Memoir: Toyol in Cashless Society

At this point, I am not even sure I am alive.

Or why I bother living.

I used to be good at this.

Like, don’t get me pissed off.

I was once feared.

Just the mention of my name had the villagers hide their jewelry, money, coins, and any treasure that they had, whatever that was supposed to mean. Back in the 60s, I could slip from one house to another, creep from one room to another, and steal everything clear until they had nothing left. Whether they had them hidden in a treasure chest, under a pillow, or inside a wardrobe, my keen, sensitive nose would be able to sense them. Nothing could escape my superior nose. And then I would just vanish with a fistful of ringgit, gold, coins, or jewelry before the family even stirred.

But now?

Now, now, you will see why I hate modernisation so much.

My tiny fingers scrambled at the edge of the nightstand, claws leaving no mark on the tempered glass. The wallet lay there, plump and smug, black leather gleaming under the faint blue light of a sleeping MacBook. I could smell the greed on it, like the old habits, the kind that used to make my teeth ache with hunger.

I flip it open.

Empty.

Not even a single note. Just rows of plastic from credit cards, membership cards, and a gym pass that I will never use. My fingers trembled as I shuffled through them. I bit one just to check. My fangs slid right off.

“Platinum Visa,” the card mocked me in sleek, embossed letters.

Where’s the cash? There’s always cash. Humans hoard it, even now. They need it.

My nails dug deeper into the leather. Maybe it’s hidden. A secret compartment. I tore at the seams, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Nothing.

Then I saw it tucked behind a driver’s license, crisp and untouched.

A fifty.

My heart leapt. I snatched it up, pressed the paper against my nose, and inhaled the ink, sweat, and promise of it. This, this is what I am made of—the thrill of stealing, the weight of stolen wealth in my hands.

Then I turned it over.

“SPECIMEN” was stamped in the center in bold red letters.

It’s fake. A prop.

I hissed and flung the wallet across the room. It hit a framed photo of some smug bastard in a suit, grinning beside his Tesla. The glass cracked. The bastard’s face split in two.

Good.

My reflection glared back at me from the broken glass. The pinprick eyes, needle teeth, and a body no taller than a toddler. I used to be a nightmare. Now I’m just…small.

From the bed, the tech bro snored. His phone lit up on the charger. A notification flashes: “Payment received: $10,000.”

My stomach coiled in anger. That money was my money, floating somewhere in the air, in a place that I can’t reach. No pockets to pick. No locks to break. Just numbers on a screen.

****

Master used to say that I was the best, “slippery as an oiled eel, quiet as a shadow.” He would pour a thimble of goat’s blood mixed with a drop of his blood sliced from his toe into my mouth after a good haul, and for a moment, I would feel powerful.

Now? Now I’m a meme. A green-skinned, fanged relic haunting air vents like some expired startup founder.

My claws scraped against duct metal as I dragged myself forward. The vent cover below offers a perfect view of a graphic designer’s apartment. He has passed out at his desk, face smushed against a tablet, stylus still clutched in his hand like a weapon. On the screen: half-finished digital art. Of all things, it’s Pontianak, all flowing hair and bloody fangs. Cute. Real Pontianak doesn’t bother with vengeance these days. They have moved into influencing, it seems.

“Steal cash, Toyol,” Master wheezed at me last night, his breath reeking of betel nut and desperation. “Bring me gold, bring me coins!"

Like it’s still the fucking 90s.

I pressed my forehead to the cool metal. Gold is in the banks now, locked behind retinal scans and quantum encryption. Coins and cash are in apps, bouncing from phone to phone while I am stuck here, literally crawling through walls. And Master? Master is still back in his rotting sarong, burning incense while using a Nokia 3310 like it is some sacred relic.

Below me, the designer’s phone lit up. A notification: “Payment received: RM 5,250.00”

A cheerful ‘ding!’ followed, like it was mocking me. My stomach growled. That sound—that stupid, happy little ding—used to mean something. It meant full pockets. It meant the rustle of paper notes, the clink of loose change in a ceramic penny bank, and the heavy weight of stolen wealth in my hands.

Now? Now it’s just…numbers. Invisible. Weightless.

Un-steal-able.

I could drop down right now, pry open his fingers, and take the phone. But what’s the point? I could not eat the QR code. Could not trace a wire transfer. The hunger gnawing at my ribs is not just for food; it’s for a purpose. What is a thief in a world with nothing left to steal?

A vibration rattled the duct. I froze.

The Polong slithered into view, its size as small as a forefinger, making it perfect to shapeshift and move around quickly. Its appearance glowed faintly, not with magic, but with the blue light of a dozen open banking apps.

“Still hustling the old way, my little guy?” A glitchy laugh echoed through the phone. The Polong materialised in a haze of static, its holographic skin flashing between Grab promos and Shopee ads.

“Aiya, even Pocong evolved. Now, they hop on e-hailing rides to go wherever they want to.”

I bared my teeth. “I don’t need your cyber tricks.”

