This story is about a student who thought Hungry Ghost Month was routine—until a scruffy orange cat turned offerings into something far stranger.
Hungry Ghost Month. It’s the time of year where the air feels like smoke clinging to your skin. Roadside shrines glow red with candles, their wax dripping into little puddles on the pavement. Joss sticks stand crooked in ash, their tips glowing like fireflies.
Aunties warn: Don’t stay out late, don’t whistle at night, don’t answer if someone calls you from behind. I always laugh it off — but quietly, only in my head. Out loud, I just nod. Because better not to offend…whatever is out there.
I thought this year would be business as usual: A ritual, an offering, light the Joss sticks, done. Until a stray cat decided otherwise.
Business not as usual
The shrine near the student quarters was nothing fancy: A concrete box, peeling red paint, the surface stained with years of smoke. Ash clings to the cracks like grey powder. Behind it, the neon mamak sign flickers, buzzing weakly like a mosquito that refuses to die.
The pavement under my slippers is warm from the day’s sun, but the air is cooling. Still, I feel a strange stillness. Like the traffic noise just one street away is suddenly too far. I roll up my sleeves, balancing the plastic bag of offerings in one hand. Rice in a paper packet, a mandarin orange, one pau, and a can of 100Plus sweating in the heat.
I arranged the offerings like I’m setting a dinner table. Even though I think, “Ghost won’t mind a messy presentation, lah.” I light the Joss sticks. The sulphur sting of the match is sharp in my nose.
I clasp the sticks between my palms, bow three times. The smoke curls upward, making my eyes water, catching in my throat. For a second, I swear the flame reflects in my eyes like someone else is looking back.
That’s when I hear a low rustle.
Oyen of Chaos
From under a Myvi parked nearby, a scruffy orange cat slinks out. Its fur is patchy, tail bent like a question mark. Its eyes glint gold in the shrine’s candlelight. It pads closer, sniffing the offerings.
I freeze, incense smoke curling around my fingers. Then I let out a laugh — half tired, half amused. “Eh hello! That’s not for you lah,” I mutter, one hand on my hip, the other shoving my messy ponytail back into place.
Then, without hesitation, it grabs the pau in its teeth and bolts. I shrug. Ghosts can share, right?
A Haunting Presence
That night, my room feels… wrong. The ceiling fan spins, but the air is thick, sticky. My skin prickles like static. I turn on the AC, but it makes no difference as I toss and turn in the darkness.
Somewhere at the edge of sleep, I hear it. Tap. Tap. Tap. Against my second floor window. Second floor, with no balcony. When I finally drift off, the dream comes, of the orange cat.
Except its eyes are dark empty hollow sockets that stare right into my soul. Its mouth opens, wider than a cat’s and the sound that comes out isn’t a meow. It’s like wind moaning through a crack in the door.
I jolt awake, heart pounding, the sheets damp with sweat. The next morning, over kopi with my coursemates, I laughed it off. “Aiya, maybe I shouldn’t drink teh o ais limau before sleep lah.”
But my fingers drum on the plastic table. My eyes flick whenever someone whistles past. My laugh sounds too sharp, too quick. My body, heart and soul knows something isn’t right, even if my brain refuses to acknowledge it.
A Return to the Shrine
After three nights of tossing and turning, with recurring dreams of orange cats, I can’t take it anymore. I drag myself back to the shrine with offerings – a fresh pau, mandarin, and a small bag with something extra – and more Joss sticks.
The air feels heavier, like the whole lane is holding its breath. It takes a moment to calm my breathing, steady my trembling fingers as I set down the offerings, light the Joss sticks and say a prayer. My cheeks burn as I mutter, “Sorry ah. The cat took it. Not my fault.”
The words feel ridiculous, talking to the empty air. But the moment the smoke rises, goosebumps crawl along my arms. And just like that, the heaviness lifts. Not gone, but lighter. Like someone finally let go of my shoulders.
An Additional Offering
I couldn’t stop thinking about that orange cat. So now, next to the rice and fruit, I had put out a small dish of kibble. The orange menace shows up again, circling my ankles, tail flicking like it’s mocking me.
I crouch, adjusting my black-rimmed glasses, smirking. “You ah… enough trouble already. Don’t make me quarrel with ghosts on your behalf.” The cat purrs, rubbing its head against my leg, like it owns the shrine.
Maybe it does. Half-practical, half-superstitious. At least this way, everyone makan happy lah. The cat is happy, purring and with a last grateful meow, enjoys his offering.
A New Routine
I walk home with earbuds in, for the first time in days, I don’t feel like something’s following me. For the rest of Hungry Ghost Month, I bring offerings in one hand, small bag of kibble in the other.
The ginger cat always comes. Tail bent, eyes catching the candlelight. It weaves between my ankles, rubs against my leg like it belongs here. I bend down, mutter, “Okay lah, everyone makan happy.”
But sometimes — just for a split second, when the smoke drifts too close — I swear my hand touches something cold and smooth. Not fur. Not skin. Like stone.
When I blink, it’s just the cat again. Purring. Watching me. Hungry Ghost is costing more because of buying cat kibble. But so what? Better than angry ghosts. Better than an angry cat. If it is a cat.
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