My mind was a mess. Right now, my memory—everything I thought I knew—felt strangely foreign and uncomfortable. It was as if these memories, the things I’d done, belonged to someone else.
"Ethan Zhang, did you forget?"
Just then, my head buzzed—a steady voice echoed in my mind. Right as I felt I was about to remember something, a deliberate cough interrupted my thoughts.
"Ethan Zhang, what's wrong? There are still thirty minutes until you get off work. Have you finished your tasks?"
It was that fat manager. I quickly turned my head and gave him a polite smile.
"Manager, I finished a while ago. The afternoon tasks can't start yet—we still have to wait for the design department..."
Suddenly, the fat manager leaned in, his face tense. He brought his head close, lips slightly parted but teeth clenched, the corners of his mouth curling into a cold, silent sneer. Judging by his expression, he was mouthing the word 'death.'
At that moment, I started to get angry. Suddenly, from the fat manager’s mouth came a sharp, electronic beeping noise—grating and unnatural. As he leaned in, blood started pouring from his seven orifices. His deep, dark eye bags made his eyes bulge like a corpse’s. With a sickening squelch, blood splattered everywhere as his eyeballs burst from their sockets. I screamed in horror.
"Calling for ghosts, Ethan Zhang?"
The fat manager stood up from his desk, glaring viciously at me. My hand trembled as I pointed at him.
"Just now, you... weren't you..."
There was nothing around me. The fat manager hadn’t come over at all. It was like I’d been daydreaming—dreaming of ghosts.
"Lost your mind? Is that it, Ethan Zhang?"
I quickly forced a smile and sat down.
"Hmph, you’re always into those ghosts and gods and stuff. Sooner or later, if you meet a real ghost, it’d be best if it ate a frustrated guy like you!"
My cheeks flushed. As the clock signaled the end of the workday, the whole office burst out laughing. The voice came from across from me—my favorite female coworker. It wasn’t the first time; she’d often tease me, and I never had a good comeback.
I have an obsession—almost madness—for the thrill that comes from fear.
"If you really see a ghost, Ethan Zhang, make sure to snap a photo for us."
A coworker next to me muttered, tossing in a sarcastic jab as he passed by.
All day, I felt wounded. I don’t know why they hold such a grudge. All I did was scare that female coworker into fainting. I’d planned to explain today, but she wouldn’t hear it—she couldn’t stand being near me even for a second.
Dragging my exhausted body, I finally arrived at the stop for the 144 bus. I pushed through the throng of people and, as soon as I touched the ground, let out a sigh and headed home.
But my surroundings always felt a bit unclear. Whenever my mind tried to fill in the gaps, it only made me feel more uneasy—an intense discomfort.
The feeling was so strong that just thinking about it gave me a splitting headache. I watched as a few people left Simon Wang’s shop. Remembering what happened that morning made me angry—he’d put the word 'death' right in front of me.
Seeing Simon Wang cheerfully sending off customers only made me angrier. I work myself to the bone every day, while he just writes a few words and the money rolls in.
Still fuming, I glared at Simon Wang and walked over. On top of everything, that female coworker not only ignored me today but also mocked me—and I knew she’d been badmouthing me behind my back. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
As I passed Simon Wang, he shot me a cold look.
"What are you staring at? Never seen one before? Just another wage slave."
I couldn’t help it—my voice got louder, and I scoffed, not even turning back as I tried to leave. But suddenly, Simon Wang grabbed my left hand.
"What do you want?"
I shouted, clenching my right fist in anger. Without a word, Simon Wang pulled me into his shop.
Just as I was about to curse him out again, Simon Wang let go of my hand, pulled out a sheet of rice paper, and spread it on his usual writing desk. He dipped his brush and began to write, the strokes bold and lively. Crouching there for a while, he finally wrote five characters.
On it, in large characters, was my name—Ethan Zhang. In the spaces below, between the three characters, he wrote 'human' and 'ghost.' When Simon Wang finished, he turned to me, gesturing for me to look. I glanced at it and sighed.
