The Shadows of Old Changi Hospital
As narrated by Arif Rahman, 38, Tampines, Singapore
I still remember the chill that ran down my spine as I stood at the entrance of Old Changi Hospital. This wasn’t my first venture into a haunted location; my friends and I were seasoned paranormal investigators—or at least we thought we were. But nothing, nothing, prepared us for what we encountered that night.
The hospital, shrouded in mist and an eerie silence, loomed like a ghostly sentinel. Built during British rule, it had served many purposes over the decades: a military hospital, a prison, and most infamously, a torture chamber during the Japanese Occupation. Locals whispered tales of restless spirits, but I brushed them off as just that—stories.
There were four of us that night: myself, Siti, Marcus, and Vijay. Armed with cameras, EMF meters, and a hefty dose of skepticism, we entered the decaying building. The air was damp and heavy, each step echoing like a drumbeat against the cracked walls. Siti was the first to notice the faint sound of marching. “Did you hear that?” she whispered. I strained my ears and caught it too—steady, rhythmic footsteps, faint yet unmistakable.
We followed the sound to the second floor, where the marching abruptly stopped. Instead, the air was pierced by a faint, agonized scream. Marcus shuddered visibly, muttering, “It’s just the wind.” But we all knew better—there was no breeze, no windows open.
Curiosity pulled us further in, to the basement. Marcus, ever the skeptic, volunteered to go alone, insisting it was probably just echoes from the upper floors. We waited at the top of the stairs, watching his flashlight beam bounce against the damp walls.
Minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. “Should we check on him?” Vijay asked, concern shadowing his face. Before we could decide, Marcus’s bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence. We bolted down the stairs to find him collapsed on the floor, his flashlight spinning lazily, casting unsettling shadows.
His face was pale, his body trembling. “What happened?” Siti urged, shaking him gently. Marcus’s eyes opened briefly, wild with terror. He muttered something under his breath—words I will never forget.
“He’s here. The man with no soul. The screams—the screams—they’re real.”
It took all of us to drag Marcus out of the basement. Once we were safely outside, he came to but refused to speak. The only thing he managed to say was, “I saw him.”
Siti and Vijay tried to rationalize it: sleep deprivation, stress, maybe even hallucinations. But I knew Marcus better than anyone. He wasn’t one to imagine things.
Weeks later, I found myself back at Old Changi, alone this time, determined to confront whatever haunted my friend. It was foolish, I know. The basement felt colder than before, the air heavier. I set up my recorder, and as I spoke, I heard it—a faint voice whispering, “Leave. You do not belong.”
I turned, and there he was—a shadowy figure in the corner. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, yet filled with unspeakable pain. Before I could react, he vanished, leaving behind a chilling echo of a scream.
I don’t investigate the paranormal anymore. Some doors are better left closed. As for Old Changi Hospital, it remains a place of unanswered questions and restless spirits, where shadows hold stories of torment and pain.
If you ever visit, remember this: not all who enter come out the same.
