Astrology Hall with Flesh and Blood

Chapter 74

In her writing, the melancholy Little Mermaid is still desperately searching for her lost memories at the bottom of the sea. "If one day I can recall every word he said to me, even if it means turning into sea foam," she passionately declared, "I would be willing!"

And the truth? It remains forever hidden in the deepest recesses of his memory. She responded to him with a silent back, then asked him in a trembling yet resolute tone, "Tell me, I can hold on."

"Beating around the bush won't work on me. Are you seeing someone else?" Her icy words echoed in the air.

"What are you thinking?" he sighed. She suddenly turned her head, her eyes gleaming like a mother leopard in the night: "Then why did you get a divorce? Why?!"

There was no respectable reason, no mistress she hated, no shameless, wanton vixen who would be despised by all decent women. He just said he wanted a divorce; how could she accept it willingly? Was she not beautiful enough? Not good enough? Not interesting enough? Not loyal enough? Not capable enough? Or did she not love him enough? He watched her vent her anger, understanding that she was like an unstoppable volcanic eruption. He simply said:

"You're doing well. But the gentleness I need is something you can never give me."

A sorrowful memory. Even as a fish wife, she still searches for this love, caring only for the final outcome, the end of everything. Is it really so? After that accident, he thought he had found liberation, broken free from her suffocating curse. Her death only granted him a moment of freedom; when he awoke, he was back to square one. She still clung to him, even in a different form; even as a fish, her devilish snake tail still coiled around him relentlessly. It was as if she were proclaiming to the whole world: He is hers, and he will never leave!

Now, she's using her deep affection for him as a selling point, starting the serialization of her autobiographical novel, *The Abyss*. He coldly observes his wife's every move, feeling that the image she leaves in his heart is becoming more and more like its true form, equally ugly. Meanwhile, he ignores the fact that the water in the house is rising higher and higher, already above his shoulders. His wife swims freely in this water all day long, as if she were a fish in water. *The Abyss* will publish its final chapter tomorrow, and at the same time, she will announce a major piece of news, a momentous event that will leave a lasting mark on the history of world literature.

She wanted to reveal her identity as a fish-man in front of all the media at the press conference.

She's gone hopelessly insane. That was his first reaction, so he tried to reason with her, urging her to consider the reputation of the beautiful writer, even if not for her husband. But her reply was a cold, hard string of words:

"To entertain myself, I must first entertain others. To please readers and increase the sales of 'The Abyss,' this sacrifice is worthwhile."

This very argument was the culprit that made him so angry he could grind his teeth, ultimately leading to the cooling of their marital relationship! He still remembered how her eyes shone so brightly when he resolutely resigned from his public office to become a freelance writer, harboring a magnificent and colorful literary dream; he recalled how, when she was unknown and her submissions were rejected and she was cheated, and the flame of hope that had just been ignited was quickly extinguished, and when she repeatedly hit a wall, she cried helplessly and desperately in his arms; he witnessed firsthand how the light in her eyes gradually dimmed and eventually vanished; and his retrospective ended on a certain afternoon when she excitedly gave him a kiss, telling him that her debut work was about to be published, and then shyly made an additional condition.

Her photos. From that moment on, it became the watershed moment that led to the couple's falling out.

"The editor has already spoken, saying that my new look is great, extremely impactful, and will definitely become the most controversial topic of the year," she typed smoothly line after line, clearly having given it much thought. "Of course, with increased exposure, book sales will also soar, and you'll have to grace us with your presence at the celebration party!"

What? He couldn't believe his eyes. Had he gone mad, or had the whole world gone mad? Was she planning to leap onto the stage of the celebration party as a fish-headed monster, surrounded by spotlights to promote her novel? Yes, he was certain that the gimmick of a "fish-headed writer" alone would be enough to attract a large number of curious readers. But why didn't she ever consider his position! Who was he? Her husband, a man who had been living peacefully with his fish-wife in the water for several days. Once exposed to the mass media, how could he ever face society again?!

We must stop her! At all costs!

