When vehicles grow sparse in the dead of night, the broad road finally reveals its own truths—scars hidden beneath the crush of daylight, unseen by the living.
Though I’m but a third-rate detective, out of respect for the profession, I give my all to every case.
To discern whether the girl was lying, the simplest way was to visit the Lamp-Less Lane at the right hour and seek out the underworld show mentioned in the ad.
A quick search confirmed its existence in Jiangcheng.
Among old locals, the lane bore another name: Luosijieding—"Screw-Top." But its true meaning was far darker: "Corpses Piled to the Roof." During the Sino-Japanese War, this was Jiangcheng’s largest slaughterhouse. Bodies were stacked layer upon layer until they reached the eaves.
Residents claimed no streetlight could last here. Any installed would inexplicably die by dawn—bulbs intact, filaments severed. Even flashlights failed. Motors died. Locals avoided the lane after dark.
So if you met someone here at night… they might not be human.
"Fitting for an ‘underworld show,’" I mused. A staunch atheist, I dismissed it as an elaborate hoax after an afternoon of research.
"Tonight will tell."
I changed into casual clothes, pocketed the ad and my stun gun, and rode to the old district.
By the time I arrived, night had fallen, and a drizzle veiled the streets.
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"Just my luck." Rain rendered my stun gun a hazard. An encounter with a thug would be… awkward.
The labyrinthine alleys were lined with decaying buildings. Locals recoiled at the mention of Lamp-Less Lane, hurrying away.
Directionless, I wandered until past 10 p.m.
The rain thickened. Fog swallowed the world. The few open shops sold funeral goods—paper effigies, wreaths, shrouds.
At 11, a funeral parlor owner extinguished the lights, lit two white candles, and thrust a grave-visiting black umbrella into my hands, shooing me into the storm.
"Bizarre."
Under the black canopy, the lane was a void.
Lamp-Less Lane? A chill gripped me. After twenty lost minutes, I fumbled for my phone—only to spot an old woman waving from across the street.
Why is she out alone?
Drenched and frail, she trembled like a candle in the wind.
"I’ve lost something," she rasped, her voice a death rattle.
I steadied myself. "What did you lose?"
Her milky eyes rolled. "My grandson. Somewhere in these alleys."
She lurched into the darkness.
Grandson? A living child? The online rumors resurfaced. My hair stood on end.
No. Fear is just instinct.
The locals’ behavior, the legends, even this woman—all seemed staged. A prank? A reality show?
Heartened, I followed her.
An hour later, hopelessly lost, the woman halted.
"Naughty boy, don’t run off again—"
I froze.
On the rain-slicked steps lay a tattered doll.
She cradled it like a child, crooning:
"Hush now, doll, don’t be mad,
I’m sorry I threw you, made you sad.
Dirt on your dress, mud on your face,
Does it hurt? Let me embrace…"
A madwoman. I’d chased a delusion through the storm.
Pity stirred me. I handed her my umbrella.
She hesitated, then took it.
As she vanished into the rain, I crouched under a crumbling awning—and spotted the address:
Lamp-Less Lane No. 44.
The very place from the ad.
I thumbed my stun gun, but a bony hand gripped my sleeve.
The old woman had returned, silent as a ghost.
How? My police training had failed me.
"Boy," she whispered, shielding the doll, "don’t wander at night."
A white handkerchief slipped from her sleeve—a noose-like scrap embroidered with verse:
"Within the house, no art remains,
Affairs of men are heaven’s chains.
Where favors flow, the earth must know,
Ghosts walk where living dare not go."
A chill seized me. The first characters spelled:
屋内有鬼 — "Ghosts Dwell Here."
Mad or messenger?
Logic prevailed. Steeling myself, I descended into the abyss.
For a detective, the lure isn’t truth—but the unraveling.
The stairs groaned. The walls wept mildew.
Lamp-Less Lane No. 44. Basement Level 4. Room 444…