Thinking it over, my anger faded. His handwriting was genuinely good—bold, balanced, and full of presence. Even the pressure of the brush was perfectly controlled.
"It’s really well done," I muttered, turning to leave. But Simon Wang grabbed me again, still silent, rolled up the rice paper, and forced it into my hands.
"I don’t have any money, you know."
Before I could finish, Simon Wang shoved me toward the shop entrance, giving me meaningful looks. I had no idea what he wanted.
"Are you sick or something?"
I looked at Simon Wang, embarrassed. He squatted down, extended a finger, and started writing something. Through the marks in the dust, I saw the word 'death'—and it made me deeply uncomfortable.
I was furious and wanted to throw the rice paper in his face. But then I reconsidered, shook my head, and hurried away.
I was exhausted today and just wanted to sleep early. But standing at my room door, I hesitated to open it. Room 444—my chosen number. When the building was completed, they’d planned to skip 444 because it was all fours, considered unlucky. But when I heard about it, I insisted this room be mine.
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Since I like a thrill, I didn’t care about the unlucky room number. In fact, I’d heard that such numbers attract ghosts, so I chose it. These days, all the units are for rent. I’d helped the developer a lot—installing the gate system, surveillance, and training the property management staff.
The landlord said I could rent the place first, and after three or four years, the rent would count as my down payment. Then I could pay off the mortgage slowly. I felt like I’d gotten a great deal.
But tonight, for some reason, just looking at that room number made my scalp tingle. A sense of dread crept in. Still, I took out my key, put it in the lock, and turned it.
With a click, the door opened. I quickly turned on the lights—bright, nothing there. I breathed a sigh of relief, but something felt off. There should have been something there.
"Last night, I must have seen a ghost."
I muttered, turning on every light I could. Still, there was nothing. Just as I was feeling disappointed, I saw the Horror Stories book I’d thrown on the floor last night now sitting on the table. I walked over, feeling the urge to throw it out immediately.
But that craving for excitement inside me pushed me to sit on the sofa, pick up Horror Stories, and open it.
The content was the same as yesterday, but when I turned to the second page, something new appeared—a string of words.
"Hi, are you satisfied, Mr. Ethan Zhang? The horror prepared for you last night will be even more thrilling tonight. Keep your eyes wide open. See you at midnight."
That single line instantly stirred up the longing deep inside me—the craving for real, intense stimulation. I flipped through Horror Stories again, but the rest of the pages were blank. I closed the book, humming to myself.
"It's really no big deal."
I muttered, glancing at the skull-shaped clock above the TV. It was just 10 PM—two hours to go. Excitement bubbled up inside me; I could hardly wait.
It was that feeling—afraid, yet eager to experience it—that made me decide to stay in tonight.
Then, the sense of unfamiliarity in the room crept back in. I wanted to make tea but couldn’t find a cup. The location of the cup popped into my head suddenly, but then I couldn’t find the tea.
When I went to shower, I couldn’t find the body wash or shampoo. Eventually, the locations popped into my mind—they were in the small drawer under the coffee table. After my shower, I grabbed a bottle of baijiu from the kitchen cabinet, made some peanuts, and sat by the coffee table, looking at the stack of horror movie DVDs under the TV.
I remembered collecting these since I was a kid. Some were old videotapes. The first horror film I ever saw was 'Painted Skin.' I was young then, didn’t really understand, but got completely absorbed in the world of ghosts and monsters. Even though I was scared to death, I still fell in love with it.
I waited quietly for midnight. I was already a bit tipsy, slumped on the sofa. Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the door. I jumped up and ran behind it.
I heard a rustling sound and saw a sheet of rice paper being slipped through the crack in the door—it was from Simon Wang.
"Run." Just two simple words. I grinned, picked up the rice paper, and tore it to shreds. With a thud, I sat on the floor, knocked my bottle against the wood, and shouted loudly.
"Let me tell you—yeah, I’m scared, but I enjoy it. So what if it’s a ghost?"