The Locked Pantry of Jalan Dedap

The news came through a crackling phone line, the kind my mother had to hold just so to hear. The voice on the other end belonged to my aunt, and her words, though muffled, were clear enough: Grandpa was gone. Pancreatic cancer had finally won, ending a year-long battle that had already hollowed him out. My mother, Lily, didn’t cry, not then. She just put the phone down, stared at the wall for a long moment, and then announced to my brother Aaron and me that we’d be driving to the city for the funeral. That meant a four-hour journey down the old coastal road, a trip we could barely afford with the price of petrol and tolls.

We left at dawn, our old Proton sagging under the weight of our bags and the silence that hung between my parents. I was twelve, old enough to understand that money was tight. Tight enough that we couldn’t stay in a hotel, even the cheapest one. My mother said we’d be staying at Grandpa’s flat, which made a strange kind of sense since he was gone and it was empty. But there was a hesitation in her voice when she said it, a pause that I didn’t understand then.

The flat was in a block on Jalan Dedap, a name that meant nothing to me but felt heavy on the tongue. It was on the third floor, accessed by a rickety lift that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. The door was a dark wooden thing with a brass knob that turned with a soft click. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of old medicine. Grandpa had lived alone for years, and the flat reflected that: sparse furniture, yellowed newspapers on the coffee table, a kitchen with cabinets that hadn’t been opened in a decade.

My mother set us to work, packing up his belongings into cardboard boxes. Clothes, books, a old watch that didn’t work. But there was one room she told us to avoid: the pantry. It was a small room off the kitchen, its door painted a dull green, with a heavy bolt on the outside. When I asked why, she just shook her head and said, ‘Leave it be, David. It’s not ours to touch.’

The first night was the hardest. We laid out sleeping bags on the living room floor, the only space big enough for all of us. The flat had no air conditioning, so the windows were open, letting in the hum of the city and the occasional distant siren. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Grandpa. I hadn’t known him well. He was a quiet man, a retired civil servant, who always smelled of Tiger Balm and old parchment. The last time I saw him, he was thin and pale, his skin stretched tight over his bones. He’d given me a small smile and a pat on the head, but his eyes had been elsewhere.

It was past midnight when I first heard the scraping. It came from the direction of the pantry, a dry, rhythmic sound like something being dragged across the floor. I sat up, my heart thumping, and listened. Aaron was fast asleep, snoring softly. My parents were in the bedroom, the door ajar. The scraping stopped, then started again, more insistent. I crept to the hallway, peering into the kitchen. The pantry door was shut, but the bolt was sliding back and forth by itself, as if someone were testing it from the inside. A thin, high-pitched giggle followed, so faint I almost missed it.

I backed away, my mouth dry, and returned to my sleeping bag, pulling the cover over my head. I told myself it was the wind, the old pipes, anything. But sleep didn’t come easily, and when it did, my dreams were filled with images of a man in a white shirt, his back to me, standing in the pantry, speaking in a voice that wasn’t quite human.

The next morning, I tried to tell my mother about the sounds. She was folding Grandpa’s clothes into a box, her movements brisk. ‘Don’t talk about that,’ she said sharply, then softened. ‘It’s just the old building, David. It creaks.’ But her eyes darted to the pantry door, and I saw her mouth tighten.

My father, who had been silent most of the trip, finally spoke. ‘Lily, we can’t just leave that room. We have to deal with it.’ My mother’s face went pale. ‘Not now, not with the kids here.’ ‘They’re going to find out anyway,’ he said, glancing at Aaron, who was playing with a toy car on the floor. ‘Better they hear it from us.’

My mother sat down heavily on the sofa, her hands clasped in her lap. She took a deep breath. ‘Your grandfather… he wasn’t always the man you knew,’ she began. ‘He used to be a kind man, but after your grandmother died, he changed. He started collecting things, strange things. He believed that… that he could speak with the dead. He would spend hours in that pantry, talking to no one. One day, he went in and didn’t come out for three days. When he finally emerged, he said he had made a friend. He told me not to go in there, ever. He said the friend didn’t like visitors.’

Aaron had stopped playing, his eyes wide. My father put a hand on my mother’s shoulder. ‘We couldn’t afford to have him committed, and he was never violent, so we just… left him alone. But now he’s gone, and that room…’ She trailed off, looking at the pantry door with dread.

The funeral was set for the afternoon, and we had to leave soon. But as we gathered our things, a loud bang came from the pantry, making all of us jump. The bolt rattled again, and this time, a voice, thin and reedy, drifted through the keyhole. ‘Lily, let me out. I’ve been waiting so long.’ My mother froze, her face ashen. The voice continued, ‘It’s so dark in here. You wouldn’t lock up your own grandpa, would you?’

I felt a cold hand grip my stomach. That voice was not my grandfather’s. It was wrong, like a mockery of a human voice, full of clicks and wet sounds. My father stepped forward, his jaw set. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. There was a pause, then a chuckling sound that made my skin crawl. ‘I’m the one he invited in. He promised me his last breath, and he gave it freely. But it wasn’t enough. I want more. I want your breath, and the boy’s, and the girl’s.’

My mother grabbed Aaron and me, pulling us towards the door. ‘We’re leaving,’ she said. ‘Now.’ But the voice grew sharper, angrier. ‘No! You can’t leave. He made a deal. I keep his soul company, and in return, I get to taste the living. He asked for company in his last days, and I gave it. Now you owe me.’

We made it to the door, but it wouldn’t open. The lock had turned on its own, and the handle wouldn’t budge. The voice laughed, a sound like broken glass. ‘This is my house now. You’ll stay until I’m done with you.’ The lights flickered, and the air grew cold. Through the thin walls, we could hear the pantry door creaking open, and the sound of something heavy dragging itself across the floor.

We huddled in the corner, my mother shielding us, my father trying to force the door. The dragging sound grew closer, and a shadow fell over us, long and distorted. I looked up, and saw a figure standing in the hallway. It was Grandpa, but not as I remembered him. His skin was grey and peeling, his eyes were black voids, and his mouth hung open in a silent scream. But the voice that came out was the other one, the wrong one. ‘Let’s play,’ it said, and reached out with decaying fingers.

My mother screamed, and my father turned, a look of horror and fury on his face. He grabbed a heavy lamp and swung it, but the thing caught it, the metal bending in its grip. ‘You can’t hurt me,’ it said, ‘I’m already dead.’ But my father didn’t give up. He shoved us towards the balcony, trying to get us out. The flat was on the third floor, but the neighbors might hear if we screamed. We screamed, loud and desperate.

The next thing I remember is a flash of light, a sound like a thunderclap, and the sensation of falling. Then everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed, my mother and Aaron beside me. My father was in the next room, with a bandage on his head. The doctors said we had a gas leak, that we’d been overcome by fumes and had passed out. But I knew the truth. We never spoke of it again, not even among ourselves. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I wake up to the sound of scraping, and a thin voice whispering, ‘I’ll find you again.’ And I know, deep in my bones, that the pantry on Jalan Dedap is not done with us yet.