“Sure, sure,” It grinned, all needle-fangs and pixelated eyes. “Enjoy starving.”

I lunged, but my stubby legs could not reach its digital form.

Pathetic. A goblin trapped in the analogue past.

Left alone with another failure etched to the bone.

Outside, the sky paled over KLCC. The full moon was shining brightly between the Twin Towers.

****

The 7-Eleven ATM kiosk hummed under flickering fluorescent lights, its blue screen glow cutting through the midnight haze. I perched atop the machine with my clawed toes gripping the edge as I peered down at my target, one of the last ATMs in Kuala Lumpur that still dispensed thick, crinkly RM100 notes. My favourite.

This was it. My big comeback.

I had been stalking this specific machine for weeks, memorising its maintenance schedule, its sound, the way it coughed out cash like it was judging every withdrawal. But tonight, something was off. A new sticker on the side: “AI FRAUD DETECTION ENABLED.”

My pointed ears flattened. Since when did ATMs need AI security?

The glass door slid open. A drunk university kid, reeking of cheap Soju alcohol and regret, stumbled in, jabbing at the screen. The machine beeped. Whirred. Then, glorious, the sound of the bills being counted.

My mouth could not help but water.

I focused on the old trick, whispering the incantation that Master had taught me decades ago.

Possess the machine. Become the machine.

My form shimmered, and then—glitch.

Instead of slipping into the ATM’s circuits, my body phased the wrong way. Suddenly, my body turned solid, fully visible and before I knew it…

“WHAT THE—” The guy shrieked as I materialised mid-air, slamming into his leg like a feral, green-skinned possum.

I immediately scrambled, my claws snagging on his jeans. My clouded eyes locked onto the wad of cash. For one glorious second, I could almost taste the RM100 note, but he was already flailing backwards, screaming, “GOBLIN—HELP—” before he scurried away.

From the snack aisle, a voice suddenly interrupted. “Oh my God. Are you a Toyol?”

I stood there blankly for a minute.

No one had seen me in decades.

A 20-something woman in a cropped “MANIFEST” hoodie stood there, holding her phone vertically, which I believe was recording me.

“Dude,” she said, “you are trending in 2012.” I saw her zooming in on my umbilical cord leash as she walked closer to get a better look at me.

My ears flattened, and my needle teeth ground together. “Delete that.”

“Make me,” she replied cheerfully, then took a sip of her Bandung Boba and offered me the straw. “Thirsty, boomer ghost?”

I wanted to bite her, but the drink was pink. And sweet. And—

Fuck.

Five seconds ago, I was a nightmare. Now? I was a washed-up cryptid, slurping syrup while this human girl adjusted her ring light.

“Look, my name is Maya, and, uh…” she said, crouching. “My engagement is tanking. You help me go viral and I’ll get you…uh…” She squinted at me. “Whatever evil toddler eats.”

“Cash,” I snarled at her. “I eat cash.”

“Damn, inflation really screws us up, huh?” Maya nodded ironically.

The ATM whirred. The 7-Eleven air conditioner dripped. Somewhere, a Polong laughed in crypto. Then, Maya pulled out her phone and opened CapCut. “Okay, Grandpa Ghost. Let’s get you relevant.”

Uhh… I hate this.

But I was also hungry.

“Fine,” I surrendered. “But I want McNuggets. And a soul.”

“Yes! Let’s do this!” Maya jumped like she had just won the lottery.

The ATM spat out a receipt as if it were laughing at me.

I am so doomed.

****

I should have known something was wrong when Maya strapped the Shopee Special proton pack onto me. It was made of plastic water bottles and a broken power bank, held together with Harvey Norman cable ties. It buzzed ominously against my back, smelling faintly of fried circuits and deceit.

“This is an insult,” I hissed, trying to wiggle free. “I’m a Toyol. A nightmare.”

Maya adjusted her ring light, unfazed. She was too busy angling her phone, with a third eye drawn on her forehead, catching the ring light’s glow. “Just growl when I point at you, okay? We are going live in three… two…”

The phone screen glared at me, a tiny red light blinking like the eye of some judgmental god.

Live Viewers: 12

Pathetic.

Then the first Super Chat popped up.

RM5 ‒ user @XXsephiraXX: “IS THAT A BABY DEMON??”

Maya’s grin turned razor-sharp. “Showtime, gremlin,” she whispered as she kicked the Roomba towards her ex-boyfriend’s prized Travis Scott rug.

For some reason, I have no idea how this woman could convince her ex that his apartment was haunted. I also could not believe my eyes that such a big guy could be easily scared by the idea of having a spirit and entity roaming their household. Alas, he trusted his ex to perform an exorcism to remove a negative entity from his house.

I doubt he could see me. Perhaps seeing the proton pack floating around was convincing enough to persuade him, I believe.

Adi yelped as I seized control of the vacuum, sending it spiralling toward his bare feet. The chat exploded.

RM50 ‒ user @InnerDivineLight: “OMG IT’S POSSESSED!!"

