Nguyen_H_N

No one knows exactly when, but "Ma Lon - The Ghost Can Ritual" has long become a familiar game passed down through generations of children in the neighborhood, whispered from one group of kids to the next.
On summer nights when the power goes out, children sneak out of their homes, gathering in the dimly lit streets to catch the cool breeze. They share spine-chilling stories they’ve heard from older kids—tales that grow more twisted with each retelling.
And among all the ghost stories, the one they love the most—the one they never get tired of hearing—is the legend of the "Ma Lon" game.
Who would believe it? On the first moonless night of the month, when the clock strikes midnight and the darkness spreads thick like ink, all it takes is an empty can, three sticks of incense, and a few coconut candies to summon a restless spirit. A soul that once lived in this very neighborhood—trapped, unable to move on—will enter the can…
And then, the game of tag begins.

Ma lon - The Ghost Can Ritual

There was no longer an "Old Street" or "Upper Street." The entire residential area was flattened and replaced by a colossal 49-story high-rise, part of the city's most luxurious urban district.

With no old residents left to recount the tale, no one truly knew the chilling truth. Only vague rumors remained, passed down as ghost stories to scare children into behaving.

Though many dismissed the legend as mere superstition, it had become tradition for those living there to light incense and offer prayers to the lost souls of children who still wandered on moonless nights. Especially in a particular apartment—the very spot where the bodies were once found.

Rumor had it that strange things often plagued the residents of the building, particularly those living in apartments stacked vertically above that cursed spot. And none more so than apartment 12A06—where I currently live.

The developers had tried to disguise the 13th floor by labeling it 12A, but that didn't change its true nature. 12A was still 13. Simple as that.

In a high-rise, people tend to keep to themselves. Neighbors rarely interact beyond polite nods in the hallway.

However, whenever someone found out I lived in 12A06, their attitude changed. They always asked, with unsettling curiosity, if I had experienced anything… unusual.

At first, I casually mentioned that I had trouble sleeping, thanks to neighborhood kids giggling and playing a noisy game of "kick the can" in the hallways every night. Whenever I got fed up and stormed out to scold them, they had already disappeared, too quick to catch in the act.

I tried bringing it up with other parents, but none admitted their kids were the culprits. I even went to building security, demanding they check the surveillance footage, but they refused to cooperate.

Arguments flared, fingers were pointed, and somehow, I ended up being the bad guy. If anything, it felt like my neighbors were encouraging their kids to be even more mischievous.

One morning, I opened my door to find a pile of ash dumped right at my doorstep. I had no idea when or how it got there. Cleaning it up made me late for work. Worse still, the stench was sickening—whatever was mixed in that ash was utterly foul.

Realizing I was dealing with inconsiderate, petty people, I gave up on demanding fairness. Who knew what underhanded tricks they might pull next?

I decided then and there—I'd sell the place and move.

From that point on, whenever anyone asked if living in 12A06 was strange, I always answered with a smile:

"It's just like any other apartment. I wake up feeling happy, healthy, and lucky every morning. Nothing unusual at all."

Some people looked skeptical, but no one pressed further.

Eventually, I found a buyer—a lovely little family of three: a couple with a polite, well-mannered daughter around ten or eleven years old. They seemed kind, deeply in love, and genuinely happy.

I spent an entire week writing down every precaution they should take while living in 12A06, then left the notebook somewhere easy to find, hoping they would follow my advice.

At the very top of the list, I wrote:

Never leave an empty can inside the apartment.

Chap 12: The Game Continues