The Ghost Festival Mix-Up

It all started with a pineapple tart.

Twelve-year-old Mei had been this close to perfecting her ghost offering. She’d spent an entire afternoon folding red paper joss money just like her grandmother showed her, arranging oranges in a neat pyramid, and placing three steaming cups of Oolong tea on the little folding table at the edge of their HDB flat’s corridor. Even the incense sticks stood at attention, their smoky tips curling like sleepy dragons.

And then—crunch—she dropped her favorite pineapple tart right on the pavement.

“No, no, no!” she hissed, scooping it up. The tart was dusty, one corner squished. “It’s supposed to be perfect! Grandma said the spirits appreciate effort!”

She glanced around. No one was watching. Not her older brother, Jason, who was too busy texting in his room. Not her mother, who was stir-frying garlic chives in the kitchen. And definitely not the sky, which had turned the soft purple of ripe mangosteens as dusk settled over the neighborhood.

Mei sighed. “Well… it’s still a tart. Spirits aren’t that picky, right?”

She placed the slightly damaged pastry on the offering tray, bowed three times (two would be lazy, four would be showing off), and whispered, “Dear wandering spirits, please enjoy this humble offering. May you rest in peace and not haunt my homework.”

Then she turned and went inside.

She did not see the shimmer in the air above the tray.
She did not hear the soft pop like a bubble of steam rising from a pot of rice.
And she most certainly did not notice the small, translucent man in a faded 1970s floral shirt and plaid shorts suddenly appear, blinking at the pineapple tart like it was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in fifty years.

“Ooooh,” said the man, picking up the tart with ghostly fingers. “Pineapple! My favorite! Not even my wife made them this golden. Bless this kind child!”

He dusted himself off (though he didn’t need to), straightened his crooked spectacles, and looked around.

“Now,” he said, beaming. “Where did that generous soul go?”

And without a second thought, Ah-Boh, former insurance salesman and amateur lion dance drummer (1973–1978), began floating after Mei’s apartment door like a very polite, slightly confused balloon.

The next morning, Mei nearly screamed when she opened the bathroom door and found a see-through man brushing his teeth with a nonexistent toothbrush.

“Good morning!” said Ah-Boh cheerfully, spitting spectral foam into the sink. “You have excellent water pressure, by the way. In the afterlife, we mostly get mist.”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?!” Mei shrieked, slamming the door.

“I was invited!” Ah-Boh called through the wood. “You left an offering! I assumed it was open house!”

“That was for all spirits! Not—you specifically!”

“Well, I was the only one who liked pineapple tarts,” he said, sounding slightly hurt. “The others said they preferred mooncakes. Honestly, such snobs.”

Mei cracked the door. “You… you have to go back.”

Ah-Boh folded his arms. “I can’t. The veil’s still up. I’m legally allowed to roam until the end of Ghost Month. And technically,” he added, tapping his temple, “you named me in your blessing. ‘Kind child.’ That’s a spiritual contract.”

Mei groaned. “I said that to all the spirits!”

“Then you should be more specific next time,” Ah-Boh said wisely. “Like my wife always said: vague intentions lead to haunted refrigerators.”

So began Mei’s most spirited week ever.

At school, Ah-Boh floated behind her like a very talkative shadow.

“Is that your new boyfriend?” her best friend, Lin, whispered during math class. “He’s… see-through.”

“No! He’s my… cousin! From Canada! With a rare skin condition!”

Ah-Boh waved. “Hello, Lin! I love your hair clip! Reminds me of my niece’s bar mitzvah!”

At lunch, he tried to eat a chicken rice packet. “Mmm. So flavorful… and yet, I taste nothing. Classic afterlife problem.”

“You can’t eat mortal food!” Mei hissed, hiding him behind a potted palm.

“Then why do you leave offerings?” Ah-Boh asked, genuinely curious.

“To be respectful! Not so you can snack!”

“Respect is delicious,” Ah-Boh said, sighing. “But so underrated.”

By the third day, Mei was exhausted. Ah-Boh had:

• Tried to join the school choir (“My range is ethereal!”)
• Scared the math teacher by correcting her on long division (“In my day, we carried the one with pride!”)
• Attempted to use the elevator (“It’s so slow. In 1976, I could’ve climbed six floors during this wait.”)

