Midnight Movie Viewing (1)
When light once again filled the entire room, Ying Yan realized she was back in her bedroom.
The phone on her bedside table glowed faintly, its pale light easily overpowered by the lamp hanging from the ceiling.
The room was simply furnished, yet cozy and inviting in its small details.
The strange room, the crystal slime, the round table, Mr. Butterfly, the black top hats, the zombies, the ghost… it all felt like a dream. The dream ended, and everything returned to normal.
The girl in white pajamas inhaled deeply, fully aware that such a thought was impossible.
She glanced at the time: just past 1 a.m.
Ying Yan retrieved her notebook and pen from the bedside table and replayed the recent events on paper from start to finish.
The scratching of the pen on paper blended into the serene silver light of the moon, as chaotic clues gradually linked together.
Strange phenomena required a medium.
In her previous life, the emergence of bizarre stories in reality required a certain number of people to feel genuine, heartfelt fear.
Songs, stories, diaries, and similar channels were all forms of media for spreading these phenomena.
After reviewing the events before sleep, Ying Yan’s gaze fell on her phone.
She set down her pen and picked up the phone.
The moment she unlocked the screen, a venomous green spilled across the display, forming the word “Weird Inquiry”, immediately dominating the center of her vision—repulsive, like maggots burrowing into rotting flesh.
—The spreading medium was this mysterious app!
Despite her inner turmoil, her face remained expressionless.
She lowered her head, writing “Weird Inquiry App” under the “Medium” section in her notes, adding a remark: “stubborn virus”.
Then she continued her analysis.
Unlike folklore, this new form of anomaly only needed a small software program to pull many people into a bizarre space, harvesting lives in various ways—a highly dangerous situation.
Fortunately, the rules were transparent and binding, avoiding the need to risk life to test them.
If enough valid information could be gathered, there was even a chance to counterattack the anomaly.
For instance, identifying the identity of the black top hats. This wasn’t particularly difficult.
From the beginning, Ying Yan had noticed that every top hat completely concealed the wearer’s identity, seemingly terrified of being recognized, while ruthlessly sending watchers to their deaths.
—Usually, this only happens when exposing one’s identity is dangerous and there is a real risk of it happening.
Mr. Butterfly’s warning, combined with his awkward, half-joking humor, subtly hinted at this.
And the tricky questions were likely a method to mitigate risk.
By reasoning this way, the one asking her questions was probably someone she had seen before.
Although the puzzle of the torn newspaper was missing a crucial piece, it was enough for her mind to recall an old news story.
—A story about a devoted husband caring for his disabled wife until her death before seeking a new life.
The content was broadly accurate, though the context was complex.
For example, the wife’s disability was caused by the husband’s abuse; her death was directly due to him.
Ying Yan pointed out inconsistencies in reports and photos, and was met with resistance online.
She dug up further details, and the antagonist countered again. Eventually, the news gained traction, and the husband was arrested.
This dramatic outcome was unexpected, for both her and the antagonist.
Her mind retained the husband’s name firmly.
Besides that, while contemplating the rules of the Round Table, Ying Yan noticed something else:
The rules stated that a person asking a question must be answered, but did not specify that a specific person must answer.
In other words, answering out of turn might be allowed.
She was eager to try, but a glance at Mr. Butterfly quietly observing the Round Table quickly doused her excitement.
Judging from the aura he exuded, this humanoid anomaly behind the butterfly mask was as powerful as any other anomaly in existence.
It was like having the company CEO personally interview a new intern—everywhere exuding strangeness and danger.
Ying Yan didn’t trust him.
Once a living person became an anomaly, their original beliefs quickly disintegrated, replaced by a new behavioral pattern built around obsession.
High-level anomalies possessed intelligence and boredom comparable to humans. With nothing to do, they toyed with their “ingredients” before using them, as past experiences had shown.
Believing Mr. Butterfly to be benevolent toward humans, and thus helpful, was impossible.
No matter how fragile or pitiful they appeared, anomalies were anomalies—feeding on humans, inherently opposed to humanity.
On her notebook’s blank page, she quickly drew a cute but ugly blue butterfly, next to it a large question mark, followed by a cautionary exclamation mark.
After finishing, she wanted to check the app again, but her body and mind had reached their limit.
The moment her fingers touched the phone, her head drooped, and she fell asleep without seeing any pop-up notifications.
By 5 a.m., the night was fading.
The living room was brightly lit—literally.
