My name is Wong Wing Ken. I'm an Ajarn (a title for a spiritual master in Thai esoteric traditions) from Malaysia.
I was born with what some would call a gift, though for most of my childhood, it felt more like a curse: I see things other people can't—ghosts, spirits, the remnants of lives long gone. In our culture, we call this ability "Yin-Yang eyes." The eyes that peer into both the world of the living and the dead.
I first realized something was different when I was about five or six years old. Every evening, just as the sun was slipping behind the rooftops, a boy my age would sit outside our front gate. He never knocked. He never spoke first. But he'd always be there, waiting. Whenever I spotted him, I'd open the door and sit with him, chatting or playing. But he never stayed long. The moment I turned away, he'd vanish.
Sometimes we played little games—rock, paper, scissors mostly. He never wanted to come inside the house, no matter how many times I invited him. And the toys I brought out for him? He never touched them.
One evening, while we were in the middle of a game, my mother walked out from the kitchen and froze. Her face went pale.
"Who are you talking to?" she asked.
"The boy," I said, confused. "He's right here."
But she saw no one.
That night, she took me to the temple. A spirit medium was summoned through a ritual called fu ji—a form of spirit communication where the medium becomes possessed by a deity.
I don't remember much of the ritual, just a man my mother called "Ji Gong" hopping around, waving a tattered fan. He kept smacking my head with it, then lit a yellow talisman, let it burn halfway, and tossed it into a cup of water. I was forced to drink the ashy mixture.
But it didn't seem to change anything.
The next evening, the boy returned.
But I'd learned my lesson. If I played with him again, my mother would drag me back to Ji Gong for another beating and another foul drink. So, I pretended not to see him.
Eventually, after days—maybe weeks—of being unseen, he stopped coming altogether.
As I grew older, I began to understand what I had seen, and what it meant. The boy wasn't alive. He was a ghost—a spirit caught between worlds. And my vision, my cursed gift, had a name: Yin-Yang eyes.
I never told anyone. Most wouldn't believe me, and those who did would be terrified.
Then, when I turned twenty, I met Khun, the owner of a Thai amulet shop.
For the first time, I confessed my secret.
"Damn, kid! Natural yin-yang eyes? That's rare! I've been practicing for years and still can't open my third eye!"
His reaction stunned me.
"Spiritual sensitivity like yours is perfect for mastering the occult. Ken, ever thought about joining this line of work?"
And just like that, my life changed.
I started working at his shop. Every month, he took me to Thailand, visiting temples, gathering thai amulets—some ancient, some blessed by respected monks—which we brought back to Malaysia to sell.
We traveled all over the country, and through him, I met countless Luang Phors (revered monks) and Ajarns, each with their own wisdom and spiritual power.
Eventually, I took one as my master—an Ajarn who lived deep in the mountains, far from the world, practicing in solitude.
He was powerful. Quiet. Unknown to most, because he never gave interviews, never sought attention. I won't name him here—you wouldn't find him online, even if I did.
I'll never forget my first visit to his mountain hut. He gripped my hand tightly, eyes gleaming, muttering words about my unusual spiritual bones, my rare energy. He insisted—almost demanded—that I become his disciple.
It's been ten years.
I've trained, studied, grown.
Now, I've made a name for myself in Malaysia as Ajarn Ken.
These days, I sell amulets online and occasionally take on spiritual cases—exorcisms, cleansings, investigations. Every case I solve gets documented, rewritten into stories I call [My Supernatural Files].
Some are firsthand accounts, told in my voice. Others are based on witness testimonies, reshaped into third-person narratives. In all stories, I use false names to protect identities. But every one of them is rooted in truth.
Whether or not you believe in ghosts and gods, I only ask for your respect.