And worst of all—he’d started making friends.

At the hawker center, he struck up a conversation with a spirit hovering near the bak kut teh stall. “Ah! You were in the 1969 National Calligraphy Competition! I knew your aura looked familiar!”

“Ah-Boh,” Mei whispered, tugging his sleeve (which went right through him), “we’re supposed to be hiding!”

“Why?” he asked. “Everyone’s so lonely. Don’t you see? This month isn’t just about fear. It’s about connection. We ghosts miss people. And people miss us. That’s why you leave food. That’s why you burn paper iPhones now—very thoughtful, by the way.”

Mei paused. She hadn’t thought of it like that.

That night, she found Ah-Boh sitting on the fire escape, gazing at the moon.

“You know,” he said softly, “I wasn’t a bad man. Just… busy. Sold insurance, missed my daughter’s dance recitals, forgot my wife’s birthday three years in a row. When I passed, I thought, Well, that’s that. But now? I get to see the world again. Hear laughter. Smell durian.” He sniffed the air dreamily. “Worth the existential crisis.”

Mei sat beside him. “Do you… want to go home?”

Ah-Boh smiled. “I am home. Just not the one with walls.”

The final test came during the Temple Festival.

Lanterns glowed like floating fireflies. Drums pounded. The lion dance troupe leapt and spun, their golden heads snapping at the air. Families bowed before the altar, leaving offerings of fruit, tea, and tiny paper houses with Wi-Fi symbols drawn on them.

And then—disaster.

Ah-Boh, caught up in the rhythm, jumped into the middle of the dance floor and started drumming on an invisible set.

“Hup! Hup! Ha! Come on, team! Left foot this time! You’re favoring your right!”

The drummers froze. The lion’s head wobbled in confusion.

A temple elder gasped. “A spirit is interfering with the ritual!”

Panic rippled through the crowd. Children pointed. Adults clutched their joss sticks like weapons.

Mei’s heart pounded. This was it. The supernatural scandal of the century. Her family would be banished from the festival committee. Forever.

But then—Ah-Boh stopped.

He bowed deeply to the drummers. “My apologies. Got carried away. Just… missed the beat, you know? In life, I played for the Happy Fortune Lion Troupe. We came in third at the 1977 Lunar New Year Parade.”

One of the older drummers stepped forward. “Wait… Ah-Boh Lau? From Toa Payoh?”

Ah-Boh blinked. “You… know me?”

“My uncle played bass drum with you! Said you were the only one who remembered the secret rhythm—the one that makes the lion sneeze!”

A slow smile spread across Ah-Boh’s face. “That was my composition!”

The elder cleared his throat. “Well. If he’s a legendary ghost… perhaps we can make an exception.”

And so, for the final dance, Ah-Boh stood at the edge of the stage, waving his arms like a spectral conductor, humming the old tune.

And when the lion sneezed—achoo!—sending streamers flying, the whole crowd laughed.

Even the spirits.

On the last night of Ghost Month, Mei placed a fresh offering on the corridor table.

This time, it was two pineapple tarts. Perfectly shaped.

Ah-Boh appeared, mist rising gently from his shoulders.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

“I wanted to,” Mei said. “And… I’m sorry I didn’t understand at first.”

Ah-Boh patted her shoulder—his hand passed through, but she felt it, like a warm breeze.

“Thank you,” he said. “For seeing me. For listening. For not calling an exorcist.”

She grinned. “Next year, I’ll leave a whole box.”

He laughed, his form beginning to glow. “Next year, I’ll try not to haunt your science project.”

And with a soft pop, like a bubble of steam rising from a pot of rice, Ah-Boh was gone.

But as Mei turned to go inside, she thought she heard a faint drumbeat in the wind.

And on the offering tray, one of the pineapple tarts was missing.

The End.

For every child who’s ever dropped a tart, misunderstood a tradition, or accidentally made a friend from beyond the veil.

Because sometimes, the most unexpected connections are the ones that stay with us the longest—even if they’re just a little… transparent.