Chapter 3

Chapter 3

My first reaction was that someone was playing a prank.

In our line of work, we encounter many homeowners who pretend to be ghosts. Some do it to drive down the price, some for publicity, and some are simply mentally unstable.

I took a photo of the memorial tablets, intending to keep it as evidence.

The moment the flash went off, an extra shadow appeared on the wall behind the altar.

The shadow was very short, standing right behind me.

I whipped my head around.

There was no one behind me.

Looking back at the photo, the shadow was still there.

It was pressed against my leg, its head tilted to the left, looking like a seven-year-old child.

I zoomed in on the photo. The shadow had no facial features, only a charred, blackened mass.

A sudden “clack” echoed in the main room.

The seven pairs of chopsticks on the altar sank an inch into the bowls simultaneously.

I didn’t go any closer.

A test sleep report demands objectivity. The entry time, indoor temperature and humidity, noise sources, and abnormal records must all be clearly documented. I forced myself to follow the procedure, opened my laptop, and created a new document.

The report title jumped out automatically.

“Test Sleep Record for the Soul-Returning Night at the Old Zhou Residence”

I hadn’t typed those words.

The cursor skipped down on its own, typing a second line.

Test sleeper: Zhou Jiu.

Test subject: Zhou Jiu.

I slammed the laptop shut.

Just then, footsteps came from the backyard.

They weren’t heavy-one after another, sounding like a child’s bare feet stepping on wet mud.

I grabbed my high-powered flashlight and crossed through the central hall.

The backyard was smaller than I remembered. An old scholar tree stood by the base of the wall, its trunk hollowed out by fire like a gaping black mouth. A copper basin sat beneath the tree, filled with joss paper. There was no fire, yet ashes were drifting upward on their own.

The ashes floated into mid-air, gathering into a blurry human shape.

I raised my flashlight.

The figure dissipated.

But a child was crouching in the corner of the wall.

His back was to me, and he was wearing a hospital gown. His hair was burnt and uneven.

I heard my own voice turn very hoarse. “Who is it?”

The child slowly turned his head.

His face was exactly the same as mine when I was seven years old.

Except the left side of his face was charred, his eyelids were fused together, and the corner of his mouth was torn all the way to his ear.

He grinned at me.

“You’re finally back to sleep.”

I took a step back, bumping into the doorframe.

The child remained crouched in the corner, his black pupils staring straight at me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He tilted his head. “I am Zhou Jiu.”

“I am Zhou Jiu.”

“Then why aren’t you on a memorial tablet?”

I was speechless.

The child stood up and stepped through the ashes on the ground with his bare feet. With every step, he left a wet, black footprint, as if he had just crawled out of ruins after a fire had been extinguished.

I raised the flashlight. The light hit his body and passed right through.

He walked up to me and looked up.

“Grandmother said the living cannot sleep in a dead person’s bed,” he said. “But you’ve slept in one for fifteen years.”

My head buzzed.

My memories from fifteen years ago were fragmented.

I only remembered a great fire, thick smoke, and someone carrying me as they ran outside. That person’s arms were scalding hot, their clothes were on fire, yet they still pressed me tightly into their chest.

Later, I woke up in the hospital, and everyone said I was a survivor.

But I couldn’t remember who saved me.

The child reached out to touch my wrist.

Ice cold.

I instinctively shook him off.

His smile deepened. “Don’t be afraid. Before the fifth watch tonight, you must return what you borrowed.”

“Return what?”

He pointed toward the main room.

“Your life.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the grandfather clock in the central hall chimed.

Eleven o’clock sharp.

After the first chime, the courtyard gate closed on its own. The bolt dropped with a dull thud.

At the second chime, the doors to the east and west wing rooms opened simultaneously.

At the third chime, the seven memorial tablets on the altar all turned toward me.

At the fourth chime, a fire flared up in the kitchen.

At the fifth chime, a woman’s voice drifted from the kitchen.

“Little Jiu, time to eat.”

It was my mother’s voice.