《Chinese Supernatural Mystery Files Where Every Story Holds a Secret》
Chapter 1.- The Man in The Closet(Case File #W-0429)
Title: The man in the closet
The night was brutally cold in S City. The clock had long passed eleven when I sat alone in a dim 24-hour caf¨¦, the warmth of my mocha barely enough to ward off the chill creeping into my bones. The streets outside were deserted, save for the occasional flurry of snow and the howling wind.
The door swung open with a sharp creak. A man entered, shaking off snowflakes, his eyes briefly meeting mine before he ordered a sandwich and left. He wasn¡¯t W.
Then, a voice muttered from behind me, ¡°It¡¯s freezing.¡±
I turned to find a man hunched over a laptop, his clothes shabby and his face worn, dark circles shadowing his eyes. There was something about him¡ªan exhaustion that felt more than physical.
That man was W.
At first glance, he was ordinary, even dull¡ªa tired man in a caf¨¦, nothing out of the ordinary. But then, with a quiet voice, he said, ¡°It¡¯s fine if you don¡¯t believe me.¡±
I raised an eyebrow. ¡°I believe in many things.¡±
And that was the beginning of a story that would shatter all logic.
W¡¯s story
W was a 24-year-old programmer, commuting between work and his tiny apartment. It was in March of that year that he moved into a new place.
And that was where the story began.
The apartment was in an old wooden building, precariously standing as if time had forgotten it. Inside his ten-square-meter room, the furniture was sparse¡ªonly a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. The kitchen and bathroom were shared.
It wasn¡¯t until his first night there that W noticed something odd.
The room contained a row of four built-in wardrobes that stretched along the wall. They were large, old-fashioned wooden closets, nearly touching the ceiling. W only used the one closest to his bed, leaving the rest untouched.
Out of curiosity, he opened the second wardrobe. Empty.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
The third. Also empty.
But when he reached the fourth wardrobe, it wouldn¡¯t budge.
No matter how much he pulled, pushed, or even kicked, the door refused to open, as if it were locked from the inside.
At first, he thought little of it. But as days passed, something stranger happened¡ªhis instant noodles kept disappearing.
W had a habit of storing food in his wardrobe since there is no other place in such a small room. Initially, he dismissed it as forgetfulness. But as he started tracking his meals, he noticed that the numbers wouldn¡¯t match. A few always vanished.
Determined to solve the mystery, W set up a small camera in his room. Days passed with no results. Then, one night, he finally caught something.
A figure emerged from the fourth wardrobe.
Tall, unnaturally slender, with elongated limbs and a gaunt frame, the figure moved effortlessly in the darkness. It glided around the tiny apartment, pausing at each corner as if surveying its surroundings. Then, it stopped beside W¡¯s bed and stood there. Watching.
For an entire hour.
The next night, the figure appeared again. This time, it rummaged through W¡¯s belongings, taking a pack of instant noodles before retreating into the wardrobe.
By the third night, W could no longer ignore the truth. The figure was living inside the wardrobe.
That night, the figure stood at W¡¯s bedside once more. It remained motionless, its head tilted downward as it stared at the sleeping W. An hour passed. Then another. Then, slowly, it retreated back into the wardrobe, closing the door behind it.
W stopped sleeping at home after that. He spent nights at friends¡¯ places, 24-hour cafes, and even park benches. Moving out wasn¡¯t an option¡ªhis financial situation wouldn¡¯t allow it. Instead, he chose exile over facing whatever lurked in his apartment.
On his last night in S City, just before I left, I received an anonymous email. It contained a short message and a video attachment.
It was from W.
He had moved out. But before leaving, he had recorded three nights of footage.
Night 1: 3:17 AM. The camera caught the door creaking open¡ªfrom the inside.
The wardrobe door creaked open, and the figure stepped out. It unfolded itself like origami gone wrong: seven feet of jointless limbs, fingers brushing the floorboards. No face, just a concave shadow where features should¡¯ve been. It circled W¡¯s bed twelve times (I counted), pausing each lap tosniffhis pillow.
Night 2£º3:33 AM.
The figure emerged again. It methodically checked every inch of the room, then opened W¡¯s wardrobe and took a pack of instant noodles before disappearing into the fourth wardrobe.
Night 5: 2:21 AM.
The figure appeared once more. This time, it did not move around the room. It walked straight to W¡¯s bed and stood over him. Watching. Silent. Unmoving.
For over an hour.
The footage ended abruptly.
In W¡¯s final message, he wrote:
¡°I don¡¯t live there anymore. But sometimes, when I walk past my old apartment, I still see the lights on. Someone else is living there now. I wonder if they¡¯ve checked their wardrobe yet.¡±
Do you believe W¡¯s story? Or do you think it was just another urban legend? Either way, if you ever move into an old apartment, do yourself a favor¡ªcheck your wardrobe.
Next story: A Phone Call from the Unknown.
Chapter 2.- A phone call from the unknown(Case File #C-0607)
Going to G City was never in my plans. If I¡¯m being honest, I had no reason to go back. No unfinished business, no nostalgia pulling at me¡ªnothing.
Yet, when C called, something in his voice made my stomach tighten.
"You need to come," he said. Not should¡ªnot want¡ªbut need.
C was a childhood friend, one I had barely spoken to in years. We grew up in the same crumbling apartment complex, but after college, life had taken us in separate directions. The only times we saw each other were the rare, half-hearted reunions over New Year''s.
Now, out of nowhere, he was getting married.
"It¡¯s important," he insisted. "Please. Just come."
Three days later, I landed in G City.
C picked me up from the airport, his face sharper than I remembered¡ªleaner, more tired. His once-carefree grin was forced, as if pulled into place by invisible strings.
We drove in silence for a while. The city gave way to winding roads, then scattered farmhouses, then nothing but empty stretches of land. The further we went, the heavier the air felt. By the time we stopped, the sky had darkened, the trees pressing in on us like silent watchers.
The village was unlike anything I had expected. Narrow stone paths twisted between ancient houses, the kind you¡¯d see in forgotten history books. Wooden beams, curved roofs, doors with rusted metal rings. Time clung to this place like a shroud.
C led me through a courtyard that smelled of damp earth and something else¡ªsomething faint, like burnt incense long since gone cold.
"You¡¯ll be staying here," he said, gesturing to a room at the far end of the corridor. "It¡¯s quiet. You¡¯ll like it."
Something about the way he said that made me uneasy.
C picked me up from the airport, his face sharper than I remembered¡ªleaner, more tired. His once-carefree grin was forced, as if pulled into place by invisible strings.
We drove in silence for a while. The city gave way to winding roads, then scattered farmhouses, then nothing but empty stretches of land. The further we went, the heavier the air felt. By the time we stopped, the sky had darkened, the trees pressing in on us like silent watchers.
The village was unlike anything I had expected. Narrow stone paths twisted between ancient houses, the kind you¡¯d see in forgotten history books. Wooden beams, curved roofs, doors with rusted metal rings. Time clung to this place like a shroud.
C led me through a courtyard that smelled of damp earth and something else¡ªsomething faint, like burnt incense long since gone cold.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
"You¡¯ll be staying here," he said, gesturing to a room at the far end of the corridor. "It¡¯s quiet. You¡¯ll like it."
Something about the way he said that made me uneasy.
That night, I met C¡¯s fianc¨¦e.
She was beautiful¡ªalmost unreal. Pale skin, delicate features, long, ink-black hair that never seemed to stay still. When she smiled at me, I felt an irrational urge to look away.
Dinner was lavish, but the air was stiff with unspoken things. The elders barely spoke, their eyes flicking toward C when they thought I wasn¡¯t looking. Even the air felt wrong, pressing too tightly against my skin.
