The Hungry Ghost

by H. S. Norup

  While the twins are taking their nap, I go out to the pool. I draw a family tree in my notebook. After some mulling, I add the years I know, like when Dad and I were born. If Ling was twelve when she died between 1922 and 1925, and her brother was almost four years older, then he must’ve been born between 1906 and 1909. I fill the gap between him and Dad with ancestors. I’m not that good at maths, but the drawing helps. Ling’s brother could actually have been my great-great-grandfather.

  After I cross out the Danish branches on my tree, there are only four possible great-great-grandfathers left. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out their names.

  I call the one person who might be able to help: Granny. No answer. A few minutes later, though, she sends me a message that she’s on the way to a conference in Istanbul and will call back when she has Wi-Fi and time.

  In the shade by the pool, I continue to search for Ling’s brother or father in the newspaper archive. When squeals jerk me out of a snooze, my laptop’s sticking to my thighs and the screen has gone black. Above, fluffy dark-grey clouds roll across the sunless sky. On the lounger next to mine, Clementine taps away on her phone. The twins are running around the pool in bulky, long-sleeved swimsuits. The blue-clad twin hits the one in green with a ball. The green twin, Eddie, wails.

  “Stop that, Billy,” Clementine says, without looking up from her phone.

  Eddie crouches and lowers a toy watering can into the pool. He wobbles as he pulls it out of the water. I sit up. From under the palm tree by the hedge, Ling waves at me. I hadn’t realized it was so late.

  “Can they swim?” I ask. Of all survival skills, being able to swim is definitely the most important. “Shouldn’t they wear arm bands?” It comes out woolly because my mouth is fuzzy after sleeping outside.

  “Their suits are inflated,” Clementine says. “And we’re right here.”

  Billy’s now on a scooter, rolling along the tiles around the pool, too close to the water. Eddie’s watering the lawn.

  Clementine asks if I want something to drink. I’m thirsty, but Dad isn’t here, and I don’t want Clementine to leave me alone with them.

  Unfortunately, Billy has heard her. “Drink, Mummy,” he yells.

  Clementine puts her phone in the pocket of her sundress. “I’ll bring coconut water for all of you.”

  “I can get it,” I hurry to say.

  “Relax, Freja.”

  But how can I relax when I’m alone with them? I scoot forward to sit at the edge of the lounger.

  A phone’s ringing inside the house. Clementine answers. Eddie returns with his watering can. Billy drives faster and faster on his scooter.

  “Clementine!” I call. “Dad!” I stand up and glance back over my shoulder into the house.

  There’s a splash. I turn. Billy’s giggling. He’s on the scooter by the water’s edge, right where Eddie was a moment ago. Then Eddie resurfaces with a loud cry.

  “Help!” I scream. I can’t move.

  Eddie’s chubby little arms whisk the water. He’s wailing.

  Clementine comes running. On her knees, she reaches into the water and fishes Eddie out. Snot bubbles out of his nose, onto her drenched dress. She gazes at me and frowns.

  After Clementine has taken the twins inside, Ling floats across the pool. “Why did you not jump in the water and help him?” she asks. “You are good at swimming.”

  “I don’t know.” I slump down on the sun lounger and squeeze my hands under my thighs to stop them from shaking. “It’s just… What if I’d jumped in and landed on Eddie, so he couldn’t breathe? And then he would’ve died, and everyone would be unhappy.” I take a ragged breath. “And it would be my fault.”

  Suddenly cold, I wrap the towel around my shoulders.

  Ling turns and studies the pool. “I doubt you could jump so far,” she says.

  But that’s not the part I want her to convince me is unrealistic.

  When I sneak into the house, the twins are watching their bilingual programme and don’t notice me. I’ve almost reached the top of the stairs before I hear Clementine’s raised voice from the office.

