Chapter 7

The second loop.

Jiang Mingran was hiding among the clutter.

Dark yellow paper bags were stacked in front of him. Now that he was close, he could finally tell what they contained.

Chinese medicinal herbs.

The bags were filled with herbs and bore scrawled labels: “Bupleurum,” “White peony root,” “Dodder seed,” “Lycopus,” “Spatholobus stem”…

The sharp, bitter scent of the herbs mingled with the faint stench of decay from the kitchen. The strange combination made Jiang Mingran feel sick.

Suddenly, something seemed to move inside a bag on his left.

Jiang Mingran started and whipped his head around.

The bag shifted a few times. Then a gray mouse scurried out.

Just a mouse… Jiang Mingran let out a breath of relief, only for his heart to climb into his throat again.

He’d been able to imitate a mouse’s squeak since childhood, and his impressions had always been convincing. Just now, he’d naturally fallen back on it as a signal to warn Shao Lan.

But there were real mice here. If one squeaked, it would give Shao Lan a false signal.

Lives were at stake. Jiang Mingran silently apologized, then reached out and grabbed the mouse.

He moved fast. Before it could even squeak, he’d snapped its neck between his fingers.

The dead mouse fell to the floor. A few drops of blood seeped from its mouth. Its clenched paws loosened, and a small round object rolled out.

Jiang Mingran took a closer look and nearly threw up.

It was an eyeball.

Cloudy and shriveled, with blackened flesh and blood clinging to it, it looked as though it had been separated from a corpse for a long time.

He turned his head and retched silently, forcing himself not to look at the dead mouse or the eye.

He raised his gaze toward the kitchen, then froze.

At some point, the kitchen door had opened.

It was pitch-black inside, with no one in sight. Only a small blue flame glowed beneath the clay pot simmering on the stove.

The killer was out!

Why had she suddenly come out?

Jiang Mingran knew at once that something was wrong. He was about to signal to Shao Lan when he sensed something.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

Above him, the woman bent at the waist, an eerie smile on her face, and reached out.

Her hands found Jiang Mingran’s head. Then she pressed down as though bursting an orange.

The last thing he saw was red and white brain matter splattering out, soaking the dried-up eyeball on the floor.

…

Jiang Mingran finished writing.

He was shaking all over. Blue-black ink spread across the paper beneath his fountain pen.

Even now, he couldn’t understand how the woman had pinpointed his location.

“I’m sure I didn’t make a sound…” His pen traced the words feebly across the page.

After a moment’s silence, Shao Lan took the pen and wrote one word.

“Smell.”

Jiang Mingran’s eyes widened.

He thought he was beginning to understand.

“The killer can’t see. Her hearing isn’t the only sense that’s heightened. Her sense of smell is, too,” Shao Lan wrote. “But she’s not sensitive to every smell. Otherwise she’d have found us long ago.”

“It’s fresh blood she can smell.”

In other words, the mouse Jiang Mingran had killed had given away his position.

He lowered his head, filled with regret.

If he hadn’t drawn the woman out, would Shao Lan have survived?

Seeming to read his thoughts, Shao Lan shook his head. “It’s not your fault. We didn’t have all the information.”

“Also…” Shao Lan thought of something that had been bothering him. “Do you remember what those herbs were?”

Jiang Mingran wrote down everything he could remember offhand. After struggling to recall more, he added a few others. “I really can’t remember the rest.”

Shao Lan looked at the list. Bupleurum, white peony root, dodder seed, lycopus, spatholobus stem, raw cattail pollen, Chinese raspberry, glossy privet fruit.

He read quite widely and had a rough idea of what some medicinal herbs were used for. Bupleurum, for instance, soothed the liver and relieved stagnation. Raw cattail pollen was apparently used to promote circulation and dispel blood stasis, while spatholobus stem nourished the blood and improved circulation.

But he wasn’t sure about many of the others.

Just as Shao Lan was about to give up, Uncle Bing came over.

“Looks like a recipe for ovulation decoction. Women drink it when they’re trying to have a baby.”

Jiang Mingran brightened. “Uncle Bing, you know traditional medicine?”

Uncle Bing waved a hand. “No, no. Just a coincidence. When I was little, a barefoot doctor lived next door. Women in the village were always going to him. There was a rhyme we all knew how to sing…”

“Bupleurum, peonies white and red, lycopus and motherwort; spatholobus, achyranthes, artemisia, sappanwood, cattail pollen. Privet, raspberry, dodder, goji, psoralea; soothe the liver, nourish the kidneys, encourage ovulation.”

