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墨書 Inktalez
Chapter Two
When he finally woke up, it felt as if he had just returned from a fierce battle. Song Bunan felt like his body had been thrown into a blender and mercilessly whipped, and now, without any extra joint lubricant to ease the pain, he rubbed his neck and sat up in an unfamiliar place. Looking around, he realized he had no idea where he was.
The aftereffects of staying up late left his head pounding. He could only start recalling the events of the previous night when he had ventured into the old house on the outskirts of town. However, this place's decor seemed completely mismatched with that eerie old house.
He was lying on a sofa, with a table in front of him piled high with snack bags. The blanket draped over him was relatively new and carried a faint scent of jasmine. The room was small and felt cramped due to the dense arrangement of furniture and various items scattered about.
As he sat on the sofa, trying to remember how he had escaped from that malevolent spirit to the safety of the third-floor balcony, Song Bunan suddenly recalled that a boy had led him here using a flashlight. After entering the house, he had wiped his face with a towel and then lost consciousness.
With this thought, Song Bunan jumped up to check if his body was intact. He touched all the places where something might have been taken away and found nothing missing, which relieved him enough to sit back down. His backpack was tossed beside the sofa; after opening it and confirming that nothing was lost, he began to think that this person must be a good guy.
While pondering why the boy who had helped him escape from the Haunted House was here, he heard footsteps coming from above. Soon after, a figure descended the stairs while yawning—it was indeed the boy who had shone the light for him last night.
He looked quite young, dressed in light green cotton pajamas, his hair tousled as if he had tossed and turned all night. Song Bunan noticed that the boy's already stern expression darkened further upon seeing him sitting there.
Before he could even express his gratitude, the boy complained in a slightly odd accent, “I mean, are you guys all crazy? This place is already falling apart; why do you keep coming here to explore? Are you hiding your salary or something?”
Hearing this, Song Bunan opened his mouth to respond but struggled to get any words out after several attempts. Finally, after much hesitation, he managed to say, “It’s… I meant ‘people like me’ and ‘this place,’ and it should be ‘hiding salary,’ right?”
As soon as he said it, he knew he had made a mistake. Sure enough, seeing the boy roll up his sleeves and approach with an annoyed expression made it clear that trouble was brewing. “So you’re teaching me how to speak now? Hey, do you have some kind of problem? I lost sleep last night because I had to come get you, and now you’re nitpicking my speech? Is it not allowed for outsiders in Ze Li?”
Ducking behind the sofa's backrest and using a cushion as cover from an impending slap, Song Bunan stammered, “No, no! I-I just… I’m not used to your accent! Please don’t be angry; I’m sorry…”
With the belief that as long as he apologized quickly, he wouldn't get beaten up, Song Bunan put down the pillow and performed a standard ninety-degree bow to apologize to the boy. There was a silence on the boy's side for about ten seconds, and then he slowly straightened up after it was clear that the boy's tone had softened.
"You’re really annoying," the boy said, yawning again as he sat down on the bench by the table. He pulled out a bottle of cola from under the table and gulped down half of it. Once he finished drinking, his mood seemed to improve a bit, and he continued, "So what were you doing in that room? Playing Truth or Dare?"
When asked this, Song Bunan felt uncomfortable all over. He rubbed his neck and hesitated for a while before answering, "Not really. I came here just to find... an answer."
Song Bunan was someone who rarely dreamed. Throughout his life, whenever he fell asleep, he would have no reactions or dreams at all, waking up with no memories of any dreams. But whenever he did dream, it would always be in this house.
"Whenever I dream at night, it’s always here. I always enter through the front door, change into slippers right away after getting inside, making sure I'm only in my pajamas. Then I go to the study on the first floor to grab a flashlight and open every door inside. In some dreams, I can open many doors; in others, before I even reach the study, I'm swallowed by strange darkness. At first, I thought it might be due to reading too many forums about this house that caused these bizarre dreams, but since this spring, I've been dreaming about it almost every night."
"I usually write down these dreams in a notebook, but starting from my first dream this year, I've gradually been unable to remember what happened in them. When I wake up, I only have fragmented memories of the dreams. But what connects them is that I always follow a sequence to open the doors in this house. It seems like there’s something I need to find and piece together. And since the first of this month, after I entered the study and grabbed the flashlight, a voice in my dream told me that I'm not truly needed and that coming back might be dangerous."
