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墨書 Inktalez
In Jiangcheng, among more than twenty funeral homes, only our makeup artist and mourner, Sister Hong, is a woman. It is said that both Sister Hong and Chen Senran worked under the previous owner of this company in their early years. Later, when the former owner encountered some issues, Chen Senran had been with him for nearly ten years, mastering the business. After discussing with Sister Hong, he decided to take over the company and run it on his own.
The condition for taking over was that Sister Hong had to stay. Although Sister Hong is also "just an employee" like us, she holds significant influence with the boss, Chen Senran. Ordinary clients aside, many "big clients" choose our services specifically because of Sister Hong.
Sister Hong has money, but not everyone can handle the job of a mourner. You not only need to be able to sing and perform but also bring emotions to the stage, crying with heartfelt expression that can move anyone. To be honest, watching Sister Hong mourn can bring tears to my eyes as well, even more so than the family of the deceased at times.
Of course, no matter how good a mourner is, they touch not those lying in the coffin but rather the living left behind. It is said that when Sister Hong first started her career, she had a moment of glory earning fifty thousand yuan. It was for a social boss whose father had died unexpectedly. At just over twenty years old, Sister Hong donned mourning attire and cried at the Spirit Altar with tears like pear blossoms. The social boss paid her ten thousand yuan in service fees in front of guests and subordinates and then tipped her another ten thousand.
Afterward, following her boss's arrangement, Sister Hong went to thank the social boss for his generosity, and in a moment of excitement, he tipped her an additional thirty thousand. My monthly salary is just over three thousand yuan; what Sister Hong earns is something else entirely—easier than picking leaves from a poplar tree.
Sister Hong resembles a distant relative of hers named Xiyan, perhaps even more charming than Xiyan herself. I heard that when Sister Hong was twenty-five, she had a husband who died suddenly at home after less than six months of marriage without any illness or warning. Thus, rumors spread in the community calling her "Heavy Yin Energy, Husband-Killer," and she remains single to this day.
Brother Biao mentioned that whether among society or within our industry, many men covet Sister Hong's beauty, yet none dare openly express their desire to marry her. When the company offers benefits, I’ve been pulled in by her as “labor,” and I’ve visited her apartment; it lacks any "masculine aura," meaning Sister Hong is not that kind of woman.
As for the "Heavy Yin Energy, Husband-Killer" label—that's just nonsense. Our company has three floors: the first floor has a reception desk and two funeral parlors along with two lounges and a small kitchen where Sister Qiu prepares lunch for us every day. Additionally, there’s Sister Hong’s workspace.
The second floor contains offices for our boss Chen Senran and supervisor Uncle Ming, a business negotiation room, a storage room, and two small rooms that serve as dormitories for Brother Biao and me. I’m not sure what happens on the third floor; there’s a door installed at the stairs leading up there that belongs to Sister Hong’s private space. Sometimes she doesn’t go home and stays upstairs instead.
Ever since Brother Biao mentioned hearing crying sounds at night last time, I've been particularly attentive. I don’t believe in Demon Gods, but I do believe there are things in this world that modern science cannot explain. Well, this topic is quite vague; you wouldn’t understand if I explained it anyway.
Let me give you an example: the author had a playmate in elementary school whose father worked as a projectionist in the village. He often came home late at night. The author had many siblings, and his aunt lived with them to help their mother take care of the little ones.
One summer night, his father went out to show a movie again. He lay in bed, unable to sleep, constantly staring at a movie poster on the wall that depicted either "Transformation" or "Painted Skin." He was very scared and cried continuously. His mother and aunt thought it was stuffy in the room, so they carried him and his siblings outside into the yard.
As soon as everyone was out, the entire roof of their house collapsed!
They were very good friends, and even as they grew up, he insisted that it was a true experience he had.
That day, it was late and the sky was dark like a pot lid. Suddenly, heavy rain poured down.
There were no customers that day, so the store manager Uncle Ming, receptionist Sister Su, boss Chen Senran, host Brother Jiezi, and several workers left early.
But poor me and Brother Biao had no way to go out and buy food.
In the middle of the night, I woke up hungry.
I got up and went to the small kitchen on the first floor. There wouldn’t be any leftovers; I just hoped to find a cucumber or a tomato to satisfy my hunger.
But I only found two onions.
An onion is an onion.
I peeled one and took a big bite. It was sweet with a hint of spiciness that made my eyes water.
I chewed while heading upstairs. Just as I was about to push open the door to my small room, I suddenly froze.
Crying—there was definitely crying!
With a large piece of onion in my mouth, I dared not chew anymore and tilted my ear to confirm if I was hearing things.
The soft sobbing continued; it was a woman’s voice, accompanied by moans.
The crying was faint and suppressed, exuding endless sorrow and grievance in the silent dark night—it was quite chilling.
I swallowed the piece of onion hard and tiptoed to locate where the crying was coming from.
It couldn’t be from the first floor; I had just come from there. I listened carefully at the doors of each room on the second floor but found nothing unusual.
It must be from the third floor.
The iron door leading to the third floor was locked from the inside.
Sister Hong didn’t seem to have left yesterday.
Was it Sister Hong who was crying?
As I listened more closely, the sound of crying was faint and indistinct. Sister Hong had always been kind to me, so I needed to confirm whether she was upstairs and if something had happened to her.
Fearing that I might disturb Brother Biao or scare him, I returned to my room. It didn't even occur to me that it was the dead of night. I picked up my phone and hid in the bathroom to dial Sister Hong's number.
The phone rang with a persistent beeping sound until, just as I was about to hang up, Sister Hong finally answered with a heavy nasal tone.
"Sister Hong, you didn’t go home today?" I wasn’t foolish enough to directly ask if she had been crying.
"What’s wrong? It’s raining at night, so I didn’t go back," she replied.
"Are you... are you okay upstairs?" I carefully chose my words, afraid to mention that I had heard a woman crying from above; I didn’t want to frighten her.
"I’m fine. Why are you calling me at this hour? You little brat, just hang up." The call ended abruptly, and when I listened again, it seemed there was no crying at all.
Perhaps it really was just my imagination playing tricks on me.
I didn’t sleep well that night. Around four in the morning, I vaguely heard the sound of the rolling shutter door being pushed up and then pulled down again, before everything fell silent once more.
I felt a bit paranoid, pulling the blanket over my head and drifting off to sleep.
But in reality, the rolling shutter door of our shop had indeed been opened and closed again. A tall figure slipped out from beneath it, glancing back upstairs as he left.
A flash of lightning illuminated his face, revealing a striking scar that ran diagonally across it.
Was he a ghost or a man?
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