoed countless times, an innocent game amidst the resting souls. However, even in this familiar terrain, there existed a place I dared not approach—a hidden village nestled deep within the cemetery’s bosom. Cloaked beneath a dense canopy of trees, it perpetually shrouded itself in an inexplicable mist.
Legends whispered of traditional Malays dwelling in this clandestine hamlet, living without electricity or gas, relying on wood for cooking and oil lamps for illumination. It was a stark contrast in the modern cityscape of Singapore. Fueled by curiosity, I embarked on a daring adventure, pedaling towards the mystery veiled within that hidden village.
As I approached the village entrance, an unexpected mist greeted me—an odd occurrence in the typically hot Singapore midday. Summoning courage, I pushed through the chilling fog, reducing visibility to a mere haze.
Deeper into the village, darkness enveloped me, revealing shacks and huts crafted from primitive materials. Some lacked doors, heightening the sense of the uncanny. The mist thickened, forcing me to dismount and proceed on foot, pushing my bicycle through the haunting atmosphere.
Amidst the gloom, one hut emitted a warm glow, its candlelight beckoning me. Drawn to the illumination, I pressed forward. As I did, the weather shifted—a sudden drizzle transformed into a torrential downpour. Wiping my eyes, I found myself standing before the hut, as if it had materialized out of thin air. Smoke billowed from burning candles inside, creating an illusion of fire. Stepping forward, my entire being was inexplicably pulled into the hut. The smoke dissipated, revealing a ritual in progress.
Villagers, adorned in tribal costumes with unnaturally elongated tongues, chanted in an unfamiliar language. Glass bottles littered the scene, containing deformed baby fetuses suspended in cloudy ethanol alongside entrails. Panic set in, and as I attempted to flee, my legs felt rooted to the ground. A warm liquid trickled down my legs, and horror consumed me.
The chanting crescendoed, blurring my vision. A boy my age appeared, raising his arm, yet I felt nothing. Vision fading to black, the echoes of the chant lingered in my ears. Gradually regaining consciousness, I found myself back home, safe in my bed. Overwhelmed with relief, I embraced my parents, tears streaming down my face. Despite the bizarre encounter, I never questioned my parents about my rescue. I simply wished to erase the event from memory.
Years passed in silence, until one day, returning to the cemetery with my father, I saw the boy again. Strobe lights flashed, recalling the horrifying images imprinted in my mind. Panic seized me, and I called out to my father. His gaze met the boy’s, a little older now, but the familiarity struck me. They exchanged waves, and I questioned my father about the boy.
Nonchalantly, my father revealed that the boy had fallen off his bike years ago, and he had found and carried him back to the village. The revelation sent shivers down my spine, as the insignificant event resurfaced with haunting implications.
Reference: The fetuses in bottles are a manifestation of black magic, voodoo, and traditional practices in various Asian cultures, still prevalent today.