Stepping into the stairwell felt as if the clock had suddenly jumped from afternoon to late evening; the world turned abruptly dark. The concrete steps were steep, and the dust and spiderwebs on the iron railings were as thick as a layer of fabric. Looking up, one could see incandescent bulbs on every floor, but some had already burst, and those still glowing were barely helpful, their cracked glass buzzing futilely.
It was a little different from a haunted house.
As they reached the second floor, a couple behind the thin wall was beating a child; almost the entire building seemed to vibrate with the sound.
Xie Chun whispered a warning, “Step lightly.”
Xu Yanghe complied.
Halfway up the stairs, Xu Yanghe felt a twinge of vertigo looking down, yet he didn’t dare touch the filthy handrail.
“Hold onto me,” Xie Chun said, reaching out his hand.
For a split second, Xu Yanghe thought it was Zhou Lan or Yu Dashan mocking him.
Xie Chun’s home was on the sixth floor, a small two-bedroom apartment. Xie Chun moved with extreme care when opening and closing the door.
Xu Yanghe whispered, “Is this your house? You’re acting like a thief.”
“It is my house,” Xie Chun replied.
The apartment was cluttered. Crumpled cotton curtains were piled on the sofa, a broken tabletop leaned against the wall, and an old sewing machine sat in the corner. He didn’t turn on the main light, opting instead for a small desk lamp.
“Is it okay if it’s dark?” Xie Chun asked.
Xu Yanghe said, “It’s fine.”
Xie Chun asked again, “Is it okay if I don’t open the curtains?”
Xu Yanghe didn’t object. A thick blackout cloth was drawn tight, sealing the inside from the outside world. Xie Chun stood behind it, peering through a tiny gap as if observing something.
This place didn’t feel like a home where a family lived.
Xu Yanghe didn’t press Xie Chun for answers and instead began to wander around casually. The layout was clear: behind the sofa was a short hallway. To the left and right were bedrooms; further back were the kitchen and the bathroom, also flanking the hall. At the far end was a small south-facing window with a portable drying rack. Xu Yanghe walked down the hall. The kitchen and bathroom doors were open; the bathroom tiles were exactly like the ones in the photo Xie Chun had sent.
“Where are your parents?” Xu Yanghe asked again.
“Asleep,” Xie Chun gave the same answer.
Xu Yanghe frowned slightly. The bathroom was larger than the kitchen, meaning the bedroom on the bathroom side would be smaller. Xu Yanghe placed his hand on the door of the bedroom next to the bathroom and asked, “Your room?”
Xie Chun nodded. This made sense: parents in the larger master bedroom, son in the smaller one.
Xu Yanghe slowly withdrew his gaze from the second bedroom and turned toward the other side…
In a move that caught Xie Chun completely off guard, Xu Yanghe suddenly spun around, gripped the handle of the master bedroom door, and shoved it open!
He expected a pitch-black abyss, but instead, he saw a sea of white.
An iron bed, a wardrobe, a vanity, a full-length mirror… every piece of furniture was covered in white cloth, visible only as vague silhouettes. The air disturbed by the door kicked up dust from the floor, carrying a stale, ancient scent toward the two men—intermingled with an indescribable odor that made one’s skin crawl.
Xu Yanghe was forced to hold his breath, a numbing sensation spreading from his toes to his scalp.
“You—” Before Xu Yanghe could demand an explanation, Xie Chun snapped to attention like a startled rabbit. Without time to explain, he shoved Xu Yanghe into the room.
Unprepared, Xu Yanghe stumbled. Xie Chun dragged him further in, ripped the white cloth off the large wardrobe, and stuffed him inside. “Don’t come out!”
“Wh—” Xie Chun slammed the wardrobe door shut. Simultaneously, a massive crash erupted outside, sounding like an earthquake.
Xie Chun ran out of the bedroom and pulled the door shut. There was the sharp screech of metal on metal—someone had pried open the front door.
“Xie Chun…” Through two sets of doors, the voice Xu Yanghe heard was muffled but clearly malicious.
There was more than one intruder. Xie Chun was already speaking to them.
Inexplicably, the strange smell inside the wardrobe grew stronger. It felt familiar, a damp, cloying chill seeping into his back, making him shiver. Xu Yanghe pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight.
The wood of the wardrobe was roughly finished, though the splinters had softened with age. He pushed gently on the door, but it felt like Xie Chun had braced something against it from the outside.
Xu Yanghe: …What the hell is going on?
Fortunately, the wardrobe was spacious enough for him to move slightly. He turned his light to the left and was suddenly met by a pair of eyes.
His body jerked, his hand shook, and his phone tumbled against the wood several times before landing screen-down at the bottom.
It was a funerary portrait of a woman.
She had thin cheeks, large round eyes, and a slight curve to her lips—she looked almost exactly like Xie Chun. Because the colors were still vivid and the frame showed little dust or wear, Xu Yanghe instinctively assumed she hadn’t been dead long.
The phone’s light was still on, casting a truncated quadrilateral of light. Xu Yanghe looked down toward the beam and, in a moment of sheer desperation, let out a hollow laugh.
There was a cinerary urn.
