At first glance, the place looked less like a hotel and more like an old army barrack. Long corridors. Plain walls. Dim lighting. Even climbing the stairs felt familiar in an uncomfortable way — it instantly reminded me of Tekong during NS.

. . .

The moment we entered the room, something felt wrong. Not dirty. Not obviously haunted-looking. Just wrong. The room was unusually large for such a cheap hotel. Too much empty space. That kind of silence where even your own footsteps sound unnaturally loud.

We switched on the TV immediately. Then all the room lights. Nobody suggested turning anything off afterward. That itself already said enough.

. . .

At one point I stepped outside alone for air. The corridor was dim and completely empty. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant humming of old building lights.

And standing there, I suddenly had this overwhelming feeling that something was nearby. Not visible. Not dramatic. Just the strong instinct that I shouldn't stay outside too long.

I went straight back inside and closed the door.

That night, none of us switched off the lights. The TV stayed on until morning. And despite being physically exhausted, sleep never felt deep.

Even finding the hotel entrance was difficult. When we finally entered the compound, we couldn't immediately find the owner — he was sitting somewhere deeper inside the darkness with a few other guests. That alone already felt unsettling.

. . .

After some awkward communication, we were told only two rooms were left. But the rooms were separated far apart. One was located further inside the compound, deeper into the darkness. The other was nearer to a wooden fence near the entrance.

The moment we heard that, both of us made the same decision without discussion.

One room. Together. No point acting brave.

. . .

The room itself barely felt like a proper hotel. Old structure — concrete, wood panels, metal roofing. The kind where every movement creates sound. The TV was a CRT — huge fat back, tiny screen. But it became comforting. Not for watching. Just for noise. Something to push against the silence outside.

. . .

Then we discovered the toilet. To reach it, we had to lower our heads through a small gate-like opening, then step partially outside into darkness before reaching the toilet a few steps away. Beyond that — just wilderness. No proper walls. Just darkness and nature.

Nobody wanted to go alone.

. . .

I was knocked out from exhaustion and didn't hear anything that night. Only the next morning did my riding buddy tell me what happened.

Sometime very late, the electricity tripped. The room went dark. Then the old CRT turned to static — that loud, old-school crackling sound. He woke up, found the switch, restored power, then quickly turned the TV off.

And according to him — the moment the electricity came back on, everything suddenly felt normal again. No more strange atmosphere. No more uneasy feeling. Like whatever had been pressing against the room had decided to leave when the lights returned.

Not threatening. Just strangely still.

. . .

I remember standing there, looking deeper into the compound, when I suddenly felt something I still can't explain.

Familiarity.

Not the kind where you recognise a place from photos online. The uncomfortable kind — where your mind already knows the environment before you've explored it. Even before walking further in, I somehow knew there was another section behind the reception building. I knew the corridor on the left led toward the rooms. At the time I convinced myself it was just because roadside hotels share similar layouts.

. . .

Then, without any footsteps or doors opening, a woman appeared from somewhere deeper inside the compound. She didn't look surprised to see us waiting. No apology. No confusion. She simply asked whether we needed rooms — her voice calm, almost as if she had expected us to arrive.

She showed us a few available rooms. The one nearest to the carpark immediately caught my attention — slightly more expensive, but from the window I had a direct view of my bike below. As a rider, that matters more than room size sometimes. I took it without hesitation.

. . .

The strange feeling became stronger the moment I stepped inside. Again, not fear. The opposite.

Comfort. The room felt familiar in a way that made no sense.

I knew where the switches were before reaching for them. I placed my riding gear down naturally, like I had done it there before. Moving around the room felt automatic. No adjustment period. No "first-time" feeling. Just an overwhelming sense that I had returned somewhere, rather than arrived somewhere new.

. . .

The weirdest part is that nothing paranormal happened that night. No shadows. No strange noises. No sightings. Everything was peaceful. We slept well, woke up normally, and continued our journey the next morning without any issues.

Technically a highway. Speed limit around 110. In reality, it didn't feel like one.

Only two lanes. Long stretches of subtle bends that never seemed to end — not enough to call them corners, just enough to stop you from relaxing. The road kept moving slightly in the dark, forcing your eyes and body to stay constantly alert.

. . .

Then came the dogs. Every few minutes, one would appear from the darkness and sprint directly across the road. Sometimes from the left shoulder. Sometimes from gaps we couldn't see. There were moments we genuinely rolled off the throttle expecting impact. After a while, our pace became slower and slower. Not because we wanted to — because the road was slowly draining confidence from us.

. . .

The scariest part wasn't the darkness. It was the side roads. Small hidden junctions from complete blackness, and every now and then a vehicle emerging without headlights — just a dark shape moving into the highway as if it had always been there.

At some point, we stopped trying to lead. Instead we began following larger vehicles ahead — pick-up trucks, vans, occasionally buses. Using their headlights and pace as a guide through the darkness.

. . .

But that became strange too. No matter how hard we tried to maintain distance, the vehicle in front always slowly pulled away. Not suddenly. Just enough that we could never comfortably keep up. Eventually the vehicle ahead would disappear completely into the dark.

. . .

Then, after some time alone on the road, another vehicle would appear ahead of us. And the cycle would repeat. A new pair of taillights. A new shadow to follow.

Then slowly disappearing again.