The Kebaya Passenger

The afternoon sun bled through the slatted blinds of my client’s office, casting long, anxious stripes across the polished floor. I had finished the meeting early, a rare stroke of luck, and being only a few blocks from the trendy boutiques on Orchard Road, I decided to treat myself to a few hours of mindless shopping. I wandered through the air-conditioned malls, the bright lights and cheerful chatter a stark contrast to the churning dread in my gut. My flat, a modest studio in a quiet housing estate, had become a place of subtle terrors—the flickering lamp that turned on by itself, the faint scent of jasmine in a room with no plants, the occasional cold spot that seemed to follow me. I had written about it in my story, but writing about it and living it were two different things. Tonight, I would have to return to that suffocating silence.

As the evening approached, I reluctantly boarded the MRT at Orchard Station, heading north on the NS line. The train was relatively empty, and I found a seat near the door, my shopping bags at my feet. Just as the doors were about to close, my phone buzzed. It was Louise, my childhood friend. We had kept in touch over the years, and her cheerful voice was a welcome distraction.

‘Hey, you! I haven’t heard from you in ages. What are you up to?’ she said.

‘Just heading home from a meeting and some shopping,’ I replied.

‘Home? To that creepy flat of yours? You should come over. I’m making my famous lasagna, and we can watch a horror movie. I know you love them.’

Her invitation was like a lifeline. I wanted nothing more than to avoid the oppressive emptiness of my apartment, especially with the memory of the invisible houseguest still fresh. I agreed, and as the train pulled into the next station, I got off and crossed to the opposite platform, boarding the southbound train towards Sembawang.

We talked for a while longer until the train became crowded as we approached Toa Payoh. The doors slid open, and a surge of commuters rushed in. I was lucky to have a seat, but I noticed a middle-aged woman on the platform, standing perfectly still among the flow of people. She was dressed in a traditional kebaya, a vintage floral print that seemed out of place among the modern commuters. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her face was expressionless. As the doors began to close, she did not move. Her eyes were locked on me, through the window, never blinking. The train jolted forward, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

The woman remained at the platform, but her gaze followed me as the train pulled away. I told myself it was just a coincidence, a stranger staring into the windows. But the way she looked—it was not a casual glance. It was as if she knew me.

I tried to shake off the unease and focus on the idea of Louise’s warm apartment and the promise of a good meal. The train was packed, and I was surrounded by chatting office workers and students. I pulled out my phone to text Louise that I was on my way, but before I could type, I glanced out the window again as the train entered the tunnel. To my astonishment, the same woman was outside, walking alongside the train, keeping pace with it. But that was impossible. The train was moving fast, and there was no platform there, just the dark walls of the tunnel. Yet she was there, her face illuminated by the flickering fluorescent lights, her eyes still fixed on me.

I blinked, and she was gone. My heart hammered in my chest. I looked around the carriage, half-expecting to see her among the passengers, but there was no one matching her description. I took a deep breath, convincing myself that I had imagined it, that the stress and lack of sleep were getting to me.

The train hurtled on, and I tried to focus on the familiar rhythm of the rails. But as we approached the next station, Yio Chu Kang, I felt a growing sense of dread. The train slowed, and through the window, I saw the platform lights. And there she was again, standing on the platform, wearing the same kebaya, staring right at me. The doors opened, and a few people got off, but she remained still; she was a few meters away, and she smiled—a slow, unsettling smile that revealed yellowed teeth. She raised her hand and pressed it against the glass, leaving a faint mark of condensation, even though the glass was cold.

I should have gotten off, but I was frozen. The doors slid shut, and the train moved on. I turned to the person next to me, a young man in a business suit, and asked, ‘Did you see that woman on the platform? The one in the kebaya?’

He looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘No, I didn’t see anyone. Are you okay? You look pale.’

I shook my head, muttering, ‘It’s nothing.’ But I knew it wasn’t nothing.