Xie Chun, you absolute…
The urn sat on a crude wooden stand. The legs were low, creating a narrow gap at the bottom of the wardrobe where his phone had landed.
Xu Yanghe swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He slowly crouched down, gingerly retrieving his phone. The moment his fingers touched it, his face was inches away from the urn—his nose nearly brushed the box. He held his breath, eyes squeezed shut in terror.
Once he had the phone, he was drenched in a cold sweat. He decided he should probably face away from the thing.
Xu Yanghe turned around, feeling lightheaded. “Ah…” He nearly lost his footing.
A funerary portrait of a man.
“Xie Chun!” Xu Yanghe hissed through gritted teeth, but he couldn’t help stealing a few glances at the details.
This photo was much more blurred, warped and wrinkled within the frame, with a sickly greenish tint. He could only make out the man’s naturally curly hair; the pupils and whites of the eyes were a muddled mess that chilled his heart.
He glanced down. Another urn.
Good job, Xie Chun.
Sandwiched between two portraits and two sets of ashes, Xu Yanghe shrank into the center of the wardrobe, staring straight ahead. He turned his phone light to maximum brightness, praying for Xie Chun to return.
Every second was agony. He watched the time on his screen, thinking he should just call the police.
Officer, I’ve been locked in a one-square-meter wardrobe by an idiot, and I’m currently hanging out with his mom and dad…
However, only three minutes had passed. Through the doors, he couldn’t make out the conversation between Xie Chun and the men outside. Occasionally, a violent thud would shake the building, sending wood shavings and dust raining down on his head.
They aren’t fighting, are they? In Xu Yanghe’s eyes, Xie Chun couldn’t win a fight against anyone.
Five minutes passed. Xu Yanghe leaned back against the wood.
BANG!
The entire building seemed to shudder. Xu Yanghe heard a harsh, sinister voice snarl: “Get on your knees!”
A sensitive nerve was struck. “You motherf—” Xu Yanghe slammed his fist against the wardrobe door. The two portraits rattled, but the door was held firm by Xie Chun. He quickly regained his senses, refraining from shouting Xie Chun’s name.
A few minutes later, he heard the sound of the lock clicking. Then Xie Chun entered the room and opened the wardrobe.
Xu Yanghe finally breathed freely. Xie Chun turned on the light. The moment their eyes met, Xu Yanghe felt a surge of irrational anger—because Xie Chun’s eyes were completely empty.
“Is something wrong with you?” Xu Yanghe stormed out of the wardrobe. He grabbed Xie Chun by the collar, using his other hand to push back the curls, checking him over for injuries.
Xie Chun said, “Probably.”
Xu Yanghe found no wounds. “What do you mean ‘probably’?” He let go and went to the bathroom to wash his hands.
Xie Chun followed. “Four out of five people I know say there is.”
Xu Yanghe scrubbed aggressively with Xie Chun’s soap, looking at him. “Who were those people?”
“My creditors,” Xie Chun said.
Xu Yanghe countered, “You’re so poor you have to sew twenty-yuan pants yourself. What kind of debt could you possibly have?”
Xie Chun lowered his head. “That’s why I’m poor.”
Walking out of the bathroom, he saw the living room was a mess. Cigarette butts were strewn on the floor, and muddy shoe prints were everywhere. The intruders had done some light smashing; items that had been neatly arranged on the table and cabinets were scattered. Most noticeably, the sewing machine had been flipped over.
Xu Yanghe began tidying up instinctively. Xie Chun followed him closely, helping where he could.
As Xu Yanghe swept the floor, he asked, “When did your family rack up this debt?”
Xie Chun: “I don’t know.”
Xu Yanghe: “How did it happen?”
Xie Chun: “I don’t know.”
Xu Yanghe: “How much is it?”
Xie Chun: “I don’t know.”
Xu Yanghe: “…”
“Then it’s a scam,” he said, tapping Xie Chun on the head. “You idiot!”
Xie Chun clutched his head and let out a small yelp.
“What century is this? What kind of society allows scams and violent intimidation?” Xu Yanghe grabbed a tissue to wipe his hands. “They’re just bullying you because you’re a fool.”
Xie Chun walked over to the sewing machine. “Help me with this.”
Together, they lifted the heavy antique. Xu Yanghe couldn’t understand why anyone in a modern home would keep such an impractical, bulky item. The surface was covered in a thin layer of dust; clearly, Xie Chun didn’t know how to use it. But then Xu Yanghe remembered the portrait of the woman in the wardrobe.
“Is this…” Xu Yanghe cleared his throat. “Your mother’s memento?”
“Huh?” Xie Chun thought for a moment and nodded. “I guess so.”
Xu Yanghe didn’t get it. What did “I guess so” mean?
Xie Chun gently stroked the smooth metal trim of the machine. “A neighbor upstairs moved out a few years ago and Mom salvaged it. She said it was a famous brand in the last century and could sell for thousands.”
Xu Yanghe: “?”
“Unfortunately, Mom wasn’t satisfied with the prices the few interested buyers offered, and later, no one wanted it anymore.” Xie Chun whispered, “Before she died, she said if the price isn’t at least three thousand, I can’t let it go.”
Xu Yanghe shook his head, trying to clear the story from his mind.