The oppressive humidity of a typical August evening in Singapore clung to the skin like a damp cloth. Recruit Jason Tan, fresh out of polytechnic, had just begun his National Service at Keat Hong Army Camp. Despite the modern updates to the camp facilities, certain areas still retained an unsettling, eerie atmosphere. Among the recruits, Keat Hong Camp was notorious—not just for its tough training but also for the strange tales that circulated within the camp.
Tan was assigned to Platoon 3, and his section was housed in one of the older bunks, a relic from years gone by. The bunks were arranged in two neat rows, with each recruit allotted a locker beside their bed to store their belongings. Yet, there was one locker in the farthest corner that everyone seemed to avoid. The metal was corroded, and the hinges were barely functional, making it nearly impossible to open or close without a struggle. It let out a high-pitched shriek whenever someone tried to pry it open, a sound that echoed through the room, sending a shiver down the spine of anyone who heard it.
From the moment Tan entered the bunks, he felt there was something peculiar about this locker, as if it harboured a presence of its own. His section commander quickly noticed him eyeing it and warned, “Best leave that locker alone, Tan. It’s been like that for as long as anyone can remember. No one uses it, and it’s better that way.”
Like many new recruits, Tan was somewhat superstitious. He’d heard stories of
haunted army camps, of ghostly apparitions and inexplicable events, but he hadn’t paid much attention to them—until now. There was something deeply unsettling about the locker that made him steer clear of it.
For the first few weeks, life in the camp followed a routine. Tan spent his days in training, returning to the barracks each night exhausted. But as time went on, strange things began to happen.
Late one night, as Tan lay in his bunk trying to sleep, he heard a faint creaking noise coming from the corner of the room. Initially, he dismissed it as the old building settling, but the sound grew louder—a metallic groan followed by a soft click. Tan’s heart began to race as he realised the noise was coming from the old locker.
He sat up in bed, staring at it in the dim light. The door was slightly ajar, swaying gently as if nudged by an unseen hand. There was no breeze, no draft that could have caused it to open. Yet there it was, moving ever so slightly, as though something—or someone—was trying to push it open from within.
But it wasn’t just the creaking door that sent a chill down Tan’s spine. The next morning, as he walked past the locker, something inside caught his eye. Peering closer, he saw what looked like long strands of hair—dark and shiny, coiled at the bottom of the locker. His blood ran cold. None of the recruits had hair that long; everyone had undergone the mandatory buzz cut when they first arrived.
Word spread quickly through the platoon. Some recruits were terrified, refusing to go near the locker. Others tried to dismiss it as a joke, though their nervous laughter betrayed their fear. The mystery deepened when the locker, despite being left untouched, would sometimes open on its own, creaking loudly as if something inside was desperate to escape.
One night, Tan decided to stay up and keep watch. He needed answers. The barracks were silent, save for the occasional snores of sleeping recruits. Tan’s eyes were fixed on the locker, his pulse quickening with every passing minute.
At precisely 3 a.m., the locker door began to move. Tan’s heart pounded in his chest. The door creaked open slowly, and as it did, a shadowy figure started to materialise in the corner of the room. It was faint at first, almost translucent, but gradually it became more distinct—a figure of a woman, her long hair cascading down her shoulders, obscuring her face.
Tan wanted to scream, to alert the others, but he was frozen in place. The figure drifted towards the locker, her movements slow and deliberate. She reached inside, her ghostly fingers brushing against the strands of hair. The figure lingered for a moment longer before fading away, leaving Tan trembling in his bunk.
The next day, Tan couldn’t shake the image of the ghostly woman from his mind, and the sight of her shadowy figure replayed every time he closed his eyes. The unease gnawed at him, making it impossible to focus during training. The other recruits noticed his distraction, but no one dared ask about it—everyone knew that the locker was a topic best left undisturbed. Despite their silence, Tan needed answers.
Over the following days, he discreetly began asking around, hoping to piece together the history behind the mysterious locker. Most of the recruits shrugged off his questions, some offering vague rumours while others warned him to drop the subject. It wasn’t until a week later that Tan’s curiosity drew the attention of the company sergeant major, a grizzled veteran who had seen countless batches of recruits come and go.
One evening, after lights out, the CSM caught Tan’s eye and subtly gestured for him to step outside the barracks. It wasn’t unusual for the CSM to take a smoke break after the day’s drills, but this time there was a different air about him—an unspoken invitation that Tan couldn’t refuse. The two of them quietly made their way to a yellow box near a dimly lit corridor, the thick, humid night pressing down on them like a heavy blanket. The air was dense, the stillness broken only by the distant hum of insects and the occasional rustle of leaves.
