A Mosque in the Jungle: Classic Ghost Stories by Othman Wok

By Othman Wok

Years before his political career took off, Othman Wok pioneered the writing of ghost stories and horror fiction in Singapore and Malaysia.

 

Othman Wok left an indelible mark on Singaporean politics and society: signing the Independence of Singapore Agreement 1965, overseeing the construction of Singapore's first large-scale sporting arena, working to advance the quality of social welfare services, developing the Mosque Building Fund, and being (in the words of PM Lee Hsien Loong) "steadfast and unwavering in believing in a multiracial, multi-religious, meritocratic Singapore", among many other accomplishments.

 

In addition, he pioneered the writing of ghost stories and horror fiction in Malay while working as a young reporter for Utusan Melayu and Mustika magazine between 1952 and 1956. These stories were fantastically popular, making him a household name in the Malay-speaking world, years before his political career took off. In fact, these tales may have been the first examples of horror fiction in either Singapore or Malaysia, in any language.

 

A Mosque in the Jungle assembles two dozen of the best stories from his three fiction collections in English: Malayan Horror (1991), The Disused Well (1995) and Unseen Occupants (2006). Curated by award-winning poet and fictionist Ng Yi-Sheng, this book provides an entry point into Othman's fiction, and a window into the work of a "literary genius" (Farouk A. Peru, Malay Mail Online)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Epigram Books
• Release date: Aug 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9789814901710

Book preview

A Mosque in the Jungle

I never believed in ghosts. I had never seen one, however fleetingly, in all my twenty-nine years of life. I considered all those who believe in ghosts, or love telling ghost stories, fools. In the age of the atomic bomb and the hydrogen bomb, how could ghosts exist?

There were friends of mine who really believed all those ghost tales, and could tell you some weird things too. They say that if a person happened to be somewhere he never was before, he must pay obeisance and say Tabik to the guardian spirits before doing anything. Likewise, if a person was going to, say, bathe in some deserted, remote pool or river. If these rites were not adhered to, he would incur the wrath of the guardian spirits and they would possess and do horrible things to him. What nonsense!

No one was a greater believer in the supernatural, and no one loved talking about it more, than Dol. He said that if a person should lose his way in a jungle, the jungle spirit would help and lead this person to its home, which was a mosque. But it would only help the good: those who said, Tabik, datuk nenek. Your grandchild seeks permission to pass.

Well, we had been in the jungle since morning, the twelve of us from the 9th Jungle Company. We had spent the whole day there and we were lost. Where’s that spirit who’s supposed to help us? Where’s that mosque…that place of refuge? All we met at nightfall was a band of communist terrorists. An almost hour-long battle ensued which split our group. When it was all over, I had no idea where Dol and the others were, including Sergeant Junid.

Night had come. I was all alone now, walking aimlessly about, stumbling here and there in such darkness that one could not see the back of one’s hand. I dared not shout for help for fear of attracting wild animals and those terrorists. As I groped my way through the blackness, I kept running against thorns, bumping into branches and tree trunks, and falling over exposed roots. Around me, it was so quiet that even the little creatures one normally hears at night were silent.

I looked up occasionally and saw a star or two twinkling in the sky through gaps in the thick canopy above. I sat down and rested my aching back against the base of a big tree. Soon fear began creeping in. Every so often, I could hear twigs breaking, as if some large animal had stepped on them. Other times, there were dragging sounds like something was creeping and crawling along. Having once seen a nearly five-yard-long python, I shuddered to think how it would feel to have a snake like that coiled around me and crushing me in the darkness.

I resumed my aimless, stumbling, staggering progress through the black jungle. And then suddenly there came a smell that had no business being there, so far removed from civilisation. It was the smell of burning incense…and it was getting stronger and stronger, as if someone were burning it right beside me.

That reminded me of something else Dol used to say. The smell of incense could not mean anything but…

I saw the flickering light of a torch in the pitch darkness. Who could it be? Someone lost? Terrorists? Cautiously, I gripped my STEN gun and held it ready.

The torch came towards me swinging left and right. When it was about twenty yards away, I saw for the first time that the bearer was an old man, hunched, grey-haired, in robes and white cap: a typical pious Muslim. He waved the torch about, apparently giving me the signal to approach him. I moved forward, but had hardly taken ten steps when I plunged waist-deep in water. Only with the light from the torch was I able to see that I had fallen into a