J Residence Flat 1208

My landlord made sure we were comfortable signing a lease in a building that was famous for murder. There is a deep cultural fear of ghosts in Hong Kong. Haunted flats (“hung jaak,” in Cantonese) where suicides, murders, or any other form of premature death occurs can provide a ten to twenty percent discount on rent. 

I believe in ghosts, spirits, the supernatural. Too many of my loved ones have had their own experiences with the paranormal— a great aunt strangled by a demon, a friend’s dead dad who became her son’s imaginary friend, a brother who came back with a sixth sense after his second tour in Iraq— but ghosts had never bothered to reveal themselves to me.  

Hong Kong is the third safest country in the world behind Singapore and Japan, so the gruesome double homicide that occurred in the J Residence where we had just signed a thirteen month lease had made the building notorious. On our initial tour of J Residence, we met the doormen who were stationed under the modern chandelier in the dark wood lobby. Four elevators meant little wait time and the amenities all came with a view of the gorgeous Hong Kong Skyline. From the gym, we were treated to the iconic Peak. From the outdoor pool, we bore witness to the International Finance Center which was featured in Batman: The Dark Knight. From the lounge with a full service bar, we beheld The Bank of China. Sure, a little ghost popped up on my house hunting app to warn potential buyers, but I saw an opportunity to save on rent in the world’s most expensive city for real estate. But not before reading about the murders that had occurred on Halloween night seven years ago. I learned that the police arrived on the scene just before a young woman named Seneng slipped unconscious and into death. The British Banker living in a one-bedroom apartment on the thirty-first floor of J Residence had a psychotic break fueled by a week of binging on drugs and alcohol, and called the police on himself for stabbing Seneng multiple times and slitting her throat. Sumarti, another young woman, was found dead with her wrists bound in a suitcase on his terrace. Sumarti had been tortured for three days before she was killed in the same manner as Seneng. Her body had been decomposing in the Hong Kong humidity for five days.

Both women had worked as domestic helpers. Sumarti had arrived in Hong Kong only one month prior to her death. Domestic helpers, most often from southeast Asian countries like Indonesia and the Philippines, work for room and board and a small salary of about $600 USD each month, most of which they send home to their families. 

The published pictures of Seneng and Sumarti show them smiling and in seeming moments of real happiness. Did they go out often or just on special occasions like Halloween? What did they like to drink? I wondered what they enjoyed doing on Sundays, which is the only day of rest for domestic helpers. We might have even been friendly and I would know details about them like their favorite milkshake, or if they were afraid of dogs, or if they went into the water at the beach. I wondered what their goals were, and if they believed in astrology. What were their favorite pizza toppings? 

Our new flat had a high ceiling with plenty of storage, a corner window, and a rain showerhead that could fit two people. We couldn’t afford this luxurious building if it didn’t come with a discount from being haunted plus an extra discount due to the 2019 Hong Kong protests cut short by the pandemic.  

Our old building down the street had two Chinese prostitutes (which is legal in Hong Kong) living on the first floor. Theirs was the only door that had a camera mounted outside. The morning clientele all came in exercise clothes as if they had lied to themselves, and possibly someone at home, that they were going for an early jog. The weeknight clientele came in suits with briefcases or backpacks. Weekend clientele were picked up on Lockhart road where Sumarti and Seneng used to party.

But we all partied on this street. Lockhart road used to be an old port where sailors would dock and go looking for a good time. The port was gone but the good time remained. My favorite karaoke bar was on Lockhart along with a great Mexican place where my partner and I spent many nights salsa dancing.

The killer had paid Sumarti for sex in the past. Sumarti’s dad reported that Sumarti had thought the man wanted to marry her. Men marrying a woman they “sponsor” is not unusual in Hong Kong. I’ve had a drink in one of the bars behind a thick velvet curtain because my partner’s boss married the young Philipina girl he was sponsoring, and that’s where they went to be in public together and avoid catching knowing, judgmental glances. 

Also common is rich women sponsoring men. Although, the men aren’t labeled as prostitutes and to hear them talk about these relationships, they refer to them as “business.”

Seneng also supplemented her income with money earned from prostitution. The media doesn’t report much more about her. The most horrific moments of her life are laid bare, and then the killer gets the remaining minutes of our attention span. 

Our new flat was just two city blocks from our old flat on the same street so I would walk over boxes between my Zoom calls. A roll of toilet paper and a box of kitchen utensils were my first trip. I walked a light box of books over on my second trip passing the neighborhood temple, avoiding the lunch crowd, and wishing my hands weren’t so full so I could stop for a hot pineapple bread from the bakery. Living on the twelfth floor gave me comfort. The double homicide had been committed on the thirty-first floor and ghosts don’t take elevators, right? 