  “We have to do something about her, Will. I’m worried about the twins. She needs professional help. You can’t pretend it never happened. Look at Marianne—”

  Afraid to overhear any more, I run into my bathroom and turn on the shower. It blocks out all sounds, but not the image of silky cobweb-threads snapping.

  —34—

  It’s Tuesday evening before Granny calls back.

  I’ve spent the afternoon at Kiera’s, giggling at jokes and her big brothers’ banter. All three are on the school’s basketball teams and made the lounge appear small. When two of them—Liam and Cillian—got into a scuffle over the last muffin, the whole house shook with slamming doors and rattling windows.

  “My life—living with three elephants in the room,” Kiera said as she walked me home to get away from the “doggy dog world” at her house. While she moaned about her brothers, I kept thinking how much nicer it would be to have older siblings.

  “Will you stop complaining!” I finally said, surprising her so much she was quiet for several seconds.

  Now, it’s after dinner. Ling’s sitting in my window seat with her head leaning against her knees. And I’m sitting on my bed in the same position. We’ve hit a wall. Ling can’t find the exact house—perhaps it isn’t there any more—and I can’t find the right William anywhere on the internet. Time’s running out. In four days, the Hungry Ghost Festival is over. Ling’s holiday will end.

  “Darling,” Granny shouts, when I answer the video call. “It’s lovely to see you.”

  She’s holding her phone so I can see her chin from below, her red lipstick and right up her nostrils.

  “How’s Singapore? I always find it terribly humid. I shall come for a quick visit next month, anyway—did your father tell you? Are you having a wonderful time with the little rascals? Aren’t they adorable?”

  I’m nodding away, relieved there’s no need for me to answer any of Granny’s questions.

  “Have you started school? Are you making—”

  “Yes. Last week. I’m doing this family tree and I thought you might help with the names of my great-great-grandparents.”

  After she has listed her own parents and grandparents—no Williams among them—and told me several anecdotes about them, I interrupt her again.

  “And Granddad’s? His parents were called Robert and Mina, right?”

  “Let me see… Your great-grandfather’s parents were Mary and William, and Mina’s parents were William Henry and Lily. Everyone was named William or John or Thomas back then.”

  Two Williams. “And their surnames?”

  “Obviously, Robert’s parents were Brimstens, like we are, and Mina’s…” Granny’s leaning her forehead against the phone while she’s thinking, then gives me a sweeping view of her hotel room’s ceiling as she zooms out again. “For the life of me, I can’t remember Wilhelmina’s maiden name. I only met her parents a couple of times. They lived overseas… The West Indies, I believe.”

  “Can you find out, please? It’s important.”

  “Do you have to hand it in this week?”

  I nod and don’t feel bad about pretending this is a school assignment. I need to know by Saturday.

  “Tell you what… I’m flying back to London tomorrow afternoon… There’s a box of old photos and papers from Mina in the cellar. It’s been there for years, but I haven’t really looked at it… I’m certain there are documents with her maiden name. And your father can even bring photos for your chart and whatever else I find—he’s coming round Friday before his late flight back to Singapore.”

  Granny ends the call by kissing her screen, giving me a close-up of her nose before it turns to orange blur.


  An hour ago, when Dad left for the airport, I was cross he wouldn’t return until Saturday afternoon. Now, it might actually be helpful that he’s going to London. Crazy, though. Who travels to the other side of the world for a three-day meeting?

  “Is she gone?” Ling floats around me, studying my phone from all angles, as if Granny would somehow be hiding behind it. “I wish I had seen my grandparents.” She sighs. “But Ma’s parents lived in China… Sometimes, after we had been to the temple, Ma would go to the letter-writer so she could send them news and money. She never told them the truth about me. I think she was scared of my grandmother.”

  “Mum’s a bit scared of Granny. Once, she put off calling her for a whole day—she was so nervous.”

  “Why? Your grandmother is nice.”

  Why was that? I’m trying to remember. “Mum was walking around the house saying, ‘Your grandmother’s not going to believe it. She’s going to insist you come to the wedding’.”

