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墨書 Inktalez
The dream was cold.
He ran helplessly forward, barefoot on the wooden floor, his oversized pajamas billowing behind him, creating additional resistance with every movement. Just moments before, he had entered the courtyard as usual and had smoothly retrieved the flashlight from the study. But why had the outside world become enveloped in thick fog in the time it took to close the door? The flashlight's beam struggled to penetrate the almost milky-white mist, but he could hear something non-human roaring in the distance.
Run fast!
His racing heart seemed to speak, a voice that was not his own yet clear and urgent.
Keep running!
The voice grew more insistent, accompanied by the roar drawing closer. Unable to discern direction, he followed the sound, gripping the flashlight tightly as he charged ahead. He couldn't see where his feet landed with each step; all he could perceive was the unyielding fog. The light from the flashlight flickered briefly as it swung, a reminder that he had not yet been abandoned by brightness.
The roar was right behind him now, clearer than ever, and so was the sound of his own breathing—heavy and labored, accompanied by a hissing from his chest under the strain. The fog filled his nostrils like droplets of water, making it hard to breathe; his throat protested painfully, sharp stabs of discomfort and increasingly hot gasps robbed him of the will to continue moving forward.
He finally stopped, hands on his knees like a fish out of water, desperately gasping for air to ease his discomfort. But the voice would not give him a moment's respite.
Run fast!
Don't stop!
He wanted to keep running; after all, the roar was now just a breath away. But he couldn't do it anymore. Dizziness from oxygen deprivation made the fog before him explode into flecks of snow; a buzzing in his ears aggravated his already muddled mind. He realized that at some point, the flashlight had gone completely dark. He could see nothing—no sense of where he was or what his body looked like—only that when he looked up after the roar abruptly ceased, there was a face before him.
It should have been a human face. An oval visage partially obscured by long black hair, eyes bloodshot and bulging without eyelids, and a large hole in its forehead where white maggots writhed within. There was no nose—or perhaps it was just a hole—this triangular cavity connected with an upper lip that seemed to vanish altogether, revealing a row of unnaturally white teeth above an absent tongue and chin.
The smell of blood surged through his nostrils like a wave crashing into his skull, causing his stomach to churn violently with acid bitterness rising up. But before he could vomit, a dull pain struck his abdomen; looking down revealed that the fog surrounding him had dissipated, and a hand devoid of flesh had plunged deep into his belly.
Then he saw a skeletal hand emerge slowly from within him, slick with blood and innards; yet strangely, the pain vanished. His increasingly heavy head could no longer support him standing there; as he fell forward, this thing caught him securely.
He heard that voice weaken into a sigh. Just before he sank into complete darkness, laughter echoed in his ears—a chilling sound like that of a venomous snake slithering into the gaping wound in his abdomen.
Awakened, Song Bunan's first instinct was to check for any holes in his belly, but the IV needle in his left hand captured all of his attention. Looking up carefully revealed that he lay in a hospital room; fragmented sunlight streamed through the curtains while beside him sat his weary yet smiling mother.
After being rushed to the hospital due to sudden symptoms in the middle of the night, he was informed that he had suffered from gastric perforation. Staring at the white ceiling with its yellow light tubes flickering above him, Song Bunan's first reaction was relief at not having to go to school again.
However, compared to that dream, this fog was indeed thicker than ever—but there were no roars or strange voices urging him to run. The fog felt dry instead of damp and carried a faint scent wafting through it.
He recalled where this scent might come from; gradually, his racing heart began to calm down.
He was right there in Jiang Family Courtyard, safely sitting on the freshly made bed; outside wasn't dilapidated or dark but merely part of a dream. How he had fallen asleep remained unclear, but it must have been due to that scent's influence.
Song Bunan placed his bag beside him and lay comfortably on the bed, instinctively pulling up the covers against the cold. He wasn't asleep and couldn't fall asleep either—his phone was dead and no one could reach him; he lay in an unfamiliar place with an open door filled with mist outside. Although there were no unsettling sounds around him, danger felt omnipresent.
He told himself that he was dreaming; having experienced being erased by someone last time, even if Bald Qiang emerged from the mist shouting about fighting bears this time around, he could accept it calmly.
