The fluorescent lights of Bishan MRT station flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the nearly deserted platform. It was 11:45 PM, and I was another weary office worker trudging through another late-night shift, my tired eyes scanning the empty station. Most people don’t know that Bishan sits atop what was once a massive Chinese cemetery – a history that seems to whisper through the station’s cold, sterile corridors.
The platform felt unnaturally quiet, even for a late-night commute. My footsteps echoed with an unsettling rhythm, each step seeming to bounce off invisible walls. A sudden cold draft swept through the station, completely at odds with Singapore’s typically humid night air. The overhead lights pulsed intermittently, creating a disorienting dance of light and shadow that made my skin crawl.
When the train arrived, it was surprisingly empty – something that felt more ominous than welcoming. As I stepped inside, a reflection in the window caught my eye: an elderly woman in traditional Chinese clothing, her silhouette sharp and clear. I turned quickly, but the seat behind me was completely vacant. The train doors opened and closed at each station, despite no one boarding or leaving, creating a rhythmic, almost mechanical pattern that felt deliberately unnatural.
Between Bishan and Ang Mo Kio stations, the train suddenly stopped. The interior lights began to flicker more aggressively, creating a strobe-like effect that made my head spin. Faintly, almost imperceptibly, the soft notes of traditional Chinese opera music began to play – no source visible, the sound seeming to emerge from the train’s very walls. Multiple reflections of the elderly woman now appeared in different windows, each image slightly more transparent than the last.
As we approached Ang Mo Kio station, I tried to stand, but found myself frozen in place. The elderly woman’s reflection now stood directly behind me, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that froze my very soul. She seemed to be communicating something – a warning, a memory, a connection to this place that transcended the living world. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.
The train doors suddenly burst open at Ang Mo Kio station. I stumbled out, my heart racing, looking back to see the train completely empty. Security footage later reviewed would show nothing unusual – just an empty train arriving and departing. Yet the encounter felt devastatingly real, a glimpse into a world that exists just beyond our normal perception.
In the days that followed, I discovered I wasn’t alone. Other late-night commuters had reported similar experiences – fleeting reflections, unexplained music, and an overwhelming sense of a presence that defied explanation. Bishan’s history as a former cemetery seemed to bleed into the present, a reminder that some boundaries are more permeable than we dare to acknowledge.
Horror Level:
4 / 5
Categories: Ghost Stories, Ghost Stories, Public Transport Hauntings, Singapore Supernatural, Urban Legends
Tags: bishan ghost, chinese cemetery ghost, mrt haunting, night shift horror, Singapore ghost stories, singapore urban legends, train station supernatural
Religion: Chinese
Country of Origin: Singapore
Topic: Public Transport Ghost Stories
Ethnicity: Chinese
