The Fruit Left at 12B

It was the third week of the Hungry Ghost Festival, and the air in the Edificio do Sol was thick with the scent of burning joss paper and the humidity of a brewing storm. I was coming home late from a brutal casino shift, my stomach growling and my patience thin. I passed the door to 12B. Outside, on a small ceramic plate, sat three perfect persimmons and two sticks of incense that had just gone out.

The tenant of 12B had passed away in July under circumstances the management didn't like to discuss. The offerings were likely left by a relative, but I was tired and cynical. I thought, 'The dead don't eat the flesh of the fruit, only the essence.' I took the plate. It felt colder than the hallway air, like it had been sitting in a freezer.

The first bite was delicious—sweet, cold, and strangely filling. But as I finished the second persimmon, a coldness started in the back of my throat that wasn't from the fruit. It was the cold of a draft from a window that isn't there, a void opening up inside my own chest. I felt a sudden, sharp pang of hunger, more intense than I’ve ever felt in my life.

I went to my kitchen and ate a bowl of rice. Still hungry. I ate a tin of sardines, a loaf of bread, then another bowl of rice. Still hungry. Within an hour, I’d cleared my cupboards, my stomach distending painfully, yet my throat felt as dry and hollow as a bamboo pipe. That was when I heard the scratching at my front door—a slow, rhythmic sound like fingernails on dry wood.

I looked through the peephole. The corridor was empty, but the plate I’d taken was back on the floor outside 12B. Only now, the persimmons were gone, and in their place was a single, charred human finger bone tied with a red thread. The thread was still twitching, as if it were part of a nervous system.

I realized the mistake. I hadn't taken the essence of the fruit; I’d taken the invitation. By eating the offering, I’d stepped into the place of the one it was meant for. The hunger wasn't mine—it was the debt of the spirit who had been denied its meal, and now it was feeding through me.

I tried to make an offering of my own, but every time I lit incense, the smoke turned black and curled toward my own mouth, choking me. I could feel something behind me in the apartment—a presence that was nothing but a shadow and a pair of eyes that looked like wet, silver coins. It was waiting for me to finish 'eating' myself.

I spent the night huddled in the corner of my living room, watching my own reflection in the TV screen grow thin and grey, my skin clinging to my ribs. I didn't stop being hungry until the sun rose and the first morning bus ground past below. The presence left, but it left its mark: a row of small, bruise-colored teeth marks around my own navel.

Now, every Ghost Month, I have to leave a full three-course meal outside 12B. If I forget even a side dish, the hunger returns, and I’ll find the charred bone in my own bed. I’ve learned that in Macau, a shortcut is just a longer way to pay a debt that never expires.