"Since then, I've still been dreaming, but each time I'm trapped in the study on the first floor. I looked for others online who experienced similar situations and found that they only had two or three dreams like this, unlike me who has been having them for over ten years. So I decided to take advantage of my graduation break to come here and see what was going on."
Facing this boy he had just met, Song Bunan felt an inexplicable sense of reassurance. He couldn't pinpoint where this feeling came from but sensed that this boy exuded a very safe aura. Perhaps it was because of his appearance; as he spoke these words while occasionally glancing at the boy, he realized that the boy didn't spare him any extra glances but kept looking at his phone, tapping away and occasionally responding with an "mm" to show he was listening. After Song Bunan finished speaking and there was a moment of silence, he finally heard the boy ask, "So how did you get to Ze Li? I patrol outside every evening; why didn’t I see you?"
Taken aback for a moment, Song Bunan quickly recalled how he got there yesterday and checked his watch before piecing together a detailed explanation: "I arrived around five yesterday evening. The car dropped me off at the intersection but wouldn’t go further in, so I walked in myself. When I entered, I found it much more dilapidated than in my dreams; however, the layout and placement of things were exactly the same. I went straight to the study. This flashlight was also found in the same spot as in my dream."
He took out the flashlight from his bag and placed it in front of the boy. From the boy's previously indifferent expression, Song Bunan could see some emotion—curiosity mixed with skepticism. He knew that what he said would be hard for anyone to believe, so he pulled out another flashlight: "This is one I brought myself; it stopped working after I checked it when entering the yard."
The boy disassembled and reassembled both flashlights carefully before looking up at him with fierce eyes: "Now tell me in detail why you attracted whatever is inside there."
At this point, Song Bunan suddenly remembered something very important. He hurriedly took out his phone and handed it to the boy: "This is easy to explain! I just remembered that since six o'clock yesterday afternoon my phone has had no signal; I haven't been able to contact my family since then. They’ll be worried if they can’t reach me... Can I borrow your phone to make a call?"
The words sparked a myriad of expressions on the boy's face. He furrowed his brows, revealing an incredulous look. "How is that possible? Ze Li is only fifty meters from the signal tower; the signal is supposed to be strong! Is there something wrong with your phone?" With that, he reached out and snatched the phone away, pressing the power button to illuminate the screen. In that moment, Song Bunan saw him roll his eyes. Then, the boy shook the phone a few times and said in a mocking tone, "Are you an idiot? How can there be a signal if your phone is in airplane mode?"
"Huh?" When Song Bunan took it back and looked at the small airplane icon in the notification bar at the top of the screen, he was so surprised that he stuttered for a moment. "This... this... this is airplane mode? I don't really understand phones. I might have accidentally touched it when I took it out to check the time yesterday, thinking it was a no-signal indicator."
"..." He read the boy's expression as if to say, "Are you really this clueless?" Feeling embarrassed, he decided not to say anything more and handed the phone back. "How do I turn this off?"
"You really are an idiot."
After calling his younger brother at least fifty times and finally getting through, Song Buxian immediately greeted Song Bunan with calm and restrained words, despite knowing his brother had some inherent lack of sense. The person on the other end sincerely apologized, and Song Buxian decided to let it go.
As he hung up and prepared to drive to pick him up, his partner walked in carrying some documents. "Where are you planning to go?"
The folder was red, and its thickness was visibly substantial with papers inside. He shot his partner a look that seemed to ask if it had to be resolved right now, receiving a confirming nod in return. "You can't just run away; they’re pushing hard over there. Tell me where your brother is, and you stay here to work."
Trying to avoid working late, Song Buxian couldn't exactly wear his reluctance on his face. He smiled as he took the folder and handed over the coordinates. "Bring him here; I'll go home tonight too. This kid was unreachable all night; he’ll have enough to deal with when he gets back. By the way, his name is Song Bunan; I've informed him of your name, so just go straight there."
Watching his partner leave the office and close the door behind him, Song Buxian maintained a smile for a moment before punching the sofa cushion with frustration.
"I don’t want to work overtime!"
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