IS there any huanted places other then blk 99 tat is haunted
?
Haunted In Simpang Bedok - Hungzai
This story is about 5 person, my mother, my brother Eddie and
his wife Frances, their daughter Debbie . . . and whatever it was
that shared a house with them. In 1994, Eddie and Frances were a
young couple with a 10 month-old daughter. They had recently moved
into a terrace house near Bedok Simpang area, and almost
immediately Frances began complaining that something about the
house wasn’t right. Eddie was on business trip frequently in those
days, and he was often away for several nights at a time as he
needs to travel to other countries. On those nights, Frances told
her family, the house was occupied by more than just herself and
her daughter Debbie. When Eddie was away, something would play– and
it was scaring her half to death. After several months of
increasingly frightening and flamboyant disturbances, Frances
announced that she wouldn’t stay in the house alone any longer.
Eddie, who had never experienced anything unusual in the house
on the nights he spent there, chalked up his wife’s hysteria to
post-partum depression, but felt helpless to do anything about it.
He could neither afford to move nor to give up the extra income of
his long hauls. A compromise was reached: my mother would stay with
Frances. Thus far, the ghostly occurrences had only taken place
when Frances was alone with the baby. Eddie hoped that my mother
would be a calming influence on Frances. My mother was–and still
is–a hard-headed and pragmatic woman. She didn’t believe in ghosts,
wasn’t frightened by the idea of ghosts, and generally agreed with
Eddie that the only thing strange in the house was Frances.
According to her, that belief system crumbled forever at around
11:30 pm of her first, and only, night in Frances’ house. It was
about 7 pm, an hour or so after sunset, that the scratching in the
walls began. Frances, on hearing it, paled noticeably. My mother
assured her that it was merely the scratchings of mice they were
hearing, but Frances would have none of it. It sounded like mice
but my mum was convinced that the area is clean hence mice should
not live.
This is how it starts.” At around 9:30, while watching TV in the
living room, they heard three sharp raps on the front door. Mom
waited for Frances to answer the door, and was surprised and a
little bemused to see her sitting rigidly erect in her seat, frozen
in fear. “For god’s sake, Fran,” she said, “There’s someone at the
door.” “No, there isn’t,” Frances replied, and refused to go to the
door. Exasperated, my mother went to the door, flung it open, and
found the front stoop empty. “You see?” Frances asked. But my
mother believed that it was merely kids screwing with them, and
said so.
Turned out, mum was wrong. The evening wore on, and though
Frances grew increasingly jittery, the house was quiet. At 11:30,
after the end of the local news, my mother said that she was tired
and ready for bed. Frances agreed, and after they had taken a quick
trip around the first floor making sure that all doors and windows
were secure, they went upstairs to their rooms. The guest room was
at one end of the upstairs hall, the nursery at the other. Between
them was the master bedroom. The guest room and the master bedroom
shared a walk-in closet, so with both closet doors open it was
possible to look from one room into the other. My mother was to
sleep in the guestroom, but Frances insisted that they keep the
closet doors open so they could see each other.
By this time, my mother considered Frances to be something of a
twit, but she agreed to humor her. My mother went into the
bathroom, got herself ready for bed, then returned to her room and
climbed into bed. The lights were on in Frances’ room, and she
could see the lower half of the bed, where Frances was lying down
with her leg dangling over the side and swinging to and fro. Mom
watched her, hoping Frances would fall asleep soon so this
adventure in ninnyness could come to an end. “Goodnight, Frances,”
she called through the closet. “Goodnight, Anita,” Frances replied.
. . from the guestrooms hall door. My mother started in surprise at
Frances’ voice. She looked at Frances in her doorway, then looked
back through the closet at the master bedroom. The leg was still
there, swinging back and forth. My mother jumped out of her bed and
slammed the closet door, telling Frances to get the hell in out of
the doorway and lock the door behind her, because there was someone
in the master bedroom. Frances did as she was told, all while
asking my mother what she was talking about. My mother explained
what she’d seen, and Frances said that she hadn’t even lain down
yet, because she had been in the nursery changing the baby. The two
women stood huddled together, trying to decide what to do next,
when something made the decision a helluva lot harder. Terrible
noises suddenly filled the house.
It sounded to the women as though someone was throwing every
breakable object in the basement against the cinderblock walls.
They could hear glass breaking, wood splintering, and repeated low
banging that sounded as though someone was pounding the basement
steps with a sledgehammer. The women hugged each other in terror,
as the noises seemed to build to some horrible crescendo of
destruction. Then, as though a switch had been thrown, they
stopped. And the small, mewling cry of Debbie could be heard from
the nursery. Frances moved automatically for the guestroom door;
her instincts guiding her steps. She was brought up short, however,
by the loud bang of the cellar door slamming open. She stood, eyes
wide, hand on the doorknob, and listened as heavy footsteps moved
through the first floor, toward the staircase to the second.
Debbie’s cries became more insistent. And the heavy tread fell on
the first step. Then the second. Frances moaned in a soul-freezing
terror of indecision. She knew three things. There were 14 steps.