As the train continued, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman was following me, that she was somehow connected to the disturbances in my flat. I thought of the story I had written, ‘An Invisible House-mate,’ and wondered if I had inadvertently unleashed something. Then the train announced the next station: Ang Mo Kio. The doors opened, and I saw her again, this time on the platform directly in front of me. She was not moving, just standing there, mouthing something I couldn’t understand. Her lips formed the words ‘Come with me.’

The doors closed, and I felt a wave of nausea. I knew I had to get off at the next station, no matter what. But as the train pulled away, I saw the woman in the reflection of the window, sitting right next to me. I turned my head, but no one was there. The reflection lingered for a second longer than it should have, and then it faded.

I was breathing heavily now, and other passengers were starting to glance at me. The train announced Bishan, and I lunged for the door as soon as it opened, stumbling out onto the platform. I doubled over, gasping for air, and when I straightened up, I saw her at the far end of the platform, walking towards me. I turned and ran, but the station seemed endless, and my legs felt heavy. I ran up the escalators, through the crowded corridors, and out onto the street, where the night air hit me like a wall.

I found a bench and sat down, trembling. I took out my phone and called Louise, but it went to voicemail. I left a message: ‘Louise, I’m sorry, I can’t come tonight. Something happened. I’ll explain later.’

I hung up, and as I sat there, I realized I was near a mosque, the call to prayer echoing in the distance. The street was quiet, lined with shuttered shops and a few stray cats. I tried to calm myself, telling myself it was all in my head. But then I saw her reflection in the glass of a bus shelter across the street. She was standing right behind me. I spun around, but there was no one there.

I stood up, intending to hail a taxi, but as I stepped toward the road, a black sedan pulled up. The rear window rolled down, and the woman inside leaned forward. It was her. She gestured for me to get in. I shook my head, backing away, but my feet seemed to be stuck to the pavement. She smiled again and said, ‘You’ve been expecting me, haven’t you? All those nights in your flat, the jasmine, the cold spots. That was me. I’ve been waiting for you.’

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I finally managed to break free and ran blindly down the street. I didn’t know where I was going; I just knew I had to get away. I ran until I was exhausted, finally stopping at a small park. I collapsed on a bench, and I looked around. There was no sign of her. Maybe I had lost her.

I took out my phone again, and this time Louise answered. ‘Where are you? I was worried.’

I told her everything, the woman in the kebaya, the reflections, the car. She listened quietly, then said, ‘You need to come over right now. Don’t go home. I’ll stay on the line with you.’

I agreed, and I started walking towards the nearest MRT station, but as I was walking, I realized I wasn’t walking towards the station. I was walking towards my flat. My legs had a mind of their own, and no matter how hard I tried to turn, I kept moving in the direction of home. I was filled with terror, but I couldn’t stop.

I reached my block, and my heart sank. The lights were on in my unit, though I had left them off. The front door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and there, in my living room, sat the woman on my sofa, as if she had been waiting for me all along. She was knitting, her needles clicking, and she looked up with that same unsettling smile.

‘Welcome home,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so lonely here. I’m glad you finally came back.’

I tried to run, but the door slammed shut behind me. The lights flickered, and the scent of jasmine filled the air. The woman stood up, her form wavering as if she were a heat haze, and she said, ‘You wrote about me, didn’t you? You gave me life. Now I can never leave.’

I understood then. My story had summoned her, given her form, made her real. She was my invisible house-mate, but now she was visible, and she was here to stay.

The last thing I remember was her reaching out to touch my face, her fingers cold as ice. The lights went out, and I heard her whispering, ‘Now we can be together forever.’

The next morning, my neighbors found my door unlocked, my belongings untouched. They assumed I had moved out, but they noticed a faint scent of jasmine lingering in the air, and a single, lace handkerchief left on the sofa, embroidered with the initials ‘M.T.’ No one ever saw me again. But some say, if you take the NS line during the evening rush, you might see a woman in a vintage kebaya, sitting across from you, whispering to an empty seat, as if she is telling a story to a friend who isn’t there. And if you get off at my station, you might find a stray cat wearing a collar that reads, ‘I am home.’

I am that cat, and I am watching. I am waiting for someone to read my story and give me a new home. But be careful: some stories are better left untold.

END