The Blue Kebaya
In the quiet hush of her basement, Sue knelt amidst a sea of forgotten possessions. Dust motes danced in the lone beam of light filtering through a grimy window, illuminating stacks of boxes, each a time capsule of discarded belongings. Her mission today was noble: to declutter and donate. The Maria and Rita Foundation would surely welcome the forgotten garments tucked away in these boxes, giving them a new purpose instead of leaving them to gather dust.
She methodically opened box after box, sifting through sweaters, skirts, and dresses. Many were in excellent condition, perfectly suitable for donation. But then, her fingers brushed against a soft, delicate fabric. She pulled it out, and her breath hitched. It was a blue kebaya lace dress, exquisite in its craftsmanship, the color as vibrant as the day she received it. A wave of memories, sharp and poignant, washed over her.
This dress wasn't just a dress; it was a ghost of a future that never was. Khalid. Her fiancé. He had given it to her for a friend's upcoming wedding, a joyous occasion they had planned to attend together. Just days later, the world had fractured. A car accident. Khalid was gone. The ensuing months were a blur of tears and an ache so profound it felt like a physical wound.
Not everyone understood the depths of such grief. The sadness she carried had been a heavy shroud, taking years to truly lift. It wasn't until the third year after Khalid's death that a new light had entered her life – Malik, a kind and steady doctor. A year later, they were married, and now, they shared three beautiful children. Malik was everything she could have hoped for, a loving husband and a wonderful father.
Holding the kebaya, Sue wondered if it was truly worth holding onto such a painful relic. Was a memory, however cherished, better kept hidden in a box? After a long moment of contemplation, her fingers traced the delicate lace. She gently folded the dress and placed it back in its box, tucking it away amidst the other forgotten things. Like a sudden, unexpected appearance, memories often resurfaced when least expected, shaping the present and influencing the future. Happy times, she mused, might come and go, but the memories, both sweet and sorrowful, remained forever etched in the tapestry of her life.
As she drove away from the Maria and Rita Foundation, the back of her car now empty of the donated clothes, Sue felt a lightness she hadn't anticipated. Those garments, once forgotten, would soon find new homes, new stories to be woven around them. And the blue kebaya, though hidden, carried its own story, a reminder that even in letting go, some threads of the past remained, woven into the fabric of who she was today. Life, she realized, was a continuous cycle of holding on and letting go, of remembering and moving forward.
Bachelors on Cedar Drive
The last house on Cedar Drive, they called it. Not officially, of course, but that's how it felt to my brothers and me. A dead end, some folks muttered, not just for the road but maybe for anyone who stayed too long. My name's Josh, and my two siblings, Ted and Joe, and I, out-of-towners through and through, found ourselves tenants in this single-terrace house. Three rooms, two baths – more than enough space for three bachelors who spent most of their waking hours out in the world.
Our routine was a well-oiled machine: out for work at the crack of dawn, back when the streetlights flickered on. Cooking was a foreign concept to us. Our culinary adventures extended to the nearby hawker stalls or whatever takeout caught our eye. Our fridge was less a pantry and more a cold storage unit for essentials: milk, cold beer, bacon for the rare breakfast, and bread for emergency sandwiches.
Our neighbors, on the other hand, were a different breed entirely. Six houses lined Cedar Drive, plus ours. Most were occupied by newlyweds or young families, two kids, maybe a dog – the picture of domesticity. We were the odd ones out, three single guys amidst a sea of marital bliss and toddler tantrums. The only exception was the elderly couple, Uncle and Aunty, who lived with their adult daughter a few doors down. They were our lifeline to the local rhythm. On our way to the grocery store, we'd often stop by, asking if they needed anything. It was a small gesture, but it felt good to connect, to be a small part of their lives.
Life on Cedar Drive was never dull, not if you listened closely. Squabbles would erupt, echoes of raised voices carrying on the evening breeze. There were the usual neighborhood dramas: errant pet waste, misplaced mail, the endless tug-of-war over who was responsible for what. We observed it all, a silent audience to the everyday theatrics. Our parents had always drilled it into us: don't interfere with things that don't concern you. And we took that advice to heart, keeping our distance, retreating into our own world within the walls of our rented house.
Then came the bigger ripples. The whispers started about the young wife down the street, the one with the bright smile. She'd run off, they said, with a client from work. Her husband, devastated, drowned his sorrows in alcohol, leaving his kids to fend for themselves. Joe, my youngest brother, took it hard. He'd always been a sensitive soul, and this only cemented his aversion to marriage. "That's why I'm never getting married," he'd declared, shaking his head. He saw the trauma unfold, not just on our street but online too – the brutal online brawls over toothbrushes, over the most trivial things, strangers taking sides, a digital mob mentality that terrified him.