  “Which wedding?” Ling asks.

  “Dad and Clementine’s. Oh, I remember now. I was supposed to be a flower girl. The first time I met her, Clementine took my measurements for the flower-girl dress. The whole time, I was so afraid she would stumble on the measuring tape and land on her belly with the babies inside.” I curl up on the bed, hugging my stomach. The flow of memories is coming so fast I can’t stop them.

  “The little boys?” Ling asks.

  I nod. “In the week before the wedding, I had nightmares where Clementine slipped on the rose petals I’d scattered and everyone started crying. When I said I didn’t want to go, Mum said I was being silly. But I stopped eating and said my tummy was aching. I was supposed to stay with Granny, that’s why Mum had to call her. As soon as Mum had talked to Granny and Dad, my stomach ache disappeared.

  “The day of the wedding, we were lying on the sofa, watching films. Mum asked if I wasn’t a bit sad not to be a flower girl at a wedding with two hundred guests. And I almost thought she didn’t know me at all until she winked. And then we were giggling and throwing pillows at each other. It’s one of the best days I can remember.”

  Was that the last time the two of us had fun?

  “But I can’t ever tell that to Granny or Dad or Clementine. I promised Mum, Scout’s honour. And now that I know Clementine, I’m sure she was probably upset about not having a flower girl.”

  “What is Scout’s honour?”

  “That’s something you say when you make a promise if you’re a girl guide or a scout… Was William a scout?”

  Ling shakes her head.

  “But he taught you Morse code?”

  She smiles so widely, the dimples in her cheeks show up. “The secret ‘dot-dash language’, we used to call it.”

  I’m about to ask how William learnt it, if he wasn’t a scout, when Ling goes on speaking:

  “After Sir married the widow of his friend, William was not allowed to play or read with me. So we left messages for each other in our hiding places. Violet, Ma’am’s daughter, could not understand our code, but she searched for our messages and tore the ones she found to pieces.”

  I’m remembering things, like the wedding day, I’d completely forgotten. And Ling’s memories are more specific, with fewer missing details. Can it be because the fire’s dying in the mythical world? Is the red colour in the north-west disappearing, and are these changes in feng shui impacting me as much as Ling?

  Worst of all, what will happen to the hidden memory box once the red flames have been extinguished?

  “Violet,” I say, to think about something else. “That’s one more name we can search for.” I open my laptop but get too many results. Violet appears to have been another popular name. “Never mind. Granny will find William’s surname tomorrow.”

  I don’t tell Ling that if she doesn’t, then I have no clue what to try next.

  —35—

  After school on Wednesday, I slide into the empty seat next to Jason on the school bus. It’s always the last seat to get taken. I’m not sure if it’s because he takes up more than half of the double seat, or because he’s so unfriendly. I’ve still hardly talked to him since our so-called play date. But I know from Kiera that he’s in her Mandarin class, and this morning I had an idea.

  As usual, the cord from Jason’s earphones hangs from his ears, and he’s staring out the window. He doesn’t react when I say his name, so I tap him on the shoulder.

  He turns with a wide-eyed scared expression, then frowns.

  “Don’t do that,” he hisses, before he leans back against the window, ignoring me. Even for him, that’s rude.

  The bus is too small to move around in, so I stay, sitting stiffly, on the very edge of the seat, pushing my own music into my ears. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that perhaps I can get Kiera to help, even though it will mean lots of long explanations. Today would be perfect though—for once it isn’t raining.

  Jason follows me off the school bus.

  “You shouldn’t tap people on their shoulders during the seventh month. That’s what ghosts do,” he says. “What did you want?”

  “Never mind.” I yank my earphones out. “If you weren’t so rude, I would’ve asked for your help. But you’re probably too scared to help me, anyway.” I rummage through the front pocket of my school bag for my key.

  “Too scared to do what?”

  “To come with me to Bukit Brown and help me decipher an inscription.”

