The Saltwater Static

The ad for the weekend chalet at Pasir Ris promised a seaside escape, a chance to trade the city’s concrete for salt-tinged air. I’d never believed in ghosts, not really. My grandmother had dragged me to a temple medium when I was twelve, and the old woman had looked at me with rheumy eyes, her voice cracking like dry leaves as she told my grandmother I had a ‘thin veil.’ I’d dismissed it as theatrical nonsense, and over the years, I’d successfully convinced myself that the flickering lights, the sudden drafts, the feeling of being watched—they were all just my imagination, or the result of too much stress. My name is Marcus, and I’ve lived in Singapore all my life. I’ve always prided myself on my pragmatism, on my ability to see things as they are. But that weekend at the chalet, I learned that some things are real, and some are just… waiting.

The chalet itself was a sprawling single-story affair, bigger than my apartment, with four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, arranged along a long, dimly lit corridor. The living room opened onto a wide deck with a barbecue pit facing the dark expanse of Pasir Ris beach. My tutorial group had split into teams for the weekend, and I ended up with the far bedroom at the end of the hall. My friends—Aisha, Wei, and Ben—claimed the other rooms closer to the main area. I didn’t mind the distance; it meant a little more privacy. The first night passed with typical university chaos—laughter, card games, and the smell of charred satay. Exhausted, I fell asleep to the distant crash of waves.

I woke in the dead of night. A strange silence hung over the chalet, the usual night sounds—the hum of the fridge, the occasional passing car—were gone. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath. I lay there, wondering what had startled me, and then I heard it: a low, rhythmic thrumming from the bathroom. It wasn’t the usual hum of the ventilation fan; it was deeper, more resonant, like a bass string plucked underwater. Intrigued, I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom, my bare feet cold on the tile. The door was slightly ajar, and the light inside was off. Through the gap, I could see the shower curtain, a cheap plastic thing with a pattern of seashells, swaying ever so slightly.

My heart thumped. I pushed the door fully open and stepped inside. The thrumming grew louder, and I realized it was coming from the shower drain. I knelt and placed my ear near it. The sound was like the inside of a conch shell, but sharper, more deliberate—like something was trying to sing, but the notes were all wrong, guttural and raw. I felt a cold whisper of air on my neck, even though the room was sealed. I looked up and caught my reflection in the mirror. Behind me, the shower curtain was now motionless, but there was a distinct indentation in the middle, as if a body were pressing against it from the other side.

I spun around, my heart hammering. The curtain was still. My reflection showed nothing but my own terrified face. I yanked the curtain back. The tub was empty, save for a single, dark hair clinging to the drain. The thrumming had stopped. I laughed nervously, chalking it up to my imagination, and went back to bed. But sleep was a long time coming. The next day, I asked the others if they’d heard anything strange. Aisha said she’d heard someone singing in the middle of the night, a woman’s voice, muffled and strange. Wei had slept through it. Ben, who had joked about the place being haunted, was surprisingly quiet, offering only that he’d felt a bit ‘off.’

That evening, we decided to use the barbecue pit. The night was warm and humid, but a cool breeze from the sea kept the mosquitoes at bay. As the coals glow and the sky darkened, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. From the corner of my eye, I saw a shape by the water’s edge—a tall, thin figure, black against the silver of the moonlit waves. Ben pointed at it, laughing, ‘You see that? A fisherman, maybe?’ But the figure stood unnaturally still, facing us, arms limp at its sides. When I looked directly, it was gone. Aisha said she felt a sudden chill. I forced a smile and said it was just the wind.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I felt compelled to check the bathroom again. As I approached the door, I could hear the thrumming, louder now, almost a voice, repeating a syllable I couldn’t quite grasp. I pushed the door open. The bathroom lights flickered, casting erratic shadows. The shower curtain was pulled fully on. I walked to it and pulled it aside. The tub was empty, but the mirror behind me showed my reflection surrounded by a faint, swirling static, like an old television set. In that static, I saw a face—not mine, but a hollow, gaunt face with black pits for eyes, and a mouth opened in a silent scream.

I stumbled backward, slamming against the wall. The static vanished, the lights steady, the thrumming stopped. I ran back into the bedroom and pressed my back to the door. I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I told the group I wanted to leave early. They joked that I was being a coward, but something in my eyes must have convinced them. We packed up in a hurry, and as we drove away, I looked back at the chalet. In the window of my old bedroom, I saw a pale figure standing, watching. It raised a hand in a slow, deliberate wave.

I’ve never been back to Pasir Ris. I’ve stopped trying to rationalize it. Some things are real, and they’re not always friendly. The thrumming in the bathroom, the static in the mirror—they taught me that the veil between our world and whatever lies beyond is thinner than I ever imagined. And I know that somewhere, in that chalet, the static still swirls, and the shower curtain still sways, and something is still waiting, humming its song to anyone who’ll listen.