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Century-Old Haunted House
墨書 Inktalez
My name is Lin Xia, and I am 25 years old, a graduate student majoring in literature.
I inherited my grandmother's old house, a two-story building steeped in the atmosphere of the Republic of China.
The weathered red brick walls, like the deep creases on an elderly face, silently tell the story of time's passage.
The intricately carved wooden windows have long lost their once-vibrant colors, appearing particularly mottled under the erosion of wind and rain.
Everything is imbued with the marks of time, as if it has been frozen in a moment, solidified into an ancient scroll.
As I pushed open the heavy wooden door, the decayed wood let out a painful creak, as if protesting my intrusion.
A wave of damp, musty air hit me, reminiscent of a ghost that had been asleep for years, enveloping me instantly with its chilling presence.
Amidst the mustiness lingered a faint scent of sandalwood; these two contrasting aromas intertwined to create a strange atmosphere that felt oppressive and unsettling.
The air was thick with an unusual ambiance, like an invisible net tightly wrapping around me, making it hard to breathe.
I couldn't help but tuck a loose strand of my wavy hair behind my ear, attempting to dispel the unease within me.
My pinky finger lightly tapped on the diary in my hand, the cool sensation at my fingertips sharpening my awareness.
My grandmother once told me that there were some unknown secrets hidden within this old house—secrets like a Pandora's box that, once opened, could never be closed again.
Since childhood, I have been curious about these stories, fantasizing about unraveling these mysteries while also harboring fears of the unknown dangers they might bring.
Now, standing here alone with the ancient wooden floor creaking beneath my feet, I felt as if I had stepped into an uncharted territory.
I took a deep breath, striving to remain calm and reminding myself not to be governed by fear.
I turned on the flashlight I carried with me, the dim yellow light slicing through the darkness like a sharp sword.
The beam illuminated the scene before me; the hall was furnished with some antique furniture, covered in a thick layer of dust that resembled a blanket of snow, concealing the marks of time.
On the wall hung a yellowed family portrait, where the people in the photograph were dressed in attire from the Republic of China. Their gazes seemed to be fixed on me, as if they had transcended time and space, scrutinizing me with an unsettling intensity that sent chills down my spine.
I approached an antique table, its surface adorned with intricate carvings that had been worn smooth by the passage of years, losing their former luster.
I noticed an old set of keys resting atop it, lying quietly as if waiting for my arrival.
The keys appeared to be made of some kind of metal, cold to the touch like a piece of ice, emanating a chilling aura.
They were engraved with peculiar patterns that resembled ancient script or mysterious symbols, their meanings eluding my understanding.
As I picked up the keys and examined them closely, I felt as if they were trying to convey something to me. An ancient and enigmatic energy flowed from them into my hand, sending a shiver through my body.
Suddenly, I heard faint footsteps coming from upstairs—soft yet distinct, as if someone was deliberately treading lightly. My heart raced, pounding like a drum within my chest.
I tightened my grip on the keys; their coldness offered me a momentary sense of calm. Nervously, I scanned my surroundings, the beam of my flashlight flickering in the dim hall as I sought the source of the sound.
Could there be someone else in this old house?
The thought struck me like lightning, igniting a wave of panic within me.
I held my breath, striving to control my trembling body as I cautiously made my way toward the staircase. Each step was taken with utmost care, as if I were walking on the edge of an abyss.
In the dim light, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure darting past in the corridor on the second floor—swift as the wind and gone in an instant.
Sweat began to bead on my palms as an inexplicable sense of dread washed over me, engulfing me like a rising tide.
I forced myself to calm down, telling myself that this might just be my imagination. I ascended the staircase step by step, the wooden boards creaking beneath me, as if mocking my fear.
The corridor on the second floor was long, with closed doors lining both sides. Each door resembled a tightly shut mouth, concealing secrets unknown to anyone.
I shone my flashlight into each room, the dim yellow light seeping through the cracks of the doors and casting eerie patches of light inside, hoping to find clues that would unravel the mysteries of the old house.
Suddenly, I heard a low sobbing coming from a room at the end of the corridor. The cries were piercing and sorrowful, like a sharp knife stabbing at my eardrums, as if they were narrating endless pain.
I hesitated for a moment, my heart filled with fear and curiosity, but I gathered my courage and walked toward that room. My footsteps echoed in the silent corridor, sounding particularly clear.
I gently pushed open the door, which let out a shrill creak, as if warning me not to enter.
A chill swept over me, like a cold hand brushing against my cheek, sending shivers down my spine.
The room was dimly lit, with only a small window allowing a faint beam of light to filter in. The light illuminated the dust-filled air, creating shafts of light.
I saw a woman dressed in Republic of China attire sitting on the edge of the bed. Her long hair hung loose around her face like strands of black seaweed, obscuring her expression.
She had her head bowed, her shoulders trembling continuously as her sobs grew louder and more anguished, as if she were pouring out all her suffering.
Tentatively, I called out, "Hello?"
My voice echoed in the empty room, sounding particularly jarring.
The woman suddenly lifted her head. Her face was streaked with tears, resembling winding streams; her eyes were hollow and despairing, like a stagnant pool without a ripple.
On her forehead was a blood-red mark resembling a blooming poppy flower, strikingly vivid against the dim light and appearing hauntingly beautiful.
I recognized her; she was Jiang Yao, the original owner of the old house and a victim of the Centennial Mystery. Her photograph had once hung in the hall downstairs, and I recognized her at once.
She slowly stood up and walked towards me, her figure appearing particularly eerie in the dim light, like a ghost, drifting uncertainly.
I instinctively took a step back, and the key in my hand fell to the ground, producing a crisp sound that echoed sharply in the silent room.
Jiang Yao stopped in her tracks, her gaze growing colder, like a sharp ice blade, as if she intended to consume me.
She extended her hand, pointing at me, and said in a hoarse voice, "Who are you? Why are you here?"
Her voice seemed to come from the depths of hell, carrying an eerie aura that sent chills down my spine.
I felt a wave of coldness wash over me, as if I were bound by an invisible force, unable to move. My body stiffened, like a statue.
I struggled to speak but found myself unable to make any sound; it felt as though something was blocking my throat, making it hard to breathe.
Jiang Yao advanced step by step, her eyes filled with resentment and anger, like a burning flame that threatened to incinerate me completely.
Despair washed over me—was I really going to die here?
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