"Goddamn it, what the hell is going on here?"
I cursed out loud. I’d somehow become a woman—alive and kicking, even if only in a dream. The feeling was deeply unsettling. I wobbled in high heels, barely managing a few steps before stumbling. It really was a dream. I glanced around: the faces of the people on the street were all blurry and impossible to make out.
Granny Nina once told me: as long as I find the framework at the heart of the dream, I can leave. During dream induction before, I’d seen it too—the white light, the source of the dream. Once I find the origin, I can get out.
I looked around, tossed the floral umbrella in my hand aside, and sure enough, when raindrops hit me, I didn’t feel a thing—not even the slightest chill.
This is a dream—looks real, but it’s all an illusion. I glanced around at those faces I couldn’t make out, feeling a creeping sense of unease.
The rain kept falling, and only the occasional rumble of thunder overhead gave me any sense of reality. I kicked off the high heels and started running down the street.
Suddenly, music drifted over. I looked up and saw a brightly lit, small Ferris wheel right there on the street, its lights flashing as it spun, soft music playing.
A chill crept up my spine. I turned my head again—aside from those indistinct, faceless people, nothing seemed out of place. Still, I stayed alert, noticing that all the umbrellas on the street were black. It was odd.
I kept walking. This street seemed endless—I felt like I’d been walking forever, but I was still here. The people on the street moved as always, a steady stream of figures with black umbrellas.
I stopped and looked around. Everything felt unreal, yet somehow painfully real. I was a little stunned.
The sound of water rushing into the sewer echoed clearly. I started to wonder: what is the true source of this dream?
A buzzing sound crackled. I looked around in surprise—an old, dilapidated stairwell, a flickering white incandescent bulb, the whole corridor shrouded in a sinister, eerie gloom. The doors all around had no handles, plain white, with not a single number.
The ticking of a clock drifted over. Judging by the sound, it was coming from the end of the corridor, where the flickering bulb hung.
Step by step, I moved forward. A faint rustling made me turn my head: a cracked patch of wall, sand spilling out in a steady stream. Yet when I checked the floor, the sand that fell vanished without a trace.
A sharp 'thud'—a footstep. I spun around, fists clenched, but saw nothing. The sound was like leather shoes striking smooth concrete.
The ticking continued as I crept toward the corridor’s end. The lone incandescent bulb flickered overhead. I moved with caution.
Suddenly, I stopped, eyes wide. After walking for a while, I realized there was nothing to my right—just a clear blue sky. I stared in shock. The sun was visible, but I felt no warmth, and its light didn’t reach the corridor.
I could only keep following the ticking. At the corridor’s end, on a wall a little over a meter tall, hung a large clock. The time: 11:59. The second hand crept forward. I took a deep breath.
A series of heavy thuds—midnight. Suddenly, a rough hand shot out and clamped around my neck. I screamed, but reacted quickly, swinging my fist at the masked man beside me, aiming for his stomach.
His stomach was as hard as steel—I was powerless against him. Only then did I remember I was a woman now, fragile as a chick. The masked man clamped a hand over my mouth, grabbed my waist, and dragged me across the floor.
I struggled a few times, then stopped resisting, burning with anger. If it were any other day, someone with this much strength would be no match for me—I’d finish him with a single punch.
A click echoed. My face was pressed down onto a soft mattress. Dim yellow light flickered around—a small storeroom, by the look of it.
With a harsh rip, the man tore my dress. One hand squeezed my throat, the other waved a small knife in front of my face.
The masked man’s eyes gleamed with twisted delight as he choked me. I was nearly suffocating. My first thought: this guy’s a pervert.
I clenched my fists, waiting for a chance. I was no match for his strength, so I turned my head aside, letting him straddle me, his hand groping my chest.
On a nearby shelf stood a metal rod—hope flickered in me. The man started stripping my clothes off, one piece at a time. My anger boiled over.
I endured, waiting for the right moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his eyes gleaming with excitement. I realized then: this was someone’s dream, filled with naked, murderous intent.
He pried my legs apart, lifting one up. Just as he fumbled with his belt, I kicked him hard in the crotch.
He howled in pain, then lunged at me with the knife. Without thinking, I rolled toward the metal rod.
A harsh scrape—the knife stabbed into the mattress. I rolled to the floor, felt my foot grabbed, but managed to snatch the metal rod. With a loud clang, it hit the ground. I gripped it and swung behind me. A dull thud—the man cried out.
I broke free and sprang up, gripping the rod in both hands, staring at the man. He clutched his forehead but stood up, knife in hand, lunging at me again.
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“Son of a bitch, what the hell is this?” I thought back to what just happened, feeling humiliated. The man stabbed at me again, knife raised.
But it was useless—his movements looked frozen to me. As he lunged, I swung the rod, striking his hand. The knife clattered to the floor. I raised the rod and smashed it down on his head.
Again and again, until he lay motionless in a pool of blood. I walked over, tore off his mask—his face was a blur, impossible to make out.
I gripped the rod, opened the door, and stepped out—same corridor as before. I glanced back at the storeroom and the man. Suddenly, I remembered something: a major murder case from my childhood.
Back when I was in elementary school, a murder happened in a storeroom just like this, in our apartment building. A woman was killed after work. The scene was cordoned off, but people were still terrified. Suddenly, I felt eyes watching me from behind.
I spun around. Instinctively, I raised the rod and struck at the ghostly woman who suddenly appeared, covered in wounds, blood dripping from her head.
A dull thud—the female ghost whimpered, reaching out and grabbing my throat. Her face, slashed to ruin by a knife, pressed close. Her eyes glared at me, full of malice.
And then, I sensed something odd. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw I’d turned back into a man—identical to the masked man who attacked me moments before.
I’d seen those hateful eyes before—on a rainy, gloomy day. My cousin said he’d never seen a murder scene, so he dragged me to that building. That’s where I first saw the female ghost.
After that, I had nightmares for days. In my dreams, the female ghost kept staring at me. I was terrified. I shouted and kicked at her, but she vanished.
Suddenly, I realized this was a nightmare. Everything now was an illusion. Even though her hands strangled my neck, I felt no suffocation. The fear was gone.
I turned and found I could move—could even run. The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. I’d changed back to myself.
I ran through the corridor, searching for the exit to this dream.
I had to find the exit, or I’d be in danger.
“Where are you going? Come back.” The female ghost’s mournful voice echoed behind me. I stopped, recalling the dreams I’d had about her. Suddenly, she appeared in front of me again, whimpering, arms outstretched.
I turned and ran again. After a few tries, the feeling became familiar. This dream—I'd seen it before, but couldn’t remember where. The female ghost chased me through the whole building.
"It’s the place." I snapped awake. The female ghost seemed to want to show me something. I kept running. When she appeared, I’d turn and run the other way.
Room 216—at the entrance, I saw the room number. On both sides stood female ghosts, identical, their eyes filled with emotion as they stared at me.
“Are you seeking my help? Sorry, when I was a kid, I didn’t know anything.”
I remembered—when I was little, I had several dreams of being chased by this female ghost, always ending at Room 216’s door before I woke up.
“That’s so cruel, Ethan Zhang. I died horribly, you know—the killer still hasn’t been found. You’re so heartless…”
Mona Ouyang’s mocking voice drifted over, sharp and strange.