Ted, my second brother, was a different story. He floated through life, unburdened by the dramas of the world, both real and virtual. His free time was dedicated to the hypnotic world of TikTok dance videos or the adrenaline rush of football on TV. His online presence was reserved for Instagram, where he'd share clips of himself playing his guitar, a quiet passion he rarely spoke about.
As for me, well, my time on Cedar Drive is nearing its end. I'm getting married soon. The plan is still up in the air – maybe we'll stay here, maybe we'll move into my future wife's parents' condo. Either way, I'll miss this place. I'll miss the quiet hum of the neighborhood, the faint sounds of life from houses that felt both close and distant. And I'll definitely miss the neighbors, especially Uncle and Aunty. They were more than just people next door; they were like friends, like family, a comforting presence in a world that often felt detached. Leaving them behind, that's the part that will truly feel like a dead end.
House of Shifting Shadows
The sounds of raised voices, though less frequent than the volatile first tenants, still occasionally pierced the quiet evenings. Disha once swore she saw a flickering candlelight in an upstairs window at an ungodly hour, only to find the house plunged into darkness moments later. Raju, while taking out the trash, noticed a peculiar symbol etched into the dusty window of the abandoned car that now perpetually sat in the driveway – a spiral that seemed to writhe in on itself.
Their conversations increasingly revolved around their enigmatic neighbours. They speculated endlessly about the hurried nighttime packing, the constant parking violations, and the almost spectral landlord. Has anyone else on the street noticed these oddities? Or were they the only ones whose peace was being chipped away by the unsettling presence next door?
One sweltering afternoon, a new set of tenants arrived. A young couple with a boisterous dog, they seemed ordinary enough at first. A wave of relief washed over Disha. Perhaps the cycle of strangeness had finally broken. But even their arrival held a peculiar note. They moved in with an almost frantic energy, unloading boxes at breakneck speed as if eager to disappear inside the house. And within a week, the dog, a friendly golden retriever, began to behave erratically, barking incessantly at unseen things and refusing to cross the threshold of the house after sunset, often whimpering and pulling back on its leash.
Disha and Raju exchanged worried glances. The shifting shadows of No. 6 seemed to be cast not just by its transient residents, but by something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of the place. Their initial curiosity was morphing into a gnawing unease, a sense that they were witnesses to a story far more intricate and perhaps far more sinister than they could imagine. The question wasn't just what was happening at No. 6, but how long before those shifting shadows began to creep into their own lives.
One evening, driven by a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity, Disha found herself unable to sleep. Raju, usually a sound sleeper, was also restless, tossing and turning beside her. Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, Disha crept out of bed and towards the window, her heart pounding in her chest. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows, making the familiar landscape seem alien.
As she peered out, she noticed a faint, rhythmic glow emanating from the basement window of No. 6. It pulsed with an eerie, unnatural light, accompanied by a low, guttural hum that vibrated through the floorboards of her own house. Disha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream. She could see figures moving within the basement, their silhouettes grotesque and distorted in the strange light. They seemed to be performing some kind of ritual, their movements deliberate and synchronized, their heads bowed in what appeared to be a silent, unsettling devotion.
Terror rooted Disha to the spot. She wanted to look away, to run back to the safety of her bed, but she was frozen, her eyes glued to the horrifying spectacle unfolding before her. The humming grew louder, the light more intense, and the shadows around No. 6 seemed to deepen, swallowing the house in an almost palpable darkness. Finally, with a strength born of pure fear, Disha stumbled back from the window, her mind reeling from what she had witnessed. She ran back to the bedroom, collapsing into Raju's arms, her body trembling uncontrollably.
"Raju," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I saw them... in the basement... they were..." She couldn't bring herself to describe the scene, the image of the figures and the pulsing light burned into her memory.
Raju, sensing the raw terror in her voice, held her tightly. "What is it, Disha? What did you see?"
Disha recounted her horrifying vision, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush. Raju listened in stunned silence, his face growing pale. The unsettling events at No. 6 had taken a terrifying turn, revealing a darkness they had never imagined. They were no longer just witnesses to a strange series of events; they were now confronted with the very real possibility of something truly sinister lurking next door. The shifting shadows had finally revealed their true form, and the sight was more terrifying than either of them could have ever conceived.
Tessa Yusoff
5 July 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