Afterward, as I prepared for bed, C knocked on my door.
"There¡¯s something I need to tell you."
His face was pale, his voice low.
"About this house," he continued, glancing toward the window. "It¡doesn¡¯t want us here."
My skin prickled. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated, then sighed. "It¡¯s easier if I just show you."
From his pocket, he pulled out an old blue-screen phone, the kind we used as kids.
"It rings," he said. "Every night. 3 AM."My chest tightened. "Who¡¯s calling?"
C swallowed. "I think¡ it¡¯s my father-in-law."
The words made my stomach lurch.
"But¡ he passed away, didn¡¯t he?"
C nodded. "Years ago. Before we got married. He hated me. Never thought I was good enough for her. And this house¡ it was his."
The weight of his words pressed against me. Something about this place, about the silence between the walls, suddenly felt suffocating.
That night we were waiting in my room until¡
The first time the phone rang, I was half-asleep.
A shrill, unnatural sound cut through the room, vibrating against the wooden floor. I sat up, heart hammering. C¡¯s phone lay on the bedside table, its screen glowing in the dark.
No caller ID. No number.
Just ringing.
C stirred from his futon. He didn¡¯t move to answer it.
"Don¡¯t pick up," he whispered. "No matter what."
I turned away, squeezing my eyes shut. The ringing stopped.
Silence stretched.
Then, a voice.
Low. Hoarse. Wrong.
"Why won¡¯t you answer?"
My breath caught. The voice didn¡¯t come from the phone.
It came from inside the room.
By morning, C looked worse than ever. Dark circles bruised his eyes, his hands trembling as he poured tea.
"It started months ago," he admitted. "I tried everything. Blocking the number, getting a new phone, even getting rid of this one. But it always comes back. Always."
"And the voice?" I asked.
C hesitated. "It¡¯s him. Her father."
He looked out the window, his face unreadable.
"He told me I should leave. That I don¡¯t belong here. That this house will never accept me."
I swallowed hard. "And if you don¡¯t leave?"
C¡¯s fingers tightened around the cup.
"Then he¡¯ll make sure I do."
That night, I locked my door. I told myself I wouldn¡¯t get involved, that this wasn¡¯t my problem. But when the clock struck 3, the air shifted.
The temperature dropped. My breath curled white in the dark.
Then¡ª
The phone rang.
This time, it wasn¡¯t just C¡¯s.
It was mine.
A slow, eerie vibration against my nightstand. The screen flickered, numbers warping into unreadable symbols.
I stared, frozen.
Somewhere outside, footsteps scraped against the gravel. Slow. Deliberate.
The phone stopped ringing.
I exhaled.
Then a whisper slithered through the room.
"¡You finally hear me."
The closet door creaked open.
And something breathed inside.
I left the next day, making a vague excuse about work. C didn¡¯t ask me to stay. He just nodded, as if he had expected it.
But sometimes, even now, when my phone rings in the dead of night¡ª
I hesitate before answering.
Because there¡¯s one thing I never told C.
The voice I heard inside that house¡ it wasn¡¯t a man¡¯s.
It was a woman¡¯s¡
And she was whispering my name.
That¡¯s why I know I can¡¯t help C. Some things are beyond saving.
But you¡¯ll understand soon enough.
Next time, let me tell you what happens¡ when a ghost doesn¡¯t just haunt you¡ª
but wants to play.
Chapter 3.- When a Ghost Wants to Play (Case File #L-0213)
Many southern Chinese cities have customs that differ from those in the north. For example, during the Ghost Festival, people in the north tend to stay indoors after nightfall, avoiding water and dark alleys. However, in some southern cities, the festival is a time of grand celebration. The streets are filled with the sound of drums and firecrackers, and people¡ªboth adults and children¡ªflock outside to revel in the festivities.
Last year, on the night of the Ghost Festival, my flight was grounded in City N due to bad weather. With no choice but to stay overnight in this unfamiliar place, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity. City N was one of the few southern cities that still held extravagant celebrations during the festival, and curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to witness the spectacle firsthand before leaving the next morning.
That was how I met LIN on the bustling streets of City N.
LIN was a girl around my age, a journalist by profession¡ªa field that naturally made her outgoing and inquisitive. She told me that she attended the festival every year, not just for work but also for fun. The event featured delicious food, thrilling performances, and a grand fireworks show at night. Lin, a girl who lives in city N declared herself my personal guide for the evening, and with no good reason to refuse, I went along with her.
By 8 PM, the streets were packed with people. The festival was in full swing, beginning with a towering stilt performance, followed by masked martial arts dancers. The grand finale featured deities parading through the streets, their elaborate costumes shimmering under the lantern lights. Vendors, spectators, and performers filled every inch of the space, leaving barely any room to move.
After much effort, LIN and I managed to squeeLine into a small local eatery, miraculously finding two seats in a corner.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" LIN asked as soon as we sat down.
Her sudden question caught me off guard. I chuckled and said, "Of course."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"Have you ever seen one?" she pressed.
I shook my head. "What about you? Do you believe? Have you seen one?"
LIN hesitated for a moment before replying, "I''m not sure."
Her answer piqued my curiosity, and I knew we were about to dive into a story that couldn¡¯t be left unfinished.
Two bowls of cold jelly noodles arrived, but LIN barely touched hers. She absentmindedly stirred the contents, lost in thought. As a journalist, she often traveled alone, staying in unfamiliar hotels and venturing into disaster Linones. She had covered earthquakes, floods, and other calamities¡ªdangerous assignments she recounted with casual ease. But when she began telling me the story of what happened one winter, her tone grew serious, her voice tinged with something close to fear.
LIN¡¯s Story
A few years ago, during a particularly harsh winter, Lin was sent to cover the snowstorm disaster in a remote mountainous town. She traveled with a senior camerawoman¡ªanother woman¡ªand together they endured a grueling journey. First, a long-haul bus ride, then a muddy, snow-covered minibus trip, and finally, a forty-minute trek on foot through thick snow before reaching the town.
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The place was nearly deserted. Most young people had left for work in the cities, leaving behind only the elderly, women, and children. The snowstorm had driven food prices to absurd levels¡ªcabbages were being sold for over ten times their usual price, and baby formula was nearly impossible to find. The town felt desolate, a place where misfortune had settled in and refused to leave.
They hadn¡¯t arranged accommodation in advance and were forced to search for a place to stay. Fortunately, the town had a small, aging guesthouse, now mostly empty due to the weather. After knocking for several minutes and explaining their situation, the owner finally let them in.
¡°The hot soup that night was the best thing I¡¯d ever tasted,¡± Lin recalled. The day¡¯s journey had been exhausting, and the simple bowl of noodles felt like a luxury.
The guesthouse was old¡ªwooden floors, wooden doors, wooden-framed windows with four glass panes. The entire building creaked with every step, as if whispering secrets from a bygone era. The cold seeped through every crack, making the inside temperature almost as frigid as the world outside.
After finishing their meal, they decided to take quick showers and head to bed early to prepare for the next day¡¯s work. Lin had always traveled with a sleep mask, a necessity for someone constantly adjusting to different time and environments. That night, as always, she put it on and quickly drifted into sleep.
Sometime later, she awoke with a pressing need to use the bathroom. After hurrying back to bed, she found that the warmth had already left her blanket. She pulled her mask back on and tried to fall asleep again.
Then, the lights came on.
She felt it instantly¡ªthough she couldn¡¯t see through her sleep mask, she knew the entire room had been flooded with light. But before she could react, she realised something far more terrifying.
She couldn¡¯t move.
