The Painted Veil of Bedok

The Painted Veil of Bedok

The sun bled orange over the HDB blocks of Bedok, casting long fingers of shadow across the car park. It was 1987, and the estate where I grew up, where my mother still lives, was considered modern and safe. But the earth beneath it had a secret, one that had been buried, literally, since the early 1960s when the government cleared the old Chinese cemetery to build these flats. The graves were relocated, supposedly, but some things cling to the ground they’ve touched.

My father’s family had a tradition of second sight, passed down through the eldest sons. My cousin, Daniel, was the one who bore it most strongly. He was fifteen years older than me, a quiet man with a perpetual look of listening, as if he heard things just beyond the range of normal ears. That evening, he and his wife, Sarah, along with his mother, Aunt Evelyn, were coming over for dinner. I remember my mother fussing over the fish, the air thick with ginger and steam.

Daniel and Sarah arrived first, their car pulling into the empty space right below our block. As Daniel stepped out, he paused, his hand hovering over the car door. Sarah asked him if he had forgotten something. He shook his head, but I saw his eyes darting towards the drain that ran along the edge of the car park, where a thin film of oil rainbowed in the fading light. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, but his gaze lingered.

Dinner was a loud, chaotic affair, as all family gatherings were. Aunt Evelyn complained about her knees, my sisters argued over the last piece of char siu, and my father told the same joke he always told. Daniel, however, was unusually quiet. He picked at his rice, his eyes occasionally drifting to the window that overlooked the car park. After the meal, he helped clear the dishes, but as he reached the kitchen sink, he froze. ‘Who is that?’ he asked, pointing at the window.

We all looked, but saw nothing. My mother laughed, ‘Probably a cat.’ But Daniel’s face was pale. ‘She was wearing a white samfu,’ he whispered. ‘She had a red mark on her neck, like a burn.’ The room went silent. My father cleared his throat, ‘Dan, you’re spooking the kids.’ Sarah put a hand on his arm, ‘He gets these episodes, you know.’ But I saw the way my mother’s lips tightened. She had lived in this estate for decades; she knew things.

Later that evening, as Daniel and Sarah were preparing to leave, I decided to accompany them to the car. I don’t know why, but I felt a pull. The car park was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights buzzing and flickering. Daniel walked ahead, his key fob clicking. As he reached the car, he stopped, staring at the drain. ‘It’s her,’ he said softly. ‘She’s standing there, just watching.’ I looked, and for a moment, I thought I saw a wavering in the air, a shimmering like heat off the road, but then it was gone.

Dan opened the driver’s door but paused. ‘She’s speaking,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘She’s saying, “Don’t forget us. We’re still here.”‘ Sarah was shivering, even though it was a warm night. ‘Let’s go, Dan,’ she urged. He nodded and slid into the seat. As the car engine started, I saw him glance at the rear-view mirror, and his shoulders stiffened. The car backed out slowly, and I watched the taillights shrink into the distance, feeling a cold that had nothing to do with the wind.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional bark of a dog. Around 2 a.m., I heard a sound like fingernails on the window, a soft, insistent scratching. I pulled the curtains aside, ready to chase off a bird, but there was nothing there, only the reflection of my own pale face. And then, in the glass, I saw it: a faint outline of a woman in white, her neck bearing a dark, glistening mark. I blinked, and she was gone.

The next morning, I told my mother. She listened, her face unreadable, then she sighed. ‘The old cemetery. They promised they moved everyone, but sometimes they missed. There was a whole section near the drainage, unclaimed. Some say you can still hear them at night, if you’re lucky. Or unlucky.’ She looked at me, her eyes old. ‘Daniel, he’s like his grandfather. He sees them. But you, you felt it too. That’s rare. But be careful, child. When they start to speak, they never stop.’

A week later, Daniel called. His voice was hoarse. ‘It followed me home,’ he said. ‘It’s standing in my kitchen, by the window. It just stands there, watching. Sarah’s terrified. She can’t sleep.’ I didn’t know what to say. I had seen it myself, and I knew it was real. My mother took the phone and spoke to him in Cantonese, her voice firm, telling him to burn incense, to pray, to draw the nine-character charm over the door. But even as she said it, her eyes betrayed her worry.

That night, I dreamed of the drain in the car park, filled with a viscous, glistening liquid, and the woman rising from it, her red eyes fixed on me. She opened her mouth, and a torrent of names flowed out, names of the forgotten dead, each one a knife in my mind. I woke up screaming, my mother rushing in to hold me. ‘It’s okay, it’s just a dream,’ she said, but I saw the fear in her face. She knew better.

In the days that followed, we tried everything. We hired a medium, who burned papers and chanted, but he left in a hurry, refusing payment, mumbling about ‘a debt unpaid’. The scratching at my window became a nightly occurrence, and I could feel the presence even in daylight, a weight in the air, a cold spot in the living room. My mother started sleeping with all the lights on.

Then, one evening, Daniel came over alone, his face haggard. He told us that the figure had started speaking to him, not in words, but in images. He saw a woman, young, maybe a factory worker, her neck burned by a chemical spill, her body dumped in the drain because no one claimed it. She had been buried in the cemetery, but when they exhumed the graves, they missed hers. She had been waiting for decades for someone to acknowledge her, to say her name. ‘Her name is Mei Lin,’ Daniel said. ‘She wants us to find her bones and give them a proper burial.’

We were silent. The thought of digging in the car park, of confronting what was there, was terrifying. But the haunting was growing stronger. My sisters refused to be alone, and my mother had bags under her eyes. We had to do something.

A week later, we did the unthinkable. In the dead of night, armed with shovels and a flashlight, my father, Daniel, and I crept to the drain. The concrete was cracked, and the earth beneath was damp and black. We dug for hours, our hands blistered, the smell of rot thick in the air. Just as dawn was breaking, my shovel hit something solid. We unearthed a small, rectangular box, rotted and broken, filled with a few bones and a rusted metal plate with a name and a date: Mei Lin, 1932-1963.

We took the bones to a temple, where the monks performed the proper rites. That evening, as we burned incense and prayed, I felt a lifting, a lightness in the air. The scratching stopped. The cold spots vanished. Daniel called later, his voice trembling with relief. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘I think she’s finally at peace.’

We never spoke of it again, but we never forgot. The car park is still there, and I still feel a shiver whenever I walk past that drain. But sometimes, when the evening light is just right, I think I see a woman in white, smiling gently, before she fades into the dusk. She doesn’t scare me anymore. She reminds me that the past is never truly buried, and that forgotten souls deserve a witness.

In Bedok, they built a garden over the old cemetery, with a plaque listing the names of those who were re-interred. But Mei Lin’s name is not there. I added it myself, in stealth, one night. It’s a small act, but it’s all I can do. And if you ever stand in that car park at dusk, and you feel a cold breeze, know that it’s just her, saying thank you. Or maybe, she’s asking to be remembered again. Because the veil between us and the dead is thin, and it’s painted with our memories, or our neglect.

In the end, we did the right thing, but I often wonder about the others, the ones still waiting. Beneath the concrete and the tarmac, beneath the HDB towers, there are countless stories, countless souls. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I whisper a simple prayer: ‘Remember the forgotten.’ And I hope that’s enough.

The Painted Veil of Bedok is not just a place; it’s a reminder that we coexist with the unseen, and that our duty to the dead is never truly done. So, if you ever hear a scratch at your window in the dark, maybe it’s not the wind. Maybe it’s a voice, asking to be heard. And if you have the courage, maybe you’ll listen.

I know I do. I always will.