“What the hell is this crap?” I couldn't help but curse, my voice echoing in the silence. The thick tome in my hands—Horror Stories—flipped open with a rustle, but every page was blank. Not a single word, not a single story. Just endless, mocking white paper.
Frustrated, I slammed the thick Horror Stories book to the floor. Someone was clearly playing a sick joke on me. My anger mixed with a restless craving for fear—a thrill I couldn't satisfy. I felt my blood boiling, tossed off my blanket, and ground my teeth in fury.
Clutching my aching forehead, I grabbed the edge of the bed and struggled to my feet.
"When did my place get hardwood floors?"
I muttered, rubbing the sore spot where I'd slipped looking for my slippers and banged my head on the nightstand.
But then I froze. The room's layout was all wrong. The walls were covered in white floral wallpaper. There was a writing desk with a laptop on it, the mouse pulsing with a red breathing light. I liked that kind of rhythm, but now it felt alien.
A bedside lamp glowed near my pillow. I walked to the door, intending to turn on the light, but my hand brushed against something soft and squishy. I yelped, recoiling instantly. Whatever I'd touched... it moved.
I staggered back several steps, fumbling for the lamp, and aimed its light toward the door. My eyes widened in shock as I screamed.
What I saw was a human hand—rotting, crawling with maggots, bones gleaming through pale, decayed flesh. Just for a split second, that grotesque hand pressed against the light switch... then vanished without a trace.
Panting, I crept closer, reaching out to flick on the light. The room finally flooded with brightness, and I let out a shaky breath.
"It was just a hallucination... just a hallucination..."
I muttered, gripping the doorknob. Suddenly, a pounding knock shattered the silence, making me jump. Someone was hammering at my bedroom door—heavy, relentless, as if their knuckles were bones rapping against the wood.
My throat tightened as I stared at the door. The knocking grew louder and louder. Sweat slicked my palms and the back of my hand. Tonight was cursed. Ever since I received Horror Stories, I'd seen that rotting hand, and now someone was outside my bedroom, pounding on the door.
"Who... who is it?"
I called out. The knocking stopped abruptly, leaving a suffocating silence. I wiped the sweat from my brow, tilted my head, and pressed my ear against the door.
Suddenly, a face appeared—rotting, oozing green pus, its eyes milky white. I collapsed to the floor, flailing and screaming in terror.
But there was nothing. My whole body trembled, my legs useless beneath me. I clung to the coat rack behind me, heart pounding, mouth open in shallow breaths.
Everything vanished. Nothing remained. After a long moment, I finally managed to stand, my legs still trembling. Gripping the wooden coat rack, I edged toward the door, my heart hammering in my throat. I forced myself to turn the doorknob.
With a wild yell, I swung the coat rack at the door the instant it opened, lashing out at whatever might be lurking outside.
But there was nothing. Just a shabby little living room—a glass coffee table, a wide gray-white sofa, a few round leather chairs. On the wall, a skull-shaped clock flashed red, its mouth frozen at 12:31.
Most days, I chased after thrills and got a kick out of scaring others. Once, I played a ghost prank on a female coworker I liked—she ended up foaming at the mouth and had to be rushed to the hospital. She never looked at me the same way after that.
But tonight, the long-buried craving for fear had returned, gnawing at me from within. My back prickled with cold, goosebumps rippling across my skin. It was freezing.
A low hum filled the room—the air conditioner, still on. The temperature read only ten degrees. No wonder I was so cold. I sneezed, set the coat rack down, but it toppled over. Panicked, I lunged to catch it.
Suddenly, in the darkness, a pale hand shot out and caught the rack. Relief flooded me—if it had fallen, it would have scratched the floor for sure. Without thinking, I blurted out,
"Thanks."
But a chill shot up my spine. A cold, mocking laugh echoed. A flash of white—and I saw a person, face blue with death, only their head and hand visible, grinning at me. I screamed and bolted back into my room.
I slammed the door shut behind me, rushed to my desk, and yanked open the drawer. I grabbed a blue amulet inscribed with the word 'Buddha' and hung it around my neck, mumbling prayers to Amitabha.
I burrowed under the covers, wrapping myself up, shivering and chanting quietly.
The whole night crawled by. I barely slept, drifting in and out of a restless haze, until the alarm clock blared beside my desk.
Dragging myself up, I yanked open the blackout curtains. Sunlight stabbed into the room. Seven o'clock sharp. My eyes burned at the light, and I flopped back onto the bed, drowsiness washing over me again. But I forced myself up—I couldn't risk being late and getting chewed out by my fat boss.
I opened my bedroom door and saw the coat rack still lying on the floor. For a second, I wondered if it had all been a dream. But seeing it there, I laughed. Last night was terrifying, but the thrill had left me deeply satisfied, even if I hadn't slept a wink.
My place was tiny—just a small living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom where I could shower. I washed up quickly and headed out at 7:10.
I lived in a mixed-use building. Shops lined the ground floor—snack bars and small stores. Noisy during the day, but after ten at night, it was quiet. The rent was cheap enough.
Downstairs, I grabbed a bowl of noodles at a breakfast stall, then headed for the bus stop. As I walked, I spotted a man ahead—white shirt, black pants, black cloth shoes, about forty, gaunt, high cheekbones, salt-and-pepper hair. He was holding a rolled-up piece of rice paper and staring straight at me.
I knew the guy—Simon Wang. He made his living writing calligraphy for others, and his work was pretty popular. But today, Simon kept staring at me, almost like he was waiting. I hadn't talked to him much before.
There was something off about the way Simon looked at me—cold, unsettling. I approached him at the shop entrance, wondering if I'd done something to offend him. Suddenly, with a swish, Simon unrolled the rice paper in both hands.
A huge character for 'death,' written in bold, sweeping strokes, filled the paper. Simon blocked my path, holding the rice paper out in front of me.
I stared in disbelief. Simon looked devastated, his eyes blazing as he glared at me.
"What does this mean?" I asked, but Simon didn't move or say a word. He just trembled, shaking the rice paper so the word 'death' rustled in the air.
I didn't have time for this. Seeing that word first thing in the morning pissed me off. I brushed past Simon without looking back and started jogging—the bus was coming.
Bus 144 was pulling in. I sprinted toward the crowded stop, bracing myself for the daily battle to squeeze on.
At the office, I made it on time. My fat boss shot me a dirty look, but I slid into my seat and got ready to work. My job was nothing special—just managing the website backend. But suddenly, my mind went blank. Staring at the screen, I froze.
"I don't know how to do any of this. What's going on? I was sure..."
"Ethan Zhang, do you even want this job?" My boss's vicious voice barked from behind me. I clutched the mouse and hammered at the keyboard, muscle memory taking over. The moment of disorientation vanished.
The female coworker I liked sat across from me. My morning tasks were done, and I was itching to talk to her. But remembering the past—how I'd meant to scare the guys and ended up terrifying her instead—I could only blame myself.
That feeling of alienation crept back in. I glanced around the office—cubicles sliced the space into boxes, everyone hunched over their screens. But to me, it all felt foreign, unreal. Even my own home, when I thought about it, seemed disturbingly unfamiliar.