Panic surged through her. Her limbs refused to respond. And then, an even stranger sensation¡ªshe was floating.
¡°I was hovering in the air, like a helium balloon, slowly rising toward the ceiling,¡± LIN said. ¡°I could see the whole room, but something was off. The furniture was different. The old CRT television had turned into a black-and-white dial TV. The cluttered desk had become an antique wooden cabinet. And the ceiling fan¡ªit wasn¡¯t the one I had seen before. It had wide, metal blades, unmoving, covered in dust.¡±
She wasn¡¯t just floating; she was spinning, rotating slowly like the hands of a clock. She saw her colleague still sleeping in bed, completely unaware of what was happening. She wanted to scream, to struggle, but her body refused to obey.
The spinning grew faster. The dizziness became unbearable. She felt like she was about to collide with the television¡ª
Then, suddenly, she was back in bed.
Her body remained frozen, but she could sense everything around her. The room was still brightly lit. And then, she heard it.
A soft giggle. A woman¡¯s voice.
¡°...Hee-hee... Hee-hee-hee¡¡±
From the tiny gap between her mask and her nose, she saw movement. A pale, withered hand entered her vision, fingertips brushing the air. Slowly, carefully, those fingers reached for her sleep mask, trying to pull it away.
A few strands of black, brittle hair swayed into view.
Then¡ª
¡°Are you okay?¡±
Her colleague¡¯s voice cut through the silence. The room was plunged into darkness.
LIN shot upright, gasping for air. ¡°Turn on the light!¡± she screamed.
When the light came on, her colleague stared at her, confused. Nothing was out of place.
The next day, LIN realized that yesterday was the Ghost Festival in China. After that, they worked quickly, gathering their interviews and footage. By nightfall, they had left the town far behind.
After finishing her story, LIN finally took a bite of her jelly noodles.
¡°I never asked the guesthouse owner about it. I didn¡¯t have the courage,¡± she admitted. ¡°But when we transferred our photos onto the laptop, all of them were filled with white specks. A friend later told me¡ those were spirits.¡±
LIN looked at me and smirked. ¡°Do you want to see if your phone can capture anything?¡±
I snapped a few photos. Nothing unusual.
¡°You¡¯re not the right person for it,¡± she teased. Then, lifting her professional camera, she clicked the shutter. ¡°I¡¯ll send you these later.¡±
I handed her my business card.
But the email never came.
Chapter 4.- Campus Hauntings: Four True Tales of Terror (1)
The news about my old friend Aaron filled me with sorrow. After a series of career failures, he attempted suicide. Fortunately, he survived.
We used to be close, and the thought of his suffering left a bitter taste in my mouth. I decided to visit him. However, when I checked the flights to his city, I found that every ticket for the day was sold out. Left with no other choice, I booked a train ticket¡ªan overnight journey that would take me from this afternoon until the following day''s afternoon.
I couldn¡¯t remember the last time I had slept on a train. With a resigned sigh, I packed my essentials into a backpack: my phone, laptop, and a novel by Natsuhiko Kyogoku.
Before heading out, I habitually checked my email, though I had long stopped expecting a reply from LIN. To this day, she hadn¡¯t responded. Had she forgotten? Or perhaps the photo she took¡ had captured something too terrifying to keep?
With these lingering thoughts, I boarded the train bound for W City.
My seat was at the very end of the carriage. As soon as I settled in, a group of lively university students entered, dragging their luggage behind them.
¡°Here, this one!¡± A young man called out, waving the others over.
Two girls, their arms full, handed their bags to him before plopping down onto the seats. ¡°See? You¡¯re useful after all,¡± one teased, prompting giggles from the other.
The guy¡ªF¡ªgrinned sheepishly as he shoved their bags into the overhead compartment. Then, with a heavy sigh, he dropped into the seat beside me.
The three of them were friendly. F was a tall, broad-shouldered guy with an easygoing demeanor. Q, a short-haired girl with bright eyes, had a sharp wit. The last one, M, was quiet and reserved, her long hair partially hiding her face as she focused on a book. They occupied the seats opposite me, and for a moment, I felt outnumbered.
From afternoon until late evening, the chatter below never ceased. The university students talked nonstop, and the two women left to chat with someone in the next carriage. Eventually, I climbed down, deciding to have a cup of instant noodles for dinner. As I set my book down beside me, M spoke up for the first time.
¡°Natsuhiko Kyogoku?¡±
Surprised, I glanced at her. What followed was a conversation that started with Kyogoku¡¯s novels, then moved on to urban ghost stories. I hadn¡¯t expected this quiet girl to be such an expert in folklore.
It turned out that all three of them were university students studying folklore and anthropology. This trip was part of their field research on regional traditions and supernatural beliefs. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and before long, I found myself relaxing around them.
¡°I write about strange occurrences and folklore for my column.¡± I explained.
¡°Then you have to hear ours!¡± Q¡¯s eyes sparkled with excitement.
I nodded, intrigued. The three of them leaned in eagerly, ready to share.
Story 1 - Q¡¯s Story
It seemed inevitable that a girls'' dormitory would become the setting for a campus ghost story. And this story was no exception.
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Lights out didn¡¯t mean the end of the night¡ªit was only the beginning. Once everyone was tucked into their beds, the real conversations started. Some nights, it was just casual gossip; other times, it turned into deep discussions about class topics. But more often than not, it was just aimless chatter, stretching into the late hours.
Tonight was one of those nights. Q and her four roommates had settled in, ready for sleep. No one knew who started it, but one comment led to another, and soon the room was alive with voices, spinning stories and laughing in the dark.
Then, suddenly, Q shouted, ¡°Cut it out!¡±
At first, no one paid much attention. They kept talking. But five minutes later, Q yelled again, ¡°I said, cut it out!¡±
This time, the room fell silent.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± one of the girls finally asked.
Q turned toward her bunkmate¡ª¡ªwho slept right beside her¡ª¡ª ¡°You keep poking my head.¡±
The girl frowned. ¡°I didn¡¯t touch you.¡±
The dorm layout was simple: five beds in total. Two along the north wall, two along the south, and one on the west side. Q¡¯s bed was one of the two on the south wall, right beside her bunkmate¡¯s. The way the beds were arranged, there was no space for anyone else to squeeze in. If someone had been touching her, it had to be her bunkmate.
That was when Q started to feel uneasy.
¡°What do you mean you didn¡¯t?¡± Q shot back. ¡°You¡¯re the only one close enough to do it!¡±
Logically, her bunkmate was the only person who could have reached her. But every time Q turned her head to look, her bunkmate was lying perfectly still under the blankets, showing no signs of movement. And then there was the other thing¡ªwhoever had been poking her hadn¡¯t just been tapping lightly. The force had been strong, enough to push her head forward both times.
If it had been her bunkmate, the motion would have been obvious. The bed would have creaked, the blankets would have rustled. But there had been nothing. No sound, no sign, nothing to explain what had just happened.
So if it wasn¡¯t her bunkmate¡ then who was it?
Q finished telling her story and glanced at M.
¡°Our dorm was old, full of eerie vibes,¡± Q said. ¡°M, you had an experience too, didn¡¯t you?¡±
M nodded, looking at me, hesitating for a moment before finally deciding to share her own story.
Story 2 - M¡¯s Story
M lived in the dorm next to Q¡¯s, separated by just a thin wall. Her bed was right next to the class president¡¯s. Every morning, the class president would wake up early, switch on her desk lamp, and start memorizing vocabulary words. Because of this, M had grown used to a predictable sequence of sounds: the creaking of the old bed as the president climbed down, the soft shuffle of feet, the door opening and closing, the click of the lamp turning on, and the rustle of pages being flipped.
