This story is about a late-night Grab delivery during Hungry Ghost Month, where a rider’s routine order led him to the infamous SG House — and something waiting in the dark.
A Delivery to Bukit Gasing
Late-night Grab orders always make me nervous, because you never know what and where you could go. Back in 2019, a delivery in Bukit Gasing, near the SG House? During Hungry Ghost Month? That’s enough to make any rider’s stomach tighten.
My mum’s voice straightaway plays in my head: “Don’t go disturb things at night, ah!”
I wasn’t scared. Just… cautious. I double checked the delivery address in the app, and then in Waze three times, tapping too hard on the screen, while pretending my sweaty palms were just from the heat.
But deep down, I already knew this delivery was going to be different.
On the road
For an 11pm delivery on a Wednesday night, the roads were too quiet. Usually you’d hear crickets, maybe a dog or two, but that night, riding felt like breathing through damp cloth.
My moto sounded too loud and echoey, as if the sound was half a second out of sync with the world. Then I reached the street where the SG House… rots.
If you’ve lived in PJ, you’ve heard of the SG House. Some say Sanjay Gill ended his life there after his business failed. Others whisper his wife murdered his mistress and daughter before killing herself.
The SG House: The House That Watches
Even in ruin, the property commanded the street. The chained gates sagged open just enough to feel like an invitation.
Wild grass clawed through the cracks in the driveway, taller than my bike. The mansion’s walls were streaked black with rot, its windows smashed but still glinting faintly under the sickly yellow streetlight.
I gunned my engine and sped up, telling myself over and over not to look at the place. But I did, because in my mirrors, I thought I saw the rotting curtains flutter – though there was no wind. A pale flicker shifted in the top floor window, watching.
A Face at the Gate
By the time I reached the far end of the street, my mouth went dry. The air reeked of damp soil and stale incense, that sweet-bitter tang that clings to the back of your throat during Hungry Ghost Month.
The delivery address had its gate open, one porch light flickering like it was fighting for life. A woman stood, waiting for me.
She didn’t move until I cut the engine. Then, slowly, she stepped forward. Her cheongsam was simple, faded red, the fabric hung limp and heavy, as if damp with age.
She smiled, but her face was too calm — no warmth, just polite stillness, like she had practised how to be human.
When she handed me a mix of notes and coins to pay, our fingers brushed. Her skin was colder than metal left in the freezer. Instinct screamed at me to pull away and run, but my mother’s warnings drilled into my head: Don’t be rude, don’t look them in the eye.
So I bowed slightly, muttered “Thank you, Aunty,” and passed her the food without raising my gaze.
She didn’t linger. She just took the Chicken Rice and Char Siew Pau, turned, and slipped back inside.
The porch light flickered twice, then steadied. And I was standing alone in the dark, my moto’s headlights throwing the only light, its quiet rumble the only sound.
Order Not Found
I sped off immediately, trying to swallow down the bile rising in my throat. My mind worked overtime to rationalise:
Maybe she was eccentric, maybe old houses smell weird lah, maybe I was just exhausted after a long day. But my gut stayed knotted the whole ride home.
The next day, when I checked my Grab app, the order was there, but marked “Cancelled / No Delivery.” Like the whole trip never happened.
I opened my wallet, and sure enough, the cash was there, but not in today’s notes.
Old notes. The kind from my childhood — browned at the edges, smelling faintly of mildew, the paper soft like worn cloth.
Notes you’d only expect to see on dusty kopitiam calendars or in history books. I reached into my pocket, remembering she’d pressed coins into my hand too. RM1 coins — the heavy bronze kind, phased out years ago.
I couldn’t bring myself to spend them. I just shoved the notes back in my wallet and tried to forget. But of course, I couldn’t.
Abandoned and Empty
A week later, another delivery, through the same area that took me past the SG House. I slowed, half-curious, half-afraid, but daylight at 11:45am made me braver. I looked for the house at the far end of the street, where I’d delivered chicken rice and pau.
The house was there. But empty. Windows boarded up, weeds swallowing the gate. I rang the neighbour’s doorbell.
They said nobody had lived there in years. The place had no electricity. But the porch light was still on, flickering faintly.
Every time I shut my eyes, I saw the SG House window again. Curtains stirring when there was no wind. And in my own room, the faint smell of stale incense.
Something pale, patient, waiting behind the curtain. Still hungry. Still watching. And maybe now… watching me from somewhere closer than Bukit Gasing.
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