Posts Tagged ‘horror story’

If you ever have the time to sit down and talk with members from Justice for Sisters or PT Foundation or other similar NGOs helping the transgender community you will cringe with fright at how monstrous human beings can be towards the marginalized. You can read more about it in the link below.

Although this is a supernatural vengeance, been there-done that plot, there is a twist that involves the mystical powers of the moths.


Four of China’s great folktales: Legend of the White Snake, Lady Meng Jiang, Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai (The Butterfly Lovers), and The Cowherd and the Weaving Maid have a very strong influence on this story. I grew up watching various versions of these folktales and fell deeply in love with them. This is my personal homage to epic tales of love and loss, tragedy and comedy, earthly and heavenly … on a small scale.

The beginning of the story where the protagonist travels to a deserted place somewhere off Kamunting is based on one of my frightful experiences. I took the night train back to Taiping and reached at about three in the morning. There was only one taxi and the driver was an old man who probably had insomnia (I’m guessing that’s why he had his taxi service at that hour). I got in and sat in the back and a brawny man got in to sit in the front. The taxi driver decided to drop the man off first since his destination was closer than mine. It was a nice enough nighttime for all three of us to travel.

The man directed the taxi driver towards Kamunting and then the journey went beyond shop lots, housing areas, and even street lights. Before we knew it we came upon a dirt road and the sides were overgrown with extremely tall lalang grass. I was calm and naive to it all this until I saw the old man’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They told me they could not protect me. They told me he was a frail old man. They told me we were both going to die. I cringed in the backseat thinking I would not live long enough to be a writer to tell this tale.

The brawny man stopped the taxi driver quite abruptly in the middle of nowhere, paid him, and got off in a flash before cold sweat could even take form. I looked around but there was no sign of life except for the grass so tall it could be a corn field. The taxi driver made a quick u-turn, sped us out of the godforsaken place, and we said nothing until I reached home. He made sure I was safely inside, locked the gates, went into the house, and closed the doors before he left.

The danger only dawned on me when I was home and wondering what the hell just happened.

If you have a mother who talks to you when you are busy, taking a shower or a dump, out of ear range and calls your name whenever she needs to find something, missing something, someone is at the door, or when she needs an answer to some vague question then you will easily identify with this horrific tale.

Needless to say, my mother is the source of inspiration for the first half of the story. The second half is just another one of my contorted views of what silly things we promise each other in the name of friendship.


Reincarnation was not an ideology I willingly embraced when I was young. Although I have heard about it in certain practices, I have never given it much thought or care. It was not until I read some of the most remarkable stories about children who transmigrated and identified their murderers that got my attention. If it were possible for all victims to come back and seek justice then no one can get away with murder.

For all murderers out there, if you think you can get away with it, you’d better think again.


This story started out with the title The Amulet. After writing it the way I did, with dialog only, I retitled it to emphasize the zaniness and blackness of the humor. I had this idea when I was a teenager but I couldn’t find a way to execute to make it interesting. It was written in a letter form but to keep up with the times I rewrote it as messages found in an abandoned mobile. Now, it is a horror story within a horror story that is connected by a thin thread of familiarity.
The Fur Brooch by Dulcie Gray served as one of the inspirations for this tale. I read it in The 12th Pan Book of Horror Stories and later watched it on Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. This piece was performed live by Joe & Tina at my book launch at the 2016 GTLF which of course, they made it even more tantalizing.


I was deluged with the fabulousness and cheesiness of disco in my impressionable years. Yes, Disco. It was the time when Funky Town hit number one on both sides of the Atlantic. It was the time of discotheques, bell bottoms, afro hairdo, doing the hustle, the bump, the funky chicken and to experience the freedom of expression. Just when everything was getting into full swing the world suddenly wanted disco dead. Here are links to a few disco documentaries that can bring light from the disco ball of truth the evolution and revolution of disco.

This story is also inspired by the Dancing Plague of 1518 where about 400 people were caught up in a dancing mania that lasted about a month. Some died of stroke, heart attack or simply exhaustion.

This Disco is not a place you want to go to unless it wants you to. It appears every now and then in the middle of the crossroads. If you are meant to go in there, you will see it. And ahh, what memories you will recall.


Cemeteries have always been a great place for friends to hangout, lovers to express their undying love, Pokemon hunters to meet their quota, and people who need to be close to the dead to understand the living.

This story is inspired by one of my night hikes during my scouting days. One of the things we had to do was to retrieve a cryptic message posted on the far end of the cemetery on a full-sized cross. Although we laughed about it none of us wanted to go in when we reached the entrance to the memorial. There was a bit of an argument as to who should be the hero to trespass on the dead until someone sacrificed himself for the good of the patrol. Everyone survived.

This scenario sets the mood of the beginning at the story and the rest are cooked up in my cauldron of cataclysmic darkness.