It became part of her routine, something she barely noticed anymore.
Then came that morning.
M, still half-asleep, heard the familiar sound of the bed creaking as the class president climbed down. The door opened. Everything seemed normal. But then, not long after, she heard footsteps coming back inside.
Drowsy, M barely cracked open her eyes, peering through the mosquito net. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, she saw a shadowy figure standing in the middle of the room.
And it wasn¡¯t the class president.
The realization jolted her awake. She wanted to move, to sit up¡ªbut she couldn¡¯t. Her entire body was frozen.
The shadow figure seemed to notice something, turning its head toward her.
¡°I couldn¡¯t make out its face,¡± M recalled, ¡°but I knew, without a doubt, that it was looking at me.¡±
Slowly, the shadow moved. It approached M¡¯s bed, step by step.
She tried to struggle, to break free from the invisible force holding her down. But her body refused to obey.
Closer.
And closer.
Stopping right at the head of her bed.
Then, it raised a hand and lifted the corner of the mosquito net.
Cold.
A bone-chilling cold spread from M¡¯s wrist, crawling through her entire body. She shuddered violently¡ªand suddenly, she could move again.
With a gasp, M shot upright, fumbling for her bedside lamp and switching it on.
She turned to look at the class president¡¯s bed.
The class president was still there, fast asleep under the blankets.
M let out a breath, shaking her head. "I still have no idea what that was. Luckily, it only happened once."
The atmosphere in the room was heavy, everyone caught up in the eerie tension of the stories. Suddenly, two older women returned, chatting casually and offering everyone sunflower seeds. The group politely declined, but the interruption at least eased the mood a little.
"Actually, I''ve had something weird happen to me too¡ªback in school," F, who had been quietly listening, suddenly spoke up. He hesitated, scratching his head awkwardly. "Though, I don¡¯t know if it really counts."
With a little encouragement from the group, he decided to share his story.
Chapter 5.- Campus Hauntings: Four True Tales of Terror (2)
"Actually, I''ve had something weird happen to me too¡ªback in school," F, who had been quietly listening, suddenly spoke up. He hesitated, scratching his head awkwardly. "Though, I don¡¯t know if it really counts."
With a little encouragement from the group, he decided to share his story.
Story 3 ¡ª¡ª F''s Story
The boys'' dormitory where F lived always had a strong, lively energy. But perhaps for that very reason, the school had planted massive banyan trees along one side, their thick branches and dense leaves blocking out sunlight completely.
The dormitory had communal restrooms, and the one on F¡¯s floor was located right under the heavy shade of those trees.
One evening, just before heading out for dinner with his friends, F stopped by the restroom. The sky had just darkened, and the lights had only recently flickered on.
Speaking of those restroom lights¡ªwhoever had designed them had placed all the bulbs at the sharp angles where the walls met the ceiling. The light hit the walls at strange angles, casting eerie shadows. Worse yet, when a bulb burned out, it always took ages before anyone bothered to replace it.
F finished his business, stood up, and was just adjusting his clothes when his gaze landed on the door.
There was a shadow.
Something about it felt¡ off. The overhead lighting should have cast his shadow only halfway up the door, given the angle. But what he saw wasn¡¯t normal¡ªhis shadow stretched unnaturally high, almost reaching the top of the stall door.
For that to happen¡ the person casting it would have to be taller than the stall itself. Or¡ª
F didn¡¯t allow himself to think any further. He yanked the door open and bolted out. From that day on, he never used that stall again.
"There were never any ghost stories about that restroom," F admitted. "So I might have just imagined it. But it stuck with me. Ever since that night, every time I used the restroom, I¡¯d check my shadow. I never saw anything strange again. But that night¡ I know what I saw. It was too tall."
Two of the girls immediately launched into a discussion about what could have caused it¡ªmaybe the shadow of something hanging from the ceiling, or a ghost hovering silently behind F. Their speculation was even scarier than the story itself.
Finally, the train¡¯s lights went out, plunging the compartment into darkness.
A few startled screams rang through the compartment, but soon, laughter followed. The university students chuckled at their own reactions, shaking their heads. I climbed up to my bunk, satisfied with the eerie stories shared that night. But just as I was settling in, Q called out to me from the opposite middle bunk.
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"What about you? Did anything strange ever happen to you back in school?"
Caught off guard, I hesitated. I searched my memories, but my mind came up blank.
"I don''t remember," I admitted.
"Then think about it and tell us tomorrow," Q said.
Almost immediately, two others, who had seemingly been half-asleep, suddenly chimed in with agreement. I smiled wryly at their enthusiasm and let the rhythmic sway of the train lull me to sleep. And in the hazy realm between wakefulness and slumber, I felt something stir in the depths of my mind¡ªan old memory, long buried.
The next morning, knowing there was no need to wake early, I lazily climbed down from my bunk around noon. The two older women who had been sharing our compartment were already gone. That meant I would be facing the trio of university students alone.
Sure enough, the moment I turned around, I found the three of them sitting in a perfect row, grinning at me expectantly. Sometimes, dealing with overly curious students was just as troublesome as dodging nosy relatives asking about marriage plans.
Under their watchful gaze, I grabbed a quick bite to eat, cleared my throat, and decided to share the story that had resurfaced in my mind overnight.
Story 4 ¡ª¡ª My Story
I had never been the most well-behaved student. By university, while most of my peers spent their days obediently attending classes and staying within the dormitory rules, I was already juggling part-time jobs and skipping lectures to explore the world beyond campus.
This story took place during one of my summer vacations.
During the break, the university dormitories were officially closed, but after returning from a trip, I found myself completely out of money. With no budget left for a hotel or hostel, I had no choice but to sneak back into my dorm room through the window. There was still a week left before the new semester started, and I figured that since the entire building was practically empty, no one would notice me hiding there.
I was wrong.
Although staying in the dorm was free, there was one major downside¡ªthe electricity had been cut off for the summer.
By eight in the evening, the building was already pitch black. I made do with my phone''s flashlight to finish eating and washing up. But before long, my phone¡¯s battery began to die. Left with no other option, I climbed into bed and switched to using my laptop to pass the time.
I knew the laptop wouldn¡¯t last much longer either, so by ten o¡¯clock, I decided it was best to sleep early and figure out a way to charge my devices in the morning.
The dormitory was unnervingly silent, amplifying every little sound. The rustling leaves outside, the occasional passing car, the steady drip of a faucet somewhere in the building¡ªall of it was crystal clear in the absence of human activity.
Just as I was beginning to drift off, I heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft at first, barely noticeable.
Tap¡ tap¡ tap¡ tap¡
Bare feet. Someone walking in the corridor.
Tap¡ tap¡ tap¡ tap¡
The sound grew louder, closer, more distinct.
Tap¡ tap¡ tap¡ TAP! TAP!
The pace quickened, the footsteps becoming urgent. I jolted awake, sitting up in bed, my eyes darting toward the door.
At first, I thought it might be one of the dorm supervisors making their rounds. But something about the sound wasn¡¯t right. It wasn¡¯t the heavy, measured steps of a middle-aged dorm warden checking for rule-breakers. No¡ªthis was different. Lighter. Faster. As if someone was running barefoot down the hall.
And then, the footsteps stopped.
Right outside my door.
The silence was deafening. In my mind¡¯s eye, I could picture a pair of bare feet standing just beyond the threshold.
I waited.
I waited for the sound of footsteps leaving, for a knock, for anything that would indicate someone was actually there.
Nothing.
I barely slept that night, lying awake and listening, straining my ears for any sign of movement. But the footsteps never resumed. The next morning, at the first sign of daylight, I packed up my things and climbed out the window again. I spent the rest of the week couch-surfing at my friends'' places, unwilling to step foot in that dorm again until the semester officially began.