I could feel the viewers multiplying, their attention striking against my skin like static waves. The Roomba hit his ankle with a satisfying thunk, but the victory felt hollow.

This was not stealing… This was…performance art.

And I am not quite sure if it aligned with my purpose as a Toyol.

During a bathroom break, I caught my reflection in a smart mirror that cheerfully suggested I “try the Goblin Glow-Up filter!” Before I could issue any protest, it evened out my green complexion and made my milky eyes brighter. For one terrifying moment, I saw human features staring back—round cheeks, normal teeth—before the mirror slapped digital cat ears on my head. “Looking fierce!” It chirped.

My umbilical cord twitched in disgust.

That’s when the burning started. Not the usual dull tug from Master, but a searing pain that smelled of rotting betel leaves, metallic copper, and kemenyan incense. The cord blackened, smoking against my belly.

Maya appeared in the doorway, leaving her phone still streaming on the tripod. “Uh, you okay, little dude?”

I forced my lips into a snarl while my claws dug into the sink. “Just buffering,” I lied.

A few seconds later, her phone buzzed violently. “Holy smokes,” she panted. “The viewer count ticked past 10,000!”

Top comment: “CURSED ROOMBA?? PLS COME HAUNT MY EX NEXT!!”

From the living room, the trapped Roomba let out a plaintive beep. The proton pack’s dying battery whined in harmony. I closed my eyes as another Super Chat dinged—RM100, someone requesting I “please possess a blender next.” The cord pulsed like an infected vein. Somewhere beyond the WIFI signals and LED lights, I could feel Master was fuming.

****

The rooftop air smelled of exhaust and impending rain as Maya’s phone screen lit up with the incoming WhatsApp call. I knew who it was before the ancient bomoh’s face pixelated into view, his wispy beard trembling with rage. “Toyol,” he croaked, the single word carrying decades of disappointment. The umbilical cord around my waist began to scorch hotter, its fibre blackening as my form began to flicker.

I could feel my green skin slowly dissolving.

“You are obsolete,” spat the shaman. Behind him, I could see his new familiar, a sleek neon Polong typing away at three keyboards simultaneously, its fingers moving quickly from one key to another, meanwhile looking at the stock market graphs. “Even Polongs are mining crypto now. What use is a thief who cannot touch digital gold?”

Maya, who had been adjusting her ring light, halted. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said, shoving her phone closer to my disintegrating face. “Back off, Gandalf. He’s viral now. We got brand deals pending.”

The shaman’s laugh crackled through the speaker. “Foolish girl. He’s bound to me. That cord is not just a leash; it’s his soul.”

I tried to growl, but my voice glitched into a stuttering, buffering sound. Maya’s eyes darted between me and the screen, her influencer mask slipping for the first time. Then, with the decisive fury of a Gen-Z exorcist, she rummaged in her purse and pulled out a Hello Kitty nail clipper. “Okay, boomer,” she muttered, and she snipped.

The cord howled.

Not me, but the cord itself sounded like a dial-up modem dying in reverse. The bomoh’s image distorted violently as the severed tether whipped back through the screen, taking half his beard with it. I expected myself to vanish. Instead, my body exploded into pixels, a thousand glittering fragments reforming in the air before collapsing into Maya’s phone with a sound like a corrupted MP3.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then…

“What the heck did you just do?” My voice echoed from her speakers, tiny and digitised.

Maya gasped at her screen, where my face now lived as a floating sticker in her gallery. “I… I think I just turned you into an NFT.”

I could feel the breeze of a quiver.

A notification popped up.

Unknown Sender: RM 1,100.00 deposited to your Touch ‘n Go eWallet.

Another. And another.

I could feel them: every transaction in the city, every digital whisper of money moving through invisible veins. No more ATMs. No more locks. Just…numbers, ripe for the taking. My laughter came out as a soundbite Maya had downloaded last week.

Maya’s phone buzzed again, but this time, it was a DM. The Polong from earlier, its profile picture was a glitching Bored Ape. “Collab? We hack Bank Negara. 60/40 split.”

On the rooftop, the first rays of dawn hit Maya’s face as she slowly grinned.

“Toyol.” She whispered, “You’re upgraded.”

In her camera roll, my new sticker pack auto-generated: Toyol’s Cursed Reactions. A GIF of me flipping off the bomoh. I'm devouring a credit card emoji. I winked with the caption “Glitch in the System.”

From the depths of her speakers, my voice whispered, “…still hungry, though.”

Maya’s next YouTube went live at 6:00 AM sharp.

“POV: Your sleep paralysis demon adopts you.”

In the comments, my pixelated face popped up beneath a viral reply:

User @LilToyol: "RM10 can buy what nowadays? Asking for a friend.”

The Polong liked the post. The bomoh left a scathing review under the video.

And somewhere in the digital void, I finally feasted.

Three days later, Bank Negara reported an “anomaly” of RM1,000,000 vanishing from dormant accounts. The security footage showed only a flicker of green static…and the faint sound of giggling.