There was no fatigue weighing on him; rather, he felt thirsty—unsure which sip had left him parched. He turned over onto his side facing what he believed should be the door and sighed as he pulled his bag closer for comfort—without his usual teddy bear to hug while sleeping tonight, this would have to suffice.
It was too quiet here, so quiet that he felt his own breathing was becoming a disturbance. Song Bunan's mind had already begun to wander, drifting from thoughts of alien spaceships to ancient beasts, running through every wild idea he could conjure.
Xiao Mei stood at the door of Song Bunan's room, accompanied by Zhang Long, who held a nearly burnt-out incense stick in his hand. The two of them looked at the person lying asleep on the bed, and they both shared a look of relief. As the incense burned down to its end, Zhang Long gently brushed the ash onto the threshold, signaling to Xiao Mei that she could go in and wake him.
However, as soon as Xiao Mei stepped into the room, the person on the bed suddenly sat up as if startled by something. Although his eyes were closed, his expression was one of terror, as if he had seen something unimaginable in a dream.
This unexpected reaction caught both of them off guard outside the room. Zhang Long looked down at the ash on the door and pondered how this guiding incense usually didn’t take effect until it was completely burnt out. Ignoring what their leader had instructed earlier in the hall, he moved closer to Xiao Mei, intending to wake Song Bunan himself.
But before he could speak, it was Song Bunan who broke the silence. His face had returned to normal, but his eyes remained tightly shut. In a tone deeper than usual, he asked Xiao Mei, "Xiao Mei, why did you bring that old man from upstairs who passed away?"
As soon as those words left his mouth, Zhang Long felt a chill run down his spine, and cold sweat broke out all over him. Despite Xiao Mei's quick reflexes—she snatched a cloth from under a vase on the table and began fanning away the ash on the threshold—Song Bunan continued with a silly grin, saying, "Goodbye, old man." With that, he leaned back and fell asleep again.
Zhang Long dared not say a word; he turned and dashed out of the room toward the hall. Xiao Mei watched as Song Bunan snored softly on the bed, her expression a mix of happiness and worry.
She couldn't forget what she had seen at Song Bunan's house—the spirit of that old man was strong but devoid of any resentment; he was not a vengeful ghost. A ghost capable of affecting real-world objects must have had powerful connections during their life or willingly accepted being sent on errands after death. There were indeed capable individuals living above Song Bunan’s home, but their intentions remained unknown.
By the time Zhang Long gathered everyone together, Xiao Mei had already managed to wake Song Bunan. The two sat by the bed while Song Bunan mumbled incoherently about what had just happened. Noticing people entering the room, Xiao Mei nudged him gently: "Why don't you tell them what you just said?"
Lying there with his eyes closed and battling imaginary Transformers in his mind, he heard strange footsteps approaching amidst his thoughts. The footsteps were slow and deliberate, almost as if someone were intentionally dragging their feet across the floor tiles. They drew closer until they reached the door.
Pausing all mental images in his mind, he opened his eyes to find that most of the fog had dissipated. Everything in the room was slightly blurred but recognizable; he could clearly see figures approaching through the haze.
Sitting up abruptly, he noticed two figures entering: one tall and one short. The shorter figure was Xiao Mei, her face cold and expressionless as she stared directly at him. Following her was that old man who had attacked him days earlier—his face pale with an eerie smile and eyes glowing green amidst the fog. Both hands rested on Xiao Mei's shoulders, his nails dark as night.
He couldn't forget how that old man had clawed at him before; feeling too intimidated to speak directly to him, he turned to Xiao Mei instead with questions in his eyes. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, the fog cleared completely and soft white light poured into the room. The light spread across the floor towards Xiao Mei and the old man; just as it reached them, the old man withdrew his hands and vanished.
Feeling lost and confused, he called out after Xiao Mei's retreating figure: "Goodbye, old man!"
After saying this, Song Bunan turned to see a group of people who had just entered; each face wore an indescribable expression. He couldn’t quite grasp what was happening now and didn’t know how to analyze it either; all he could do was cast a pleading glance toward Xiao Mei.
The person who had maintained a faint smile since hearing their story caught his gaze and simply shook their head slightly in response—indicating that everything was fine.
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