"That¡ was pretty creepy," F said after a moment of silence.
"Got any more?" Q asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
I shook my head, glancing at the time. "We¡¯ll be arriving in about an hour. You should start getting ready."
At last, at 1:30 PM, the train pulled into W City.
Chapter 6.- Steps in the Void (Case File #A-1112)
I rushed directly from the train station, but by the time I arrived at the hospital where Aaron was admitted, it was already three in the afternoon.
When I saw Aaron in the hospital room, pale and frail, a strange feeling washed over me. It was a sense of disorientation, as if time had stripped away too much, leaving behind only emptiness. He was no longer the arrogant, high-spirited class leader we once knew. Instead, he was a hollow-eyed, thinning-haired man, drowning in the crisis of middle age.
I stepped closer. He looked visibly emotional but still forced a smile¡ªthat¡¯s what adults do. Most of the time, we don''t have a choice.
"How are you?" I asked, barely squeezing out the words.
"Still alive," he muttered indifferently.
For a brief moment, I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but the bandages around his wrist made me hesitate.
"Don''t do anything rash," I said, resorting to hollow reassurances. "No problem lasts forever."
He merely smiled, saying nothing.
What could have happened to break him like this? What kind of weight had crushed his will to the point of surrender? I couldn''t imagine. So, I stayed beside him in silence, reminiscing about our school days. Eventually, as memories resurfaced, he managed a genuine smile for the first time.
Visiting hours ended too soon.
Just as I was about to leave, Aaron suddenly grabbed my hand. His grip was firm¡ªalmost desperate. "You''ll come back tomorrow, right?"
It wasn¡¯t a question; it was a plea.
I nodded. Only then did he slowly release his hold.
Aaron had a deep-seated fear of being alone. Even though he seemed indifferent on the surface, I could tell he was desperate for company. His parents visited occasionally, but they mostly sighed in disappointment and left him to me. And in the days that followed, Aaron''s behavior became increasingly unsettling.
He wouldn''t let me leave his sight. Every time visiting hours ended, he would cling to my hand, making me promise to return. Sometimes, he would even beg me to take him away from the hospital.
But the most disturbing thing was the way he kept glancing toward the ceiling.
His empty yet wary gaze lingered on the same spot above my head. More than once, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
This wasn''t just someone who had given up on life. This was someone who was terrified¡ªlike a man on the run, hiding from something unseen.
One night, in a moment of sheer madness, I agreed to his request. I don¡¯t know what compelled me, but I wrapped him in my jacket, avoided the nurses'' watchful eyes, and smuggled him out of the hospital.
Just like the old days¡ªwhen we used to sneak out of school, dodging teachers and scaling fences. Only this time, I was the one reaching out to pull him over the wall.
As soon as we got into the car, regret started to creep in, but the rush of adrenaline was overwhelming. After all, once you grow up, you don¡¯t get many chances to do something this reckless.
We watched the hospital shrink in the rearview mirror. He let out a giddy, almost delirious laugh. I found myself laughing too, as if we had somehow reclaimed a piece of our youth.
"I''ll take you home," I said, but he shook his head.
"No. Let me stay with you."
I nodded. Then we talked about our school days, then about life after graduation. And eventually, inevitably, the conversation returned to his attempted suicide.
"Why did you do it?" I finally asked.
Aaron looked at me, hesitant. His eyes flickered with the urge to speak, but he held back. I knew that if I pressed him, he would eventually spill everything¡ªbut at the cost of reopening wounds he wasn¡¯t ready to confront.
So, I let it go.
But just as I was about to change the subject, he spoke.
"If I tell you, will you believe me?"
It was a question I had heard many times before. Either people no longer trusted each other, or their stories were simply too outlandish to be believed. Maybe both.
I nodded again.
He sighed. Then, he began his story.
Aaron was a businessman. A failed one.
After his company went bankrupt, he was forced to sell his house and car, eventually moving back in with his parents. He had never married or had children¡ªhe believed that "a man should have a career before he builds a family." That had been his mantra. But to his parents, that was just an excuse.
After moving back home, they constantly pressured him to find a stable job, get married, settle down. But Aaron knew that wasn¡¯t the life he wanted.
So, he locked himself in his room and stopped going outside.
And that¡¯s when it all began.
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Aaron¡¯s story
What happens when a person locks themselves away in a confined space for too long?
They become hypersensitive. They start to feel the air itself¡ªsometimes it gently embraces them, other times it presses against their skin like an invisible weight, suffocating. It¡¯s as if the entire world is compressed within the room, yet they have no control over it. A helpless sensitivity.
Their hearing sharpens. Like a cat, every tiny noise jolts their nerves. The quieter the space, the louder it becomes¡ªespecially at night, when the silence is filled with an unbearable ringing, a shrill note in the mind that stretches on and on until consciousness finally surrenders.
Their body grows heavy. It¡¯s as if the soul, body, and consciousness have become separate entities. When they sit in a chair, their soul sinks to the floor while their mind lingers at the back of their skull. When they lie on the bed, their soul drifts to the ceiling, their mind hovering just above their nose. When they eat, their soul lurks under the table, their consciousness absorbed in their fingers. And when they are silent, their soul screams while their mind drowns in an intoxicated haze.
Aaron had been in this state for a month, locked in his room without stepping outside once.
At first, he thought it was just his imagination.
The first time he heard it, every hair on his body stood on end.
The sharp, rhythmic clack of high heels against concrete.
Click¡ click¡ click¡
But who would be walking in high heels at this hour?
His parents lived in an old residential compound built decades ago for factory workers. Most of the residents were elderly, the younger generations long gone. There was no reason for anyone to be pacing the halls at night in high heels.
Aaron didn''t turn on the lights. He didn''t storm out to investigate. As long as he was still breathing, that was enough.
But the sound returned. Night after night.
He began to lose patience. The incessant clicking gnawed at his frayed nerves, invading his hyper-attuned senses. His body, soul, and consciousness¡ªalready fragmented¡ªwere being hammered into unity by those relentless steps.
One night, he grabbed a broom and slammed it against the ceiling in retaliation.
The clicking stopped.
Aaron remained still, broom in hand, waiting.
Then, behind him¡ª
Click.
He spun around. Silence.
And then, right in front of his eyes, a footprint materialized on the ceiling.
Another click.
Another footprint.
Was there another world, perfectly inverted, mirroring this one? A parallel dimension, like something out of a film? Except this time, the "other world" had shrunk into the confines of this tiny room.
When Aaron lay in bed¡ªsomeone stood above him.
When Aaron sat in his chair¡ªsomeone on the ceiling tilted their head back to stare at him.
When Aaron walked on the floor¡ªsomeone pressed down, hard, on the other side of the ceiling.
That was when he realized the footsteps weren''t coming from upstairs. They were coming from inside his own room.
Aaron froze.
He could feel it now¡ªsomeone was hanging upside down from the ceiling, their head turned toward him, watching his back.
His hypersensitive hearing failed him. His eyes darted frantically from side to side, but his neck refused to move. He could even sense strands of hair brushing against his leg, drifting in the air like ghostly tendrils.
His calves tingled with an unbearable numbness.
Summoning every ounce of courage, Aaron turned around.
Nothing.
He didn¡¯t sleep that night.
By morning, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the gap in his curtains, casting a pale strip of light across the room.
It was filled with footprints.
Aaron screamed. His parents burst into the room, alarmed. But when they turned on the lights, all they saw was their son lying rigid in bed, eyes wide, shrieking at the ceiling.
