After I watched them take my body away that day, I floated up to the arcade of the Ambang Motif Building—or I guess "walked" is the word I'd use, but truth is, my feet weren't even touching the ground. I was maybe an inch above it, just drifting like a balloon.
When I reached the glass doors, I stopped. My reflection wasn't there.
I could see my own body—my legs, my hands stretched out in front of me—but the glass showed nothing.
I knew I was dead. I knew I was a ghost. But what was I, exactly?
Some kind of gas? A projection? A radio wave?
I hovered outside the Ambang Motif Building, stuck between questions and silence, and watched people pass—except they didn't pass me. They walked through me. Right through my chest, through my arms, through the space where I used to exist. Just restaurant-goers and rubberneckers, strolling casually through my body like I wasn't even there.
I reached for the restaurant door—only for my hand to pass straight through the glass.
I passed through the restaurant door and floated to an empty table. I tried to sit on the chair, but my body couldn't make contact—I just phased straight through it.
Fine. Standing it is.
And so I stood—if you could call it that, hovering an inch above the tiles—until the last waiter left, the lights flicked off, and the place fell silent. Just me now.
Even deep into the night, I never felt sleepy. Not even a little.
When the sun finally crept in through the windows, I didn't vanish in a puff of smoke. But the light hurt. It made me feel... drained, like something inside me was unraveling. I slipped into the darkest place I could find—a storage room in the back—and curled myself into the shadows.
Time passed. I'm not sure how long.
At some point, I heard the door open again. Voices. Movement. I drifted out of the storage room and checked the clock on the wall. Ten a.m.
The restaurant opened at eleven. More and more employees began to arrive.
I floated toward the front and stepped into the sunlight—
Mistake.
It was like being peeled apart slowly. My energy bled away, thin and steady, like a slow leak in a sinking boat. I turned back and slipped into the dark once more.
Days went by. I listened to the staff and customers talk. I heard what happened to me.
No family came to claim my body.
But someone kind had donated money for a coffin, arranged a cremation. They said my ashes had been placed in a memorial tower.
I guess no monks chanted for my soul. No rites. No prayers.
Because if they had, I wouldn't still be here.
I tested the boundaries again. Same result.
Thirty feet from where I died—that was my cage.
I don't know how much time had passed before the first rumors started.
They said the women's restroom was haunted.
Really? All because I went in there once—just once—to check my reflection, hoping I'd see even a flicker of myself. I'm pretty sure the place was empty at the time. So how did anyone know I was there? Could someone actually see me?
Nah. Had to be made up.
But the rumors didn't fade. They grew. Morphed. Dozens of twisted versions, each more ridiculous than the last. Business plummeted.
The owner called in monks—chanting, incense, the whole ritual. All it did was make my skin crawl (do ghosts even have skin?).
Sure, the chanting made me feel like my whole body was being rubbed with sandpaper,but otherwise? Nothing. I didn't float off to heaven. Didn't get reincarnated. Still stuck.
And before you ask—hell? Seriously? I was sixteen. A little dumb, maybe. Liked to mess around, sure. But I didn't do anything that bad. And I died horribly, so maybe have a little sympathy before you curse me to eternal damnation.
Anyway. Even after the monks left, the ghost stories kept spreading.
Someone claimed they felt a cold hand touch their foot under the table mid-meal.
Bullshit.
You really think I've got nothing better to do in the afterlife than crawl under tables and grope people's ankles?
Then there's the one about the red-dressed ghost waving from the fourth-floor sign of the Ambang Motif Building in the middle of the night.
Excuse me?!
I'm still wearing the same white outfit I died in. No blood. No stains. Clean as hell. Where's this red dress nonsense coming from?
People are weird. Some love making up stories—others believe every word without question.
And just like that, the restaurant went under. Out of business. Doors shut for good.
Over the next few years, the Ambang Motif Building saw tenant after tenant try their luck. Different businesses moved in—a restaurant, a café, even a clothing boutique. None lasted more than three months. Every time, the reason was the same: ghosts.
Eventually, no one would rent it at all. The building stood empty for years, decaying in plain sight.
Ambang Motif Tower became the haunted spot in the city. Made the papers. Went viral online. You can still find the stories—"Malaysia's Most Haunted Landmark!"
But trust me.
Don't look it up.
Consider it advice, not a warning.