From large incandescent lamps to small desk lamps and flashlights, over a dozen lights scattered across the carpet and sofa, leaving not a single shadow.
On the sofa lay a girl, wearing sunglasses, scrolling through messages on her phone.
She sighed, sinking into the soft indentation of the cushion.
Her short hair fell naturally, the airy bangs adding a touch of sweet freshness.
A cat rested lazily on her lap, its green eyes calmly scanning the surroundings.
“Why hasn’t the master replied to my message yet?!”
At that moment, the young man who had been dozing in a chair woke instantly, expressionless.
“Yu Xiaoli, look at the time—five a.m.! Who’s still awake at this hour?!”
If not for his ghost-fearing little sister, he’d have been snug in bed.
Yu Li puffed her slightly chubby cheeks, annoyed.
“Hey, that’s the general case! We just went through something terrifying. If I hadn’t been clever, your dear sister would’ve died in that weird space!”
Even now, her heart still pounded fiercely, afraid that a ghost might follow them back to reality, hiding in the unseen corners, waiting for her to let down her guard.
Yawning, the young man straightened up, black hair brushing his shoulders.
His bones were well-formed, features delicate, exuding a decadent beauty.
“Hmm… my bad. I didn’t think you’d make up ‘Manjusaka’ instead of checking the answers I left on the floor, even the gods couldn’t save you.”
Yu Li opened her mouth to retort, but a flash of an image appeared—someone in pain on the floor, a chunk missing from the back of their head.
She had assumed it was a prop for horror effect, too afraid to look closely. Who knew the answer was hidden there?
Determined not to back down, she snapped back, “I was scared! If you were asked how many legs that centipede has, you wouldn’t know either!”
Coincidentally, perhaps because her and her brother’s rooms were close, both had been pulled into the same space by the app.
She feared ghosts; her brother feared centipedes.
With these dual “buffs,” she had to bear the family’s weight, dragging her terrified brother along blindly.
“Three hundred forty-six.”
“Ah?” Yu Li’s eyes widened, like a cat suddenly realizing the dried fish supply was gone.
“The centipede has 346 legs.”
Zhuang Ji glanced at his sister, suppressing his rising irritation, repeating, “I was just scared, I didn’t die.”
He half-closed his eyes, scooped up the cat from her lap, drifting toward the room in a ghostly manner, voice drowsy:
“Fine, wait if you want. If no one replies to you, remember to invite me for the midnight movie tomorrow.”
Yu Li acknowledged with a small “oh,” staring at her phone.
The near-death experience still kept her nerves on edge, leaving her sleepless yet energized, itching for extreme thrills.
She opened the app to review all the information, killing time.
The app’s home page was stark white, displaying personal info in the center—appearance, age, family situation—all present.
The last line showed a bright red “normal” score, strikingly noticeable.
The next page showed three monthly tasks.
The first, “Midnight Movie Viewing,” was highlighted, while the others, “Pen Spirit” and “Cave Tour,” were dimmed.
Tapping “Midnight Movie Viewing” revealed rows of films, each thoughtfully labeled with theater, showtime, and time.
The earlier options were selectable, scattered across the first ten days; the later ones were sparse, scheduled for much later.
Yu Li, bored, kept scrolling, encountering all sorts of creatively terrifying titles.
At the very end, the style of the films shifted drastically.
Previous films followed classic horror formats, e.g., Unknown Caller, Deep Mountain Tomb, Encountering the Strange (documentary).
The final page became titles like “180 Ways to Kill a Butterfly”, “Eliminate the Butterfly from the Cocoon”, “On the Possibility of Cooking a Butterfly”, “Butterfly, Go Die!”…
Yu Li’s head filled with question marks.
She clicked one, and a synopsis popped up—no theater, no showtime, no schedule.
Only a line of black text:
Script in progress, stay tuned!
What had the butterfly done wrong?!
On this point, the owl stuffed under the Round Table after being knocked out had something to say.
It had spent a day and night in silent darkness before being discovered by colleagues.
After completing its work report despite disability, it was admitted to the anomaly hospital due to claustrophobia.
All of this was caused by that damn guy wearing the butterfly mask.
A small winged sprite hovered nearby, holding a microphone seriously interviewing.
“Hello, I’m a reporter from Senlan Garden. Can you tell us about your experience with the butterfly?”
This scene should have been a wholesome daily moment; the owl host was round-headed, full of cartoon charm.
Yet, when the camera shifted to the sprite, the atmosphere became eerie.