They looked up. The freshly painted white ceiling was utterly pristine, except for the dull glow of the overhead bulb.
This happened multiple times.
Then, one morning, Aaron used a razor blade from a cheap disposable shaver to slice his wrist.
The first cut wasn¡¯t enough, so he made a second.
Then a third.
Then a fourth¡
By the time they found him, his right hand was barely attached to his arm.
I don¡¯t know what to believe.
Every time I see his bandaged wrist, it feels like an unspoken taboo¡ªsomething best left unsaid, a bitter lump stuck in my throat. But when I catch him glancing up at the ceiling, his eyes betraying an all-consuming fear, I feel it seep into my own bones.
"He locked himself up for too long. Just lost his mind, that¡¯s all." His father had told me this on the day I brought Aaron home. There was exhaustion in his voice, deep as the lines on his face.
I nodded. Not as a sign of agreement, nor as a denial. Just a way to move forward.
In this story, no one can say for sure what truly happened. Not even the one who lived through it. Was it merely his heightened senses giving birth to hallucinations? Or had his isolation peeled away the veil, exposing things usually hidden in the dark corners of perception?
There was no answer.
I handed Aaron my address. "If you ever need to get away for a bit, come find me."
He took it, staring blankly, saying nothing.
As I watched him leave with his parents, I saw a boy from years past¡ªthe same boy who had been dragged home by his father after skipping class. He had known what was coming, the scolding, the punishment, yet he followed nonetheless.
We had grown up, but none of us had become the people we once imagined we would be.
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I finally managed to book a flight this time. No more grueling hours on the train; in just two short hours, I would be back in my city.
In the confined space of the airplane, I, too, felt the creeping edges of paranoia.
The journey left me exhausted. Beneath my fatigue, there was something heavier, something that sat like a stone in my chest. As the plane descended through thick, polluted air, I felt like I had become part of it¡ªdense, tainted, suffocating.
Finally, I unlocked my front door.
And the lights were on.
"You¡¯re back?" A voice came from behind me.
My heart hammered in my chest as I turned to see my assistant standing there.
Seeing my reaction, he hastily explained, "You called me before you left, remember? Told me the new draft was at your place, said I could grab the key from the flowerpot. I just came to pick it up. I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be back so soon."
The memory clicked. He was right¡ªI had told him that.
I let out a slow breath, picking up my bag and heading toward the living room. Feeling strangely self-conscious, I muttered, "Thanks."
I collapsed onto the couch, the overhead light glaring down. Blinking against the brightness, I felt my exhaustion blur the edges of my vision. And then¡ª
A footprint.
On my ceiling.
I jolted upright.
My assistant, still standing nearby, followed my gaze and chuckled. "Yeah, that is a footprint, uh?"
I turned to stare at him. "You... see it too?"
"Of course. That was me."
I frowned. He lifted his leg, pointing to the sole of his shoe. "Big mosquito in your place. Huge one. Got me a few times¡ªlook!" He rolled up his sleeves and pants, showing red welts. "It landed on the ceiling, so I whacked it with my shoe. Missed, though. I was just about to wipe it off when you came in."
I exhaled. He was holding a damp cloth. I hadn¡¯t even noticed before.
Standing on the coffee table, he wiped at the ceiling. Then, he pointed toward the side cabinet. "Oh, right. There was a notice stuck to your door, so I brought it in."
I picked up the envelope but didn¡¯t bother opening it. I just wanted him to finish and leave.
Even as he put away the rag and apologized profusely, I barely registered his words.
"Oh, and don¡¯t forget to get some bug spray! That thing was massive."
I nodded absentmindedly, closing the door behind him.
That night, I wasn¡¯t sure if I was dreaming or trapped in a waking nightmare.
When I finally woke, my shirt was drenched in cold sweat.
Chapter 7.- The Haunted 402 (1)
"Don''t forget to pick up your letter."
If it weren¡¯t for my assistant-- Xion''s reminders, I probably would have forgotten all about it.
In this age of instant emails and text messages, I couldn''t imagine who would bother sending me a physical letter.
I tore open the plain white envelope. Inside, I found another¡ªthis time, a brown craft paper envelope.
This better be something good, I thought. A long-lost inheritance, a dark secret¡ªsomething worthy of the suspense.
I was right.
On the kraft envelope was a name¡ªLIN.
Last year, during the Ghost Festival, I had a chance encounter with Lin, a journalist, in N City. And somehow, it had taken an entire year for this letter to reach me.
I slid out a small stack of photographs. A folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor.
I picked it up.
"Told you, surprise!"
The words were scrawled in English.
I could almost hear her voice, teasing and full of mischief.
I turned my attention to the photos¡ªfive in total. A sequence of snapshots, each capturing me in a moment of surprise, staring wide-eyed at the camera. At first glance, the only difference between them was the slight variation in my expression.
But then I noticed something else.
A white anomaly.
The first photo had only a few scattered white specks¡ªstatic noise, perhaps, or a trick of the light. The second was nearly the same.
In the third, the specks had stretched into irregular white streaks.
By the fourth, an eerie, cotton-like mass had begun creeping into the frame from the right side.
In the fifth, that mass had grown¡ªswelling, twisting¡ªuntil it loomed over my left shoulder.
A chill prickled down my spine.
So, this is what they call a "ghost photo"?
I wanted to dismiss it as coincidence, an optical illusion¡ªjust some strange artifact of the camera.
But curiosity gnawed at me.
Not just about the photos, but about something else.
How did Lin know my home address?
I had only ever given her my work contact¡ªa business card that listed my magazine''s office. Yet, here was the letter, arriving directly at my doorstep.
I called Xion, to ask if anyone had inquired about my home address at the office.
¡°No one,¡± Xion replied.
Just as I was about to hang up, I hesitated and asked, ¡°Hey... do you know anything about ghost photos?¡±
Xion paused. ¡°Not really. But I have a friend who might be an expert. Why? Something wrong?¡±
I suddenly felt foolish. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding paranoid?
¡°Oh, nothing. Just curious.¡±
¡°Well, I can ask my friend for you,¡± Xion said, already making plans before I could refuse.
That afternoon, I found myself standing in front of a discreet photography studio tucked away in a quiet alley.
From the outside, the building looked unremarkable¡ªjust an old structure with a pair of wooden double doors.
Stepping inside, a narrow stone pathway led through a small, overgrown bamboo grove before reaching a two-story glass building.
The first floor was an office. The second, a photography studio and a darkroom. The walls were lined with framed photographs¡ªmost of them high-end commercial shots, some even vaguely familiar.
Nothing about this place seemed strange.
I glanced at Xion, skeptical.
Was this really where I was going to find a ¡°ghost photo expert¡±?
Before I could voice my doubts, a man emerged from the second floor.
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He was dressed casually in a white button-down and jeans. His face was clean-shaven except for a small goatee. Silver-dyed hair, styled in a Mohawk, gleamed under the sunlight filtering through the windows.
Xion grinned. ¡°This is Gai. He¡¯s the one I was telling you about¡ªan expert in ghost photos.¡±
¡°You must be Mr. Hai,¡± Gai said, extending a hand. ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±
I hesitated before shaking his hand. ¡°Uh, just call me Hai.¡±
He led us to a cozy tea room, listening as Xion explained why we were here.
As Gai prepared a pot of green tea, he asked, ¡°So, did you bring the photos?¡±
I slid them across the table.
Gai examined them in silence.
Then, he looked up.
¡°Yeah. These are real ghost photos.¡±
I frowned.
Of course, the ¡®expert¡¯ would say that.
The more convinced he sounded, the more I wanted to believe otherwise.
Gai studied me. ¡°Since taking these photos, have you experienced anything unusual?¡±
I shook my head.
