The Girl Inside the Convenience Store ATM: Excerpt from Ku Ling's Novel 'Don't Forget, I'm Waiting for You Over There' (1)

At the beginning of every month, I go to a convenience store ATM to withdraw money—exactly 25,000 yen, my monthly pension and living expenses. I live frugally, never buying bento boxes over 100 yen, but such cheap options are disappearing. When available, the portions are too small to satisfy. Buffet-style restaurants don’t label prices, so it’s easy to accidentally exceed my budget. Recently, I found a shop still selling a 95-yen bento—like discovering treasure—and now I visit almost daily (on alternate days, I eat dry noodles with side dishes, staying within budget).

One day, as I operated the ATM on autopilot, the screen suddenly went blank. My first thought: a system crash. Then I heard a woman’s voice: “Can you transfer 100 yen to me?”

I turned, assuming someone was behind me, but the store was empty except for a clerk focused on paperwork. Was my tinnitus turning into hallucinations?

“Just 100 yen, please.”

This time, I realized the voice came from the ATM. A prank? A hacker? If it were a skilled hacker, they’d drain my account, not ask for 100 yen. If a prank, it lacked effect.

With the screen dead, I turned to call the clerk—until the voice returned: “I really need 100 yen. Please help me.”

The voice sounded pitiful. Fine, I’ll play along. I leaned close and whispered, “Who are you? Why ask me for money?”

“I’m… trapped inside here. Without 100 yen, I’ll… vanish into nothingness.”

“Vanish into nothingness”? This isn’t a crematorium. Who could trap a person inside an ATM? There’s no space!

“How did you get in? Who put you there?” I swallowed hard, intrigued. As a retiree, I had time to indulge this.

“It’s complicated. I can’t explain quickly. Just transfer 100 yen, please.”

“Fine.” Losing the cost of a bento was bearable. Let’s see where this goes.

The blank screen abruptly jumped to the transfer menu. Bank code “000”—a bank I’d never heard of. Account number: 0123456789. Ridiculous. Still, I entered 100 yen, confirmed, and after the ATM warned me it was an external transfer, confirmed again.

It asked if I wanted a receipt. Normally, I’d decline, but curiosity won. I chose “yes.”

The ATM slowly printed a slip. No transaction details—just handwritten words: “Thank you for saving my life.”

I dropped the paper in shock, frozen. A nearby woman gave me a strange look. I picked it up: delicate, feminine handwriting.

“You… are really in there? Who are you? Why hide in an ATM?” I whispered, voice fading. More customers had entered. If they saw me talking to an ATM, they’d think I was senile.

“It’s not my body—only my soul.”

Goosebumps erupted. So it’s a ghost? In this day and age, ghosts haunt ATMs? But shouldn’t ghosts use spirit money?

“This isn’t where I belong,” the voice continued. “The god who governs ATMs demands I send 100 yen daily to stay here. Otherwise, I’ll… vanish.”

In my 60s, I’ve seen much. I know Hinduism assigns gods to everything, but this is Taiwan. What god governs ATMs? I asked quietly.

“The God of Wealth.”

Of course! Money-related—must be the God of Wealth. Even demanding 100 yen? Is the God of Wealth struggling financially, taking side gigs? Are ghosts living in every ATM? But spiritual matters are beyond mortal comprehension.

“Why did the God of Wealth imprison you?”

“He didn’t. I… the 100 yen is like rent.”

Even more bizarre. A female ghost avoids the afterlife to live in an ATM, paying rent to the God of Wealth? Absurd.

I wanted to ask more, but a queue formed. I left, pretending nothing happened. The next customer asked, “Are ATMs voice-controlled now?”

I took the thank-you note, bought a medium hot coffee, and sat outside, racking my brain. Conclusion: I hallucinated—mental breakdown or brain disease. But the note? It’s real.

I decided to consult my cousin, who used to give spiritual readings at a temple. He might understand. Otherwise, another sleepless night—my insomnia has lasted days.

“That girl… the ghost has unresolved grievances tied to this ATM. She can’t move on until it’s resolved. But convenience stores have too much human energy—unsuitable for ghosts. The God of Wealth protects her, and the 100 yen is symbolic protection money. The God of Wealth isn’t that greedy!”

“Am I in danger? Can I use that ATM again?”

“She’s asking for your help—she won’t harm you. Unless deeply vengeful, ghosts don’t randomly hurt people. People misunderstand ghosts too much.”

I’d never considered that. I’ve watched too many horror films. Indeed, “fear stems from ignorance.”

Still, I was scared. My first encounter with the spirit world.

“Should I transfer 100 yen again tomorrow?”

“Of course! Saving a life surpasses building seven-tier pagodas. Saving a ghost earns merit too. And having spirit-world friends might help you in the future.”

“Really? Do you have spirit-world friends?”

“Of course!” My cousin smiled mysteriously. “Otherwise, how could my readings be so accurate?”

Encouraged, I returned the next day, bought a medium hot coffee, and sat outside, staring at the store’s wall. The wall beside the glass door looked newly painted, unlike the older ones. A small yellow paper stuck out—unlike a rental ad, it felt odd.

I approached. It was a talisman: “Swiftly, as commanded…” The rest was unreadable. Why here? Opposite this wall was the ATM. Could it relate to the girl?

“Eighty thousand,” someone suddenly said, startling me. It was the man who’d been eating instant noodles nearby.

“They called a master to perform an exorcism—cost eighty thousand total.”

“Ghosts! People saw a woman crying here at midnight. She vanished when approached.”

“Scary! It went viral online. No one came, day or night. The store couldn’t take it, so they paid big money for a master to perform rituals and post talismans…”

A thin middle-aged man, talkative. He spilled the whole story without prompting.

“Did it work?”

“Of course! Eighty thousand! After that, no one saw the crying woman. Business recovered. But…”

I stayed silent—he couldn’t resist continuing.

“But the master didn’t expel her—only sealed her in. She’s probably still inside that wall.”

Inside the wall? That’s where the ATM is! So she’s trapped. My cousin’s theory might be wrong—her grievance lies not in the ATM, but by the outer wall.

“Why repaint this wall? The others look old.”

“You don’t know?” He launched in. “There was a murder here. A gang fight—blood splattered everywhere. Horrifying. The store repainted quickly; otherwise, no one would shop here.”

“A murder? So… someone died?”

“A 16- or 17-year-old boy. A dropout, part of a local temple’s ‘Bajiajiang’ troupe. They fought for unknown reasons—someone went too far…”

“I read it online,” he added before I could ask. “Three attackers went to a juvenile facility. Only one girl was unharmed.”

“Girl? What girl?” Something stirred in me.

“Supposedly the victim’s girlfriend. She didn’t participate, so she’s free. But it’s tragic—she witnessed her boyfriend…”

I stood abruptly—startling him.

I re-entered the store. Two people queued at the ATM.