As they stood there, the CSM reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his weathered face, casting deep shadows that seemed to etch the years of his service into sharp relief. His eyes, dark and penetrating, held a depth of understanding that went beyond the usual concerns of military life—there was something more, something unspoken that Tan could sense.
The CSM took a long drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing red in the darkness. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling lazily in the humid air before dissipating into the night. Then, without turning to face Tan directly, he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. It was as if he feared that even the night itself might be listening, that the very shadows could betray their conversation to an unseen presence.
“There’s a story about that locker,” the CSM began, his tone serious and measured.
“This place has seen more than just drills and training over the years. A long time ago, there was a recruit here—young, full of hope, like all of you when you first arrived. He was engaged to be married. His fiancée was the love of his life, and she was devoted to him. Every weekend, without fail, she would travel all the way here to wait for him outside the camp gates. The other recruits would often see her standing there, rain or shine, always with the same gentle smile, waiting for him to book out.”
The CSM paused, his gaze distant as if recalling memories that stretched far beyond the mundane routine of military life. “It became a familiar sight—her presence at the gates, a small comfort for those who watched from afar, knowing that someone could be so dedicated. But then one weekend, she didn’t show up. The recruit went out to find her, expecting her usual spot by the gates, but she wasn’t there. Days turned into weeks, and still, she didn’t return. No one knew what had happened to her.”
Tan listened intently, his mind racing with questions. He could almost picture the scene in his head—the anxious recruit searching for the woman he loved, the growing worry that gnawed at him with each passing day.
“People say the recruit was never the same after that,” the CSM continued, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. “He was a shadow of the man he once was. The love and joy that had once filled him seemed drained away, replaced by a deep emptiness. He started withdrawing from his fellow recruits, becoming increasingly obsessed with finding out what had happened to his fiancée. He wrote letters, made calls, and even took leave to search for her, but all his efforts came up empty.”
The CSM’s voice took on a darker, more sombre tone as he reached the heart of the story. “One night, after months of silence from her, they found him dead in that very corner where the locker now stands. The official report chalked it up to a training mishap—something about an accidental fall. But those who knew him had their doubts. Rumours spread like wildfire. Some said she wanted to break off the engagement and he couldn’t handle the idea of living without her, so he took his own life in despair. Others whispered that something far more sinister had occurred—perhaps he couldn’t accept losing her, and in a moment of madness, took her life. They say the guilt became unbearable, and in the end, he saw no way out but to follow her into the void.”
The CSM’s eyes were fixed on the ground as he spoke, his voice barely above a murmur, as if reluctant to give life to the story’s chilling conclusion. “When they found his body, there were strands of long, dark hair clutched tightly in his hand—hair that didn’t belong to any of the recruits. No one could explain it. Every man in that camp had the same standard buzz cut. Where did it come from? Some said it was hers—the last remnant of a lost love, or perhaps a haunting reminder of a life taken in rage.”
Tan’s skin prickled as the CSM recounted the tale, each word sinking deeper into the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t shake the image of the ghostly woman who had appeared in his barracks—the way her long hair draped over her obscured face. Could it be her hair that the recruit had held onto in his final moments, a last desperate grasp at the love he’d lost or destroyed?
The CSM’s voice grew softer, almost as if he was sharing a secret with the night itself. “Ever since then, strange things have been happening in that corner. Some recruits claim they hear whispers late at night—soft, mournful, like someone searching for what they’ve lost. Others swear they’ve seen a shadowy figure standing by the locker, drifting slowly as if waiting for someone who never comes. And every now and then, when the lights are out, the locker creaks open on its own, as if something—or someone—is trying to search for something inside.”
Tan shivered, the cool night air suddenly feeling far more oppressive. The story was no longer just a tragic tale passed around to spook recruits—it felt like the key to the inexplicable events that had plagued his nights. The ghostly woman wasn’t a figment of the imagination; she was tied to the very tragedy that had unfolded in that cursed corner of the barracks. Her presence wasn’t random—it was a link to something that had gone horribly wrong, an unresolved chapter that continued to haunt those who dared to dwell near her resting place.
The CSM placed a firm hand on Tan’s shoulder, grounding him back to reality. The weight of that touch brought Tan back from the edge of the unknown, reminding him that he was still part of the living world. “You’re not the first to ask about this, and you won’t be the last,” the CSM said, his voice carrying both warning and understanding. “But remember this: some things are better left alone. Whatever happened between those two, whatever binds her to that locker, it’s not something we’re meant to understand—or change. It’s best to keep your distance and let her be. She’s searching for something—or someone—but it’s not for us to meddle.”