¡°Any discomfort in your left shoulder?¡±
Another shake.
¡°Had any bad luck recently?¡±
Yet again, I shook my head.
Gai leaned back. ¡°Then you¡¯re fine.¡±
I narrowed my eyes. ¡°But are these really ghost photos?¡±
He nodded and poured tea into our cups.
¡°So¡ that¡¯s a ghost?¡± I asked.
Another nod.
¡°Are all ghost photos like this?¡±
This time, he hesitated.
Then, he shook his head.
¡°If you¡¯re interested, I can show you more,¡± Gai offered. ¡°Want to see?¡±
I forced a laugh, glancing at Xion, who was practically bouncing with excitement.
Gai¡¯s gaze was expectant.
It felt rude to refuse.
¡°¡Sure,¡± I said.
He led us upstairs, past the darkroom, into a bedroom-like space.
The walls were covered with commercial posters. A massive bookshelf¡ªnearly two meters tall and four meters wide¡ªdominated one side of the room.
Gai pulled out a thick binder and placed it in front of us.
Xion and I exchanged a glance.
Gai flipped it open.
Page after page, filled with photographs and newspaper clippings.
¡°What¡ is all this?¡± I asked.
¡°My collection,¡± he said. ¡°Ghost photos from over the years. Some were sent to me by strangers, others I gathered myself.¡±
He explained that he used to be a DJ for a paranormal radio show. Many of these photos were sent in by listeners.
¡°Some are fake,¡± Gai admitted. ¡°But the ones I¡¯m showing you? They¡¯re real.¡±
As an experienced photographer and a Photoshop expert, Gai claimed he could tell the difference.
And for the ones he couldn¡¯t debunk?
He investigated them himself.
Many of the newspaper clippings attached to the photos were reports he had dug up¡ªarticles meant to verify the authenticity of what was captured.
¡°Ever made a mistake?¡± I asked.
¡°Of course,¡± Gai said. ¡°I¡¯m sure some of these still aren¡¯t real. But for now, they¡¯re the closest to proof I have.¡±
I flipped through the binder. The photos were eerily ordinary.
Family outings. Graduation ceremonies. Birthday parties. Couples¡¯ selfies. Landscapes. Still-life shots.
Nothing special.
Except for the ghostly details¡ªthe faint face in a window, a shadowy figure in a mirror, a pale hand resting on someone¡¯s shoulder.
¡°These are from this year,¡± Gai said. ¡°Want to see some older ones? More authentic.¡±
He pulled another thick binder from the shelf.
¡°This one¡¯s from 1997 to 1998,¡± he said. ¡°Back then, we only had film cameras. Much harder to fake.¡±
I opened the binder.
One article caught my eye.
¡®1997: Mysterious Disappearance of a Young Girl in Y City.¡¯
Beneath it, two photos.
Both taken in the same dimly lit hallway.
A young man stood in the foreground, eyes closed. Behind him, silhouetted in the light at the end of the corridor¡
A girl.
Shoulder-length hair. A long dress.
A ghostly presence.
My grip tightened on the page.
I could feel her staring at me.
¡°There¡¯s also a close-up shot,¡± Gai said.
I turned to the next page and saw the enlarged photograph. Even though the graininess had intensified, I could still make out¡ªor rather, feel¡ªthe sorrowful gaze of the girl staring straight into the camera.
¡°Do you have any other photos from this place?¡± I asked.
¡°No, that¡¯s all,¡± Gai replied. ¡°To be honest, that night was terrifying. I snapped these two shots and got out of there as fast as I could. After all, I was just a twenty-year-old kid back then.¡±
¡°1997? Twenty years old?¡± I looked at Gai in disbelief.
He chuckled. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m almost fifty now. But even now, when I think back to that night in Y City, I still get chills. Sometimes, I even have nightmares about it.¡±
I glanced back at the photos in the archive, feeling a wave of emotions that I couldn¡¯t quite put into words. So instead, I waited for Gai to continue his story.
Gai''s Story
In 1997, the city of Y was a peaceful place¡ªuntil the first day of May, when a young girl vanished without a trace.
Every year, the police received numerous reports of missing persons, but this particular case shook the entire city. The girl wasn¡¯t a celebrity, nor was she anyone of particular importance. It was the circumstances of her disappearance that sent chills down people¡¯s spines.
That girl disappeared in a six-story building.
She had only gone downstairs to open the door for her younger brother, who had forgotten his key. And yet, she was never seen again.
According to reports, their apartment was on the fourth floor of the building. The entire trip¡ªfrom the moment she answered the intercom to the time she would have reached the front door¡ªshould have taken no more than a minute. But when her brother arrived, she wasn¡¯t there. He rang the doorbell again and again, waited, called her name. No answer. Eventually, their mother returned from work and let him in. Together, they searched the apartment, the building, the neighborhood. There was no sign of her.
Desperate, they knocked on every door in the building. No one had seen her. The police combed through every inch of the complex. No leads. Fortunately, the neighborhood had recently installed security cameras. But when they reviewed the footage, all they saw was the younger brother standing alone at the front door, waiting. No one had come out. No one had gone in. The girl had simply disappeared.
One week passed, then two, then months. The case went cold, fading into local legend.
Years later, the area was marked for demolition. One by one, families moved out, including the girl¡¯s mother and brother. But as soon as the demolition began, the stories started. Construction workers heard a girl crying at night. Others claimed to see a pale figure wandering through the empty halls. The rumors spread like wildfire, grew more terrifying, and soon, the site became infamous.
Then, for reasons unknown¡ªperhaps a lack of funding, or a sudden change in city plans¡ªthe demolition was halted halfway. The skeleton of the building was left to rot. Over time, it became known as a haunted place, a ghost building. Some claimed that if you stood outside on a quiet night, you could see a light flickering in the window of the fourth floor. And if you looked closely, you might see the outline of a girl standing there, watching.
Stories of the ghostly apartment spread to the internet, where a new generation of thrill-seekers latched onto the legend. Online forums buzzed with talk of exploring the ruins. Most were just empty words.
But Gai was different.
The summer of 1998, Gai and a university friend arrived in Y city. With a brand-new Nikon film camera slung over his shoulder, he set out to find the infamous ghost building.
Chapter 8.- The Haunted 402 (2)
The summer of 1998, Gai and a university friend arrived in Y city. With a brand-new Nikon film camera slung over his shoulder, he set out to find the infamous ghost building.
It was dusk when they finally stood before the abandoned complex. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay. They waited until 11 p.m. before slipping inside.
Most of the top floor had been torn away, leaving only four full stories and a partial fifth. The rusted security door hung half-open, its weight dragging against the floor. Walls had collapsed, windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and debris littered the ground. On the second floor, someone had spray-painted a single word in blood-red letters: GHOST.
They climbed to the fourth floor.
"Is this the one?" his friend whispered.
Gai checked the doorplate with his flashlight. "402. This is it."
They exchanged a glance, swallowed their nerves, and stepped inside.
Moonlight spilled through the half-destroyed walls, illuminating the empty space. The apartment¡¯s layout was still visible¡ªa living room at the entrance, a kitchen and bathroom to the side, a narrow hallway leading to two bedrooms, and at the very end, a window. With the walls partially gone, they could see everything at once.
It was¡ ordinary. Silent. Nothing stirred. They had come all this way. Leaving now felt like a waste.
"Let¡¯s wait until midnight," Gai suggested.
His friend nodded. They sat down, pulling out snacks to pass the time. Gai checked his watch.
11:15 p.m.
"Did you hear that?" his friend suddenly asked.