The staircase was between the guestroom and the nursery. And
something was coming steadily up the stairs. My mother, hard-headed
no more, whispered frantically, “My God, Fran, it’s coming up the
steps. And the baby’s crying…” The footfalls thudded relentlessly
up the stairs. Third step. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Frances screamed,
and to this day neither woman can say whether that scream was of
terror or anger or both, but it was primal and nearly savage. She
tore open the guestroom door and raced for the nursery, where her
daughter’s cries were growing louder as she waited for her mother
to come. Still screaming, Frances flew past the upper landing,
hearing the thudding footsteps fall on the seventh, eighth, and
ninth risers, then Frances was in the nursery, my mother hot on her
heels.
Mom slammed and locked the nursery door as Frances scooped
Debbie from her crib and held her tight, soothing her cries, all
the while staring wild-eyed at the nursery door, beyond which
something was on the tenth step, the eleventh, the twelfth. . .
Then the eleventh. The tenth. The ninth. Both women stood, shaking
with combined fear and relief as whatever had been approaching
retreated to the first floor. The cellar door slammed shut. And the
whirlwind of destruction resumed in the basement. My mother hissed
at Frances, “Do you go through this every time Eddie’s away?”
Frances almost managed a laugh. “No, it’s usually not this bad.”
Frances had insisted on getting a telephone extension placed in the
master bedroom, and the women decided to risk going there to use
it, despite the thing in the basement and the leg in the room,
reasoning (not very well) that whatever was in the house was busy
downstairs. They gathered a few supplies for the baby, and peeked
out the nursery door. The noises continued unabated from the
basement, so they dashed down the hall, past the landing to the
master bedroom’s closed door. There, they hesitated, terrified of
what they might find inside, but seeing no other alternative, they
steeled themselves and slowly open the door. And found the room
empty. They rushed inside, locked the door, and called the police.
They then sat at the bedroom window, watching the street for the
squad car. After a short time, which felt like hours to the women,
the black-and-white arrived, and two policmen approached the front
door. Frances had explained that there was an intruder of some sort
in the house’s lower floors, and had instructed the responding
officers to let themselves in using a spare key that was hidden in
a planter near the door, as neither she nor my mother had any
intention of going downstairs to let them inside. The sounds of
crashing from the basement had gone on for so long that Frances
wasn’t certain what else could possibly remain to break, but they
suddenly ceased the moment the spare key was inserted in the lock
of the front door. The officers entered the house, and called out
to Frances that they had arrived. Frances ran downstairs to them,
baby in tow and my mother just behind her. The two women related,
as best they could in their state of mind, what had happened that
night.
The policeman, both young men, weren’t sure what to make of
their story, but they believed the fear in the women’s faces, and
when they went to the back to investigate, they went with their
guns drawn. After several minutes, one of the police called
upstairs, asking the women to come down. So Frances and my mother
walked down the wooden stairs to the basement floor. And found it
in perfect order. A little dusty, but otherwise completely
undisturbed. The officers questioned them: What did they hear
again? Were they sure about the sounds they had heard? The women
were mystified and frantic. They had heard everything they
described, the sounds were unmistakable. They were desperate to be
believed. The officers were courteous, but ever-so-slightly
condescending. Perhaps the ladies should try to get some sleep,
they suggested. Everything was in order; they would be fine in the
morning. Helplessly, the women stood in the foyer and watched as
the two policemen prepared to leave. And, just before the door
latched shut behind the second policeman, the sounds of a
destructive frenzy exploded forth from the basement again. And the
front door quickly swung open again. The sound instantly cut off,
but not before both policemen had heard the crashing from
downstairs. They quickly raced past the women, again drawing their
guns and swiftly descending the basement steps. And again, they
found the basement unoccupied and undisturbed. When the two
policemen returned to the first floor this time, they were both
visibly puzzled. They strongly suggested that the women spend the
night elsewhere, and offered to stay in the house with them while
they gathered whatever they would need. The women returned
upstairs, grabbed their things, and left the house with the
officers. They spent that night in my apartment, and neither of
them ever set foot in that house after dark again. As a postscript
to this story, Eddie and Frances fought bitterly over her refusal
to stay in the house at night anymore, even when Eddie was at home.
They nearly divorced over it. Eddie stubbornly insisted on keeping
the house, feeling that it was the nicest home he would ever be
able to rent for the money. He stayed there whenever he was home
from his long hauls. Then, his trips became more local for a while,
and he started spending more time in the house. A month later, he
broke his lease and moved, reconciling with Frances and buying a
smaller house in Bedok. At the time, he said he had changed his
mind because he loved his wife and wanted to make her happy. But
years later, he admitted the truth: He never heard any of the
sounds of chaos from the basement. But one night he awakened to
find he was sharing his bed with a strange woman. A woman who
dangled one leg over the side of the bed, and swung it to and fro.
He leapt out of bed with a grunt of surprise, and watched with
increasing horror as the woman slowly faded from view. The next
morning, there was a moving van parked in front of the house.
