A Cambodian Ghost Story

Squilch. Munch.

I stood in front of a tiny hut made of wooden panels and palm mats raised atop wooden stilts. The makeshift window to the hut’s left was made of the same material and propped open with a small stick, just a smidge. I looked at the door-less entrance and with the dim light of the waning moon, I was able to see a pair of calloused, dirty feet laying limply on the ground.

Cambodian (Khmer) Background

When I was little, there was a story that got passed around the neighborhood. It was a ghost story to scare little Khmer children to not stay out past dark.

A little background about me. I’m Cambodian and was born in America, and very proud of the fact that I’m a first generation Cambodian-American. I was raised in a fairly decent-sized city in California and was born in the 90s’ where going outside was more fun than staying inside.

The low-income duplex community I grew up in was mostly populated with Cambodian immigrant families with a smaller population of Vietnamese families. Due to the shared background, most families were close-knit and friendly with one another, exposing me to a great many friends. So, it’s not a surprise that I would pick up a few scary stories here and there.

Khmer folk are very superstitious people.

A lot of it is because Southeast Asia is one of the most haunted parts of the world. I grew up with a lot of scary stories, either watching old Asian flicks with my mom or hearing passed-down tales within my circle of friends. There are many folktales in Cambodia that have been passed down via word of mouth from the older generation to ours, and one of the most common is the legend of the Ahp.

They See Me

As I took a step towards the few thatch-plank stairs that led to the hut’s opening, I heard the pitter patter of running footsteps and childish chatter to my right. I looked over at the dirt road and saw three children: a girl and two boys. The girl was in a baggy blouse, clearly a hand-me-down wearing a brown sarong - an ankle length skirt commonly worn by Khmer women - covered in a yellow, floral pattern. The two boys were shirtless and were clothed in but khaki cargo shorts. They were all wearing flip-flops and cared not for the dirt that kicked up and was matted to their dark brown skin. They were playing some version of tag and judging by their patterns of scampering, the little girl must have the misfortune of being ‘it’.

Suddenly and without warning, the girl stopped and stared at me.

Her face considerably paled and she shakily lifted her arms and pointed in my direction.

The other two boys looked at me as well, their jaws dropping.

An ear piercing scream erupted from the girl’s throat. The boys tripped over their own feet, bolting in every direction away from me as though their life depended on it.

...That was odd.

Why This Story?

I remember a couple of girls that lived in the very corner of the block, a house that had a very wide front yard lined with rose bushes. We used to frolic around the yard making up games to play and stories to tell. We loved talking about scary stories; curses, supernatural, morbid superstitions and the like.

There was something about the unknown that had always excited us. Thrilled us even.

We’d sometimes make up our own horror stories, sometimes with accompanying games. I loved regaling them with scary stories that I’ve collectively memorized over time.

And of course, they had some of their own…

This particular one resonated with me most, because of the intrigue and impossibility behind it all.

A traditional story of monks, ancient shamans, curses, and… floating heads?

Exhale

I ascended up the unsurprisingly rickety stairs that led up to the entrance of the hut.

Sluuuurp.

I stood in front of the handmade house, peering in, and as I adjusted to the darkness I found my eyes tracing the endlessly long, black tresses flowing in chaotic patterns, like black ink spilled on cut wood. Here and there, strands and locks of hair twitched and relaxed, drawing my eyes along the source of the movement. I followed the movement of the hair and froze.

Squelch. Crunch.

The hair led up to a man’s face wearing an expression that remains forever seared upon my mind. His dark, almond-shaped eyes bulged, mouth open and gasping for breath, his greying skin speckled with blood. I followed the blood and saw her.

Attached to the flowing black hair was a woman’s face, her mouth chewing gobbets of flesh stuck in her bloodied teeth. And just below that face was a very long neck, and instead of a body, entrails, tissues, and just barely hidden by her long hair was the grotesque sight of a beating heart.

The source of the flowing hair lay upon a woman’s head which held no body, instead attached to an elongated neck that ended with scraps of torn, grey skin. Ropes of glistening, red entrails and pulsing veins swayed to and fro as the head bobbed in the air from which hung purple and pink bulges which I can only imagine were organs unidentifiable to my untrained eye. One organ beat with a recognizable rhythm from behind the locks of jet-black hair; the heart.

I exhaled a shallow, shuddering breath.

Ahp

There’s many variations of the tale of Ahp, but I’ll retell the oral tradition that was passed down to myself:

One, a much more spiritual take on ahp, was of a monk who found her in his fig tree and feeling sorry for it, he prayed and prayed for its salvation until it passed on.

Another variation is about a shaman who placed a curse on a young woman so that every night she would detach her head from her body to wander along her village forever hungry and petrifying those that were unfortunate enough to cross her path. Every morning, however, she’d attach herself back to her body, forgetting the night before, and continued on normally as a regular woman.

A chilling take on an Ahp is that its common prey is women during labor. Attracted to the scent of blood, Ahps are known to love the placenta from the newborn and the best way to protect the birthing of a newborn is to plant thorny bushes around the birthing house and toss the placenta deep into the jungle.

This is a little far-fetched, but another story I remember was that Ahp is a conscious monster that depends on the next generation to keep it alive. I’ll reiterate it. Before an Ahp dies, she would pick a blood-related female successor. In the Ahp’s last night, they would force the successor to drink a drop of their blood, ensuring that it lives on.

Another myth I’ve heard about Ahp is that If you plant a banana tree in your backyard, there’s a good chance an Ahp will try to occupy it. Once it has made a home there, you’ll forever be haunted by its animalistic snarling and haunting image.

The Taste of Iron

The head stopped bobbing. The man continued to convulse on the ground, choking and fighting through his last breaths.

Slowly, her head rotated to face mine, her long hair receding as her head raised from the ground, entrails following her.

I stared into the white of her eyes.

Bits and pieces of what I assume to be the man’s internal organs stuck to her cheek, lips, and tangled in her hair. Inhumanly long fangs overlaid her bottom lip. Her mouth twisted and a guttural, feline snarl escaped her lips.

With blistering speed, the Ahp rushed at her.

...

Her eyes snapped open and she found herself staring into the morning dew. She sat up and looked around until she saw the sun rising from the east. She stood up and began to wander around the jungle, trying to find her way home ...all the while wondering why there’s the taste of iron in her mouth.

Yours truly,

Narady