I now had a better thought of this little ghost-story project: I don't think I'll mind if there's an audience or not, even if replies are nice to get. It's all in the name of fun, and to flex my writing skills a little more. Besides, I need to write a new story for the Creative Writer's Club.

Here's Tale number one. Please, may I warn you, these tales are entirely fictional! All right, I may say that some of the living mortals in here are true 'cause I met them, but what happened to them here isn't.

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Singapore today is a far cry from the ravaged war-torn country it was not too many years ago. The Japanese invaded Singapore during World War Two and made it their home. However, the British which colonised the island before its invasion drove out the Japanese and won the war in the end.

There was a hardy generation left behind after that war: the elderly of today who survived by means of escape, or roughing out the days of misery.

I knew one man who belonged to this generation. I kept calling him the 'soya sauce uncle', for this old wizened man's bread and butter came from a tiny soya sauce brewery run by him and his two sons, I believe. I haven't visited him in a long time since my mother stopped buying from him. I think he passed away. He was really old.

But while my mother combed meticuously through the clay pots of sauce that lined the entire warehouse, the old uncle would tell me a story.

This is one of his stories.

He was well into two months' ownership of his little warehouse and soya sauce factory when something strange happened one night.

He was brewing well past midnight, preparing stock for Chinese New Year where sales were expected to rise. His sons have gone home to see their children off to school the next morning, so it was up to him to shut down the warehouse for the day till sun rise.

As he pulled down the zinc shutters and locked up the factory, he was aware of a strange noise coming from the large grass field near his factory.

It was footsteps, the sound of gravel shifting coming from behind.

He looked around. The industrial estate his factory was settled in was desolate. Everyone else had locked up and gone home hours ago.

He looked to the field. There was no gravel path.

Then what was that noise?

The footsteps were coming closer, and he noticed something odd: there was the sound of breathing. No, not breathing.

Singing.

Curiosity got the better of the soya sauce uncle and he walked towards the noise: the worn-down dirt path that lined the industrial estate and passed his warehouse in parallel.

When he turned his view down the path, he got a shock.

There was a man marching down the path, softly singing to himself. The small eyes and mouth gave away his nature: he was Japanese. He was dressed in a uniform that looked familiar.

When the Japanese man walked underneath a nearby lamp, the soya sauce uncle immediately knew who this was.

A Japanese soldier.

A World War Two Japanese soldier. A young one too, judging by his looks and the start of a moustache on his upper lip, and his tan cap with a flap at the back and the brass buttons and the lack of bands on his shoulders identified him as a private.

Wait a minute. A World War Two soldier here?

The Japanese soldier stopped singing and halted in his tracks, his eyes fixed onto the Chinese uncle before him.

The soya sauce uncle was terrified. It was those Japanese, those horrid Japanese, that bayoneted and stabbed men like him, Chinese men like him, and killed many of his kinsmen.

Was he violent? Was he going to kill him?

"Eh, uncle," fluent Chinese came from the soldier's mouth, "sorry to disturb you, but do you know where's Fort Canning Hill?"

Fort Canning Hill. That hill where a bloody battle was fought eons ago, where the British forts were.

"It's far from here. What are you doing here, Nippon?"

"My platoon sent me to scout ahead for the place. We're lost. They're waiting over there," the reply was cheery as he pointed down the track, but the uncle knew that it was all flatland from there. No platoon could hide there.

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. So, where's Fort Canning?"

The uncle was silent.

"Uncle, where's Fort-"

"Nippon, you're dead. What are you doing here?"

The soldier seemed aghast at that remark, the brightness in his voice simmered down to a more serious tone.

"I'm not dead, uncle. I'm just lost. Thanks for the help."

With that, the soldier sidestepped the soya sauce uncle and walked on, starting his song once again and marching in beat.

The uncle could not help but notice the bullet hole at the back of the soldier's head.

He disappeared into the night, the footsteps and song dying away.

"What happened, uncle?" I remember asking him.

"I don't know, he was just there, and then gone," the uncle snapped his fingers to emphasize, "and guess what? I met him again!"

The soya sauce uncle was waiting, his warehouse locked and almost ready to go.

But he could not go. He had to see the Jap soldier again.

He pitied the poor soldier, clueless and lost for more than a decade and still searching for the battle.

There came the footsteps and singing again.

Psyching himself up, the uncle stepped onto the dirt path and looked up.

The private was back on his beat, marching on and singing his little tune.

"Hey uncle," the private spoke in Chinese once more, "Nice to see you again! I never really got your directions to Fort Canning. Where is it?"

"Son," the uncle tried a new tactic, "I will tell you where the battle is, only if you listen to me."

He was listening, his small ebon eyes looking at his own.

"You were shot. You were shot in the back of your head while you were searching for Fort Canning. The battle is over. The British have won. You got too lost. Go back home. Go and rest. The war is over."

There was a pause of silence.

The private replied, "No, we haven't lost. The battle has yet to be fought. My gun's ready, I'm ready and so is my platoon once we get there."

"How long have you been searching for Fort Canning?"

"A long long time, uncle. A long long time."

"Was it too long?"

The private nodded his head grimly.

"Take my advice, Nippon. You have served your country. Go and rest. There is no more war. And don't go searching for Fort Canning. It's now a park with historic artifacts and a run-down fortress. Nothing more."

"Nothing more?"

The uncle shook his head.

"Nothing more..." the private repeated, more to himself than to the uncle, "Nothing more..."

"Nothing more," he repeated once more, as he walked past the uncle, walking in his beat once more, his footsteps pounding against non-existent gravel. His words slowly died away.

"Nothing more..."

"I'm glad I finally was able to put him to rest," the uncle told me, "even if he was a Jap. He was young, he was innocent, but his days were short-lived, yet not so. I didn't see him after that."

"It was difficult for you, wasn't it?"

"Oh yes," he replied to the little girl seated next to him outside his warehouse, "considering what the Japanese did to us. But not all Japanese are bad. The war is bad, but not the people. He called me 'uncle' and he was a happy man. He deserved the help, and I'm glad he got it."

And there was nothing more.

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