  “What? Now?” He turns paler and bites his lip. “I’m not pantang,” he mutters to himself.

  I look him up and down. Like me, he’s wearing the school uniform shorts. “You need to change into trousers and a long-sleeved top. I’ll meet you outside your house in an hour.” Before he can find an excuse, I’m through the gate and inside our house.

  I gobble Maya’s snacks and tell Clementine I’m going over to Jason’s. She’s “so happy” we’ve become friends. I even wave at her and the twins when I leave by the front door. Then I double back and retrieve my combat trousers, hiking boots and the other stuff I’ve hidden in the tree below my window. I’ve already tugged my climbing rope down.

  As we’re hiking up the road, I tell Jason about Ling. The air is buzzing. He doesn’t even blink when I show him photos of her Morse messages, and he’s impressed with the information we’ve found online. Kiera would’ve taken more convincing.

  When I tell him about how Ling led me to the enormous banyan tree, he says, “You really shouldn’t follow ghosts,” in a voice that makes me shudder despite the heat. I decide not to tell him anything about what happened inside the banyan tree. Even he wouldn’t believe that.

  Jason’s wearing jeans, so he can’t have much in terms of survival equipment on him. My Swiss Army knife is back in my pocket; without it and my other gear, I’d feel unprepared. Before we leave the trail, I lend him my mosquito spray. He spritzes it onto his hands and neck, while I find him a suitable stick.

  “Snake protection,” I say when I hand it to him.

  His eyes widen, then he pulls a keyring with at least ten keys out of his pocket and shakes them. “Ghost protection,” he says. He jangles the keys noisily, all the way to Ling’s grave—even while I hold the prickly bushes aside and help him into the little grove.

  A scatter of pebbles from Ling’s last message are still on the flat gravestone. The sticks must have gone with the rain or been carried off by ants.

  “I wanted you to see the Chinese signs.” I lead him to the other side of the upright stone.

  It’s a wild shot. The other sign on Ling’s gravestone is more crumbled-away than I remembered, and it’s unlikely that she was buried with William’s surname. Still… After talking to Granny last night, it seemed possible that we could solve the mystery in time. But even if Granny finds Mina’s maiden name, that still doesn’t prove that Mina
’s father and Ling’s brother are the same person. It isn’t proof we’re related.

  While I jangle the keys for him, Jason borrows my torch and studies the signs, tracing the etching with his fingers.

  “You’re right, this one means ‘Ling’. But this one… Can I borrow your pencil and some paper?”

  In my notebook, he draws a sign that resembles two three-legged dancers.

  “It’s only this part that’s still visible,” he says, circling the bottom-right quarter. “So it could be another sign.”

  “Wow! How did you know?”

  “Because it means ‘Lim’ or ‘Lin’. It’s my family name, too, and quite common. Keep jangling the keys or give them to me.”

  The leaves rustle near the place we entered the grove.

  “Can we get out of here?” Jason snatches the keys from me and backs away from the sound, while he jangles them wildly. “Now!”

  “Let’s go this way. It might be a snake.” I stride away, in the direction of the asphalt pathway with the pauper’s section sign, banging my stick with every step. Jason puffs and jangles keys behind me until I hear a yelp and a dull thump.

  He’s stumbled over the hidden remains of a statue—one of the small lions that are everywhere in the graveyard.

  “Why’re the lions playing ball?” I ask, as I help him up. The lion statues have either a ball or an even smaller lion between their front paws.

  “Ball?” He snickers. “It’s not a ball. It’s the earth. Male lions have the world at their feet, females have baby lions. Don’t you know anything?” After taking in my expression, he stops grinning. “Sorry.”

  We walk on, to the sound of sticks and keys, and twigs snapping beneath our feet.

  “Freja, I’ve been thinking,” Jason pants. I wait for him to catch up. “Hungry ghosts can be tricksters. They’ll do bad things to get revenge over those who hurt them.”