I dumped my load in the empty living room and set to unpacking. Pots and pans above the microwave, french press under the kitchen island. I was deciding where to put the rice cooker when I started to feel the effects of my second coffee of the day. 

But there was no toilet paper in the bathroom. 

My ribcage clung to my heart in fear as I tried to think of a plausible explanation. There had to be one because I remembered struggling to get the toilet paper onto its holder since it was built into the wall at an odd angle. Not one to be bullied, but also not one for confrontation, I quickly left the bathroom without using the toilet, shoved the rice cooker into a corner on the counter, and decided that was enough moving for the day. 

My partner and I settled in excited to have a place big enough to host our friends. We were having another couple over for dinner and board games. They brought their dog, drinks, and enthusiasm for a guaranteed good night in. We planned to do a blind taste test to try and find Hong Kong’s best pizza. I was setting out the dipping sauces and pouring drinks when I asked my partner to get out the napkins. “Where’d you put them?” he asked. We were still working out where everything belonged in the kitchen. I turned around to point him to the right cabinet, but that’s where he was looking. The napkins were gone. Impossible that we could have gone through a whole pack in just three days. We quickly compared notes and neither of us had opened them. We both try to conserve paper and generally clean up with a reusable kitchen towel. First the toilet roll and now the napkins. Was a ghost revealing themself to me and did that ghost like tissue paper? 

We eventually stopped buying napkins since they never lasted long in the house. We decided to coexist with our ghost. We wouldn’t call an exorcist or light sage as long as the ghost didn’t give us any real reason to fear. 

I made sure our apartment had decent feng shui by placing the bed against a wall instead of a window, and putting a succulent in the bathroom. The ghost emanated feminine vibes for reasons I can’t quite explain. Maybe because she wasn’t aggressive. She would often share jokes between my partner and I. He’d ask me where his keys were, I’d say the ghost probably moved them. Or he’d ask me why I didn’t make the bed in the morning, and I’d promise that I did, but the ghost must have taken a nap. 

Could this have been the spirit, or even spirits, of Sumarti and Seneng? Sure, but not naming them kept them at a distance.

I wondered what Sumarti and her murderer talked about on the elevator ride up to the thirty first floor. Not much, I imagine. The British banker was drunk and high on cocaine. Maybe Sumarti was hoping she would be paid even if he couldn’t perform.

The killer took photos and video of all three days he tortured Sumarti.

Residents complained of a dead animal stench in the corridors. 

Seneng had just wanted a bit of fun on Halloween night. 

I can imagine her getting ready with her girlfriends, picking out a Spotify playlist and blasting music, borrowing shoes and making plans for the night. 

She probably had a table with her friends at one of the bars on Lockhart Road. Maybe she had DJ’d there in the past. Did the killer approach her or one of her friends first? Or maybe he cast a wide net and Seneng was the unlucky one.

I wonder if Seneng noticed the smell when she stepped out of the elevators onto the thirty first floor. Did she ignore anything in her gut telling her to turn around and run home?

She must have noticed the scent when she entered the apartment. I can’t imagine the killer being the sort of person who is clean. He may have left out clues to his crimes earlier that week. A knife on the counter, sex toys on the floor, blood splatter on the wall. If Seneng had the chance to scream, someone in the halls would have heard her. But at 3am, residents may have been tucked back into their bedrooms where noise from the hall doesn’t penetrate.

I lived alone in Flat 1208 for a few months while my partner was working in the United States. I instinctively felt nervous at the thought of being alone with spirits, but then, they never broke our bargain and gave me any real reason to fear. 

My local friend came to lunch one day and wouldn’t cross the threshold of the front door until I answered the question of why I was burning incense in the house. Incense are less wasteful and cheaper than candles, but do just as well the job of making your living space smell nice. My friend looked horrified as I explained that I had picked up these incense in a local shop and could she actually read the packaging for me? They smelled great but were so strong that I couldn’t burn them for more than a few minutes.

She demanded that I extinguish them and explained that those particular incense were the ones I saw burning outside temples to attract spirits to offerings. I had been essentially offering my home to spirits. 

She explained that I couldn’t throw away the incense. I had to donate them to a temple and be careful not to touch the walls of my home lest a spirit jump from a wall to my body and possess my soul.

My partner returned and asked why I was leaving tissues all over the house. I reminded him that we stopped buying tissues so we didn’t have any, and that his presence must provoke the ghost because I hadn’t seen any sign of her since he left. I hoped she could find peace with a man in the house. 

I’m unsure what Sumarti and Seneng thought I could accomplish if they had managed to reveal their needs to me, but I do think of them on occasion and wish them peace. 

Author’s Biography

Kimberly Nicole moved from the city of Hong Kong, where east meets west, to the city of Miami, where north meets south. You can find her on Instagram @kimmi_miami about once a week.