Gai listened intently but heard nothing. His friend frowned but said nothing more, sitting down beside him.
11:23 p.m.
Time dragged on. Gai checked his glowing wristwatch, feeling the seconds stretch unbearably long.
"Let¡¯s check out the other floors," he suggested. "Might as well do something."His friend hesitated, then agreed.
They started from the first floor, working their way up. The first and second floors were nothing but debris.
On the third floor, his friend suddenly grabbed his wrist. "Did you hear that?"
Gai listened. Nothing.
"Stop scaring yourself," he muttered.
11:32 p.m.
They reached what remained of the fifth floor¡ªlittle more than an open-air platform with a few stubborn walls still standing.
As they stood beneath the moonlight, his friend leaned in close and whispered, "Listen carefully this time."
Gai sighed but obliged.
The night was still. The city was distant. Aside from the occasional chirp of insects, there was nothing but silence.
But then¡ something else. Faint. Distant.
A slow, scraping sound.
It was subtle at first, almost indistinguishable from the summer night¡¯s ambiance. But as he focused, it became clearer. Sharp. Uneven. Something scratching against a surface.
His friend clutched his arm. "Tell me you hear that, right?"
Gai''s stomach tightened. Yes. He heard it now.
His friend¡¯s voice trembled. "Doesn¡¯t that sound like fingernails on a wall?"
A shiver ran down G¡¯s spine.
The sound was growing louder. Then suddenly stopped.
Then started again. Closer.
Awareness is a strange thing. Once you hear something, you can¡¯t unhear it.
They stood frozen in the moonlight, staring at each other. The noise was coming from below.
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"We should go back," Gai said suddenly.
"Go where?"
"402."
His friend¡¯s face went pale. "Are you insane?! How do we even get down? The sound¡¯s coming from below us!"
"We came all this way. Might as well see who¡¯s making that noise."
"What if it''s not a who?"
Gai didn¡¯t answer. He turned toward the stairs.
His friend let out a quiet, trembling whimper. "Don¡¯t leave me alone."
Gai sighed and grabbed his friend''s wrist, pulling him along. Together, they stepped back into the yawning darkness of the stairwell, descending¡ªone slow step at a time¡ªtoward the fourth floor.
11:36 PM.
As soon as they stepped into the fourth-floor corridor, the sound stopped.
Back inside 402, Gai began taking out a tripod from his backpack, setting up the camera, and searching for a suitable position.
"What are you doing?!" his friend asked anxiously.
"Taking pictures. If something¡¯s here, I want proof."
"Screw proof, let¡¯s get out of here!"
"Two shots. That¡¯s it. Then we leave."
His friend reluctantly stood by the camera, waiting. Gai held his breath.
¡°Are you going to take the picture or not?¡± his friend urged.
¡°Shh! Don¡¯t speak.¡±
Gai was waiting, waiting for the sound to return.
11:43 PM.
The room was deathly silent.
Then¡ª
The scraping returned. grating and unpleasant, like a cat sharpening its claws on your skull or a thin fishing line being pulled across your mind, sending chills down your spine and souring the taste in your stomach.
But this time, it wasn¡¯t just near them.
It was inside 402.
"Do I take the picture now?" his friend¡¯s voice quivered, face contorted in terror.
Gai, too, felt the creeping unease. He glanced around at the walls but couldn¡¯t pinpoint the source of the sound.
"Yes. Now."
Click-click.
The photo was taken. Then, the silence shattered.
A deafening crash. The sound of something slamming into the walls, rushing toward them.
His friend grabbed the tripod and shouted, ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡± before sprinting down the stairs.
Gai opened his eyes and ran after him. But the staircase was too dark. All he could hear were their footfalls echoing.
¡°Wait up!¡± Gai shouted, but there was no response.
¡°Damn it, wait for me!¡± Gai yelled, desperate, as he ran down the stairs in the pitch-black darkness.
But after what felt like an eternity, he still hadn¡¯t reached the first floor, nor did he hear his friend¡¯s footsteps.
Gai stopped. He glanced at his watch.
11:55 PM.
Gai realized he had been running through the dark hallway for at least five minutes, drenched in cold sweat, but still, he found himself trapped in the black void of the stairwell.
Desperately, he fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a flashlight. He flicked it on, but the beam was weak, barely piercing the surrounding darkness, as if the shadows were ready to devour the light.
At some point, the doors on either side of the hall had gone dark, and Gai strained his eyes, desperately trying to find something¡ªanything¡ªhe could focus on. But all he saw was the staircase and the handrails. Nothing else.
The sound was still there, hovering just above his head, like an invisible hand brushing against his hearing, each scrape sending waves of terror through his body.
His trembling hand raised the flashlight, casting the beam along the walls. Finally, he caught sight of the floor number.
Fourth floor.
The door number beside him was 402!
A chill ran down his spine as the flashlight slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.
It was probably just a cheap, temporary flashlight, but the sound of it breaking on impact felt like the last thread of his hope snapping in two. He crouched against the wall, burying his face in his arms like an ostrich hiding from danger.
But his ears were still working. His hearing was still there.
The sound was still there.
It surrounded him. Behind him, above him, below him.
Gai felt as though his heart might stop at any moment.
Just then, a cold hand landed on his shoulder.
Gai didn¡¯t dare lift his head.
¡°Let¡¯s go! What are you still doing here?¡±
Gai recognized the familiar voice. He looked up to see his friend, panic-stricken, holding a flashlight, urgently pulling him toward the stairs.
Together, they bolted down the stairs, and just as they reached the door, Gai slammed the security door shut with all his strength, surprised to find the lock still functional.
Once outside, they stood under the moonlight, gasping for breath. But before they could even recover, the door behind them suddenly slammed with a loud thud, as though something inside had violently collided with it. A cloud of dust exploded into the air, floating in the moonlight before finally settling.
They exchanged a glance, then instinctively checked their watches. Exactly midnight.
Without another word, they turned and sprinted toward the busy streets of the city, where the sounds of traffic and the bustle of night markets offered a strange sense of relief. Only then did they stop, panting, their hearts still racing.
"Honestly, if my friend hadn¡¯t come back to find me that day, I think I¡¯d be dead by now," Gai said.
"What about the photo?" I reached out and touched the photo.
"To be honest, when we took it, it was just the two of us alive. As for how a third person showed up in the picture, we know, but we don¡¯t want to talk about it. It wasn¡¯t until years later that I dared to look at them again. The terrifying atmosphere of that night is still so vivid in my mind."
As I listened to Gai¡¯s words, my mind was suddenly flooded with questions, but I didn¡¯t know where to begin.
Gai glanced at me and asked, "Why are you so fixated on that photo?"
I froze, unsure whether I should speak up or not. After a moment of hesitation, I finally said, "It¡¯s nothing. I¡¯m from Y City. I know this place."
"Oh..." Gai gave me a meaningful look. I didn¡¯t like that look--it was as if he had seen through some hidden secret.
By the time I left Gai¡¯s studio, night had already fallen.
"You¡¯d better go to a temple," Gai advised one last time. "Better safe than sorry."
I nodded and gave a polite smile in return.
As the city lights flickered on, I stood on the side of the bustling street, while Xion beside me kept going on about how terrifying Gai¡¯s story was.
I shook my head, offering a forced smile, and took a few steps ahead of him.
But the tears that welled up in my eyes were making the world in front of me blur.
All the colors around me twisted into strange, unnatural shapes, flowing into forms that made me uneasy. Sometimes, they looked like a door. Other times, they seemed like a face. It was just like the stories that happen in this world¡ªcomplicated, ever-changing, unreal and real at the same time. I couldn¡¯t tell anymore what was true and what was just a memory or a dream.