Shao Lan compared Uncle Bing’s rhyme with Jiang Mingran’s list. Sure enough, most of the herbs matched.

“So those herbs outside the kitchen are something a woman would drink to get pregnant?” Jiang Mingran said. “That clue doesn’t seem much use. It just means Uncle Bing really did see what he thought he saw. That monster in the kitchen is actually pregnant.”

No. That was part of it, but there had to be more.

Shao Lan stared at the paper, countless fragments of clues coming together in his mind.

How long would it take to finish that mountain of herbs? Had she been drinking this bitter medicine for years?

What had the diarist said? “I don’t want to hurt her.”

Of course he would agonize and hesitate. She was his wife, after all. She’d endured so much bitterness trying to conceive their child.

Bitterness? Yes. When she killed, she said, “So bitter”…

Shao Lan closed his eyes. The violent pounding in his head nearly overwhelmed his senses.

Something’s wrong, a voice inside him said. Something here is strange.

“Lan.” Jiang Mingran patted him.

Shao Lan opened his eyes. Jiang Mingran and Uncle Bing were both looking at him with concern.

Neither was good at taking charge. Right now, Shao Lan was the only person in this room they could rely on.

He quickly wrote down his reasoning. “Judging by the last loop, the woman in the kitchen can hear us making a call. Whoever calls the police will be killed.”

Jiang Mingran went pale. “Then there’s no way out…”

They couldn’t simply escape. They had to call the police. But the only usable phone was in the living room, and if they used it, the killer in the kitchen would hear.

Shao Lan closed his eyes. Looked at that way, it did seem impossible.

Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d overlooked something.

Jiang Mingran watched him anxiously. Just as he reached out to pat Shao Lan again, Shao Lan’s eyes snapped open.

He snatched up the pen and wrote, “Go out.”

“Go out?” Despair washed over Jiang Mingran. Had Shao Lan lost his memory? “Didn’t we try that the first time? We went out and died on the spot!”

Shao Lan looked at him. “Where did we die?”

“The stairwell…”

“Exactly. In the stairwell, when we went downstairs. What if we stay on this floor?”

Jiang Mingran paused.

“Across the hall.” Shao Lan pressed the pen hard against the paper. “The neighbor across the hall is dead. His apartment is empty.”

Uncle Bing looked utterly lost, but Jiang Mingran remembered.

The diary they’d found during the last loop had said:

“When I got home from work, I saw the door across the hall was open. Wang wasn’t home. I went into my apartment and opened the fridge. I saw Wang. Wang was in my fridge.”

Wang was the neighbor across the hall. He’d offered to help the diarist, but had been killed before he could do anything.

“I don’t know what this game actually is. But so far, every piece of information we’ve been given has been useful,” Shao Lan said. “I think the game area includes the apartment across the hall.”

Hope flared in Jiang Mingran. “Then I’ll go over there and call the police!”

He was about to jump up when Shao Lan caught him.

“It’s only a guess,” Shao Lan stressed. “If I’m wrong, you’ll die instantly, just like the first time.”

Jiang Mingran trembled a little.

“But we don’t have any other choice!” he said. “We won’t know until we go in!”

Shao Lan thought for a moment. His gaze traveled around the main bedroom until he spotted a red alarm clock on the bedside table.

A hint of amusement appeared in his eyes. “No,” he said mildly. “We aren’t the ones going in.”

…

Jiang Mingran opened the security door. Once again, the dim corridor came into view.

He cautiously slipped outside and headed for the apartment opposite. Wang’s home.

He put a hand on the handle and pulled gently. With a creak, the door opened.

It wasn’t locked! Ever since its owner died, the door had been standing ajar!

Jiang Mingran quickly took out the alarm clock and threw it inside.

It landed with a thud, then began ringing shrilly.

Rrring! Rrring!

Jiang Mingran looked back.

At the other end of the corridor, the security door he’d just closed opened.

Then a mop-shaped shadow appeared on the wall.

It was the woman.

She was terrifyingly tall. Standing in the corridor, she had to stoop to keep her head from touching the ceiling. Her long, thin body resembled a mop handle, topped by a mass of disheveled hair that covered her face. When she turned, the shadow on the wall shifted into profile. A huge bulge appeared partway down the “mop”: her swollen belly.

Slowly, she crossed the corridor toward the ringing alarm.

One step. Two.

Cold sweat covered Jiang Mingran. He didn’t dare take a full breath.

He pressed himself against the wall and held his breath, watching her walk past him.

Suddenly, she stopped.

She turned her head. One bloodshot eye showed through the tangled hair and met Jiang Mingran’s gaze.