The water rose silently up his shoulders, gradually overflowing his neck and submerging his lips. He was oblivious, his eyes fixed on his wife, a fisherwoman, typing away at her keyboard. He remembered that fatal day, when they had rowed their boat on the lake, passing beneath the eerie branches of the dark, green plants. Her hands were immersed in the deep green water, her fingers spread wide, letting the alluring water flow through them. The quiet, dark lake seemed to captivate him; he preferred gazing at the unfathomable depths to facing his wife. Weariness, boredom, and apathy—all these had vanished. He only wanted to drift along like this, free from worries and sorrows—and then, who shattered this tranquility? How did the boat lose its balance and capsize? How did they both fall into the water? In a split second, as he surfaced, he slammed his head against the port side of the small boat. The sharp pain made him dizzy, but the icy lake water jolted him back to his senses. The boat had capsized, but thankfully he managed to grab hold of it. But what was that heavy, throbbing feeling? What was preventing him from climbing back up and escaping this watery prison?

From beneath the dark, murky surface, a woman's pale face slowly rose to the surface. "Help..." Her weak voice was nothing short of an ominous cry, "Save me..."

How could he forget her? She had always been afraid of water, and out of instinct for survival, she clung to his trouser leg like a lifeline. He clung desperately to the small boat, struggling to avoid being dragged into the water by her weight. As if encouraged by his actions, her hands snaked up his clothes, from his legs, waist, all the way to his chest—she must have grabbed his collar, for he was struggling to breathe. "No!" he pried her hands away. "Don't come near me—just get rid of her—don't touch me—don't see her—don't drag me down—don't hear her voice—never be with her again—just let me get back to my peaceful life!" Their hands were entangled fiercely, indistinguishable from each other, and in the struggle, her head finally surfaced, exhaling a long, wet breath. At that moment, he raised the camera hanging around his neck.

“I used to love you so much, even more than I loved my own life…” he murmured to himself, and in the next moment, he smashed the glass down on her head.

Without a sound, her eyes widened in astonishment, larger and more beautiful than ever before. She slid softly into the water, a trickle of blood slowly flowing from the back of her head, rising and dissipating in an eerie and alluring way. She sank, her outstretched limbs like those of a dancing puppet, vibrant yet lifeless. She sank deeper and deeper into the darkest depths.

Then, she became a fish wife.

She opened her mouth wide, and instead of air, a series of crystal-clear bubbles emerged from her nostrils. Water overflowed his head, filling the entire house, and he breathed in it as naturally as a fish. His wife, still writing before him, the monitor's glow flickering in the water. Strange, he looked down at his chest; when had he ever bought such a shirt, its scales shimmering with a dark gold sheen? He reached out his hands, slowly towards her neck—if she had any. For a fish, the most effective way to murder is to destroy its gills, right? He wanted to stick his fingers into her gills, but…!

Where did his hands go?

What was that soft, fan-like thing on his upper body called again?

She slowly turned around, responding to him with a smile that could be described as breathtakingly beautiful among fish. Their four fins embraced tightly, their scaly bodies rubbing and colliding, producing a dull thud in the water. He felt an unprecedented freedom and ease, especially as he swung his powerful tail fin, cleaving the water like an arrow. He gained eyes larger than ever before, his vision filled with his fish wife's beautiful face. They kissed passionately, their lips tightly sucking on each other in the dark depths, never to be separated again. His human body swirled and sank slowly with the current, much like their love gradually decaying in the stagnant water. Only by breaking free from the shackles of human form could the pure essence of love be extracted.

The fisherwoman and the fisherman were both happy.

A tragic incident occurred yesterday in a residential building in a certain city, where a couple was found murdered in their home. The victims were renowned online writer Meng Meng and her husband. They were found dead in their room, their hands clasped tightly together. Strangely, the room showed signs of prolonged water immersion, and Meng Meng's body was severely decomposed due to the prolonged immersion. Her upper body appeared to have been eaten by an unidentified creature, almost reduced to bones. It is understood that Meng Meng had previously survived a shipwreck and was scheduled to release her new book today. This murder is undoubtedly a significant loss to the literary world. Meng Meng's nearly skeletal hands were still intertwined with her husband's until death, a poignant reminder of the depth of their love…

Short Story Collection: Horror Night Tales of the Moldy Mansion

His frugality wasn't due to a simple and cautious nature, but rather the pressure of soaring housing prices and stagnant wages. He and his girlfriend had been dating for years, and were well past the age of marriage. However, a new house, especially with a 30% down payment, renovations, and a bank loan that might take thirty years or even a billion years to pay off, felt like an unyielding mountain weighing heavily on their heads. A house near the Third Ring Road was simply unthinkable without 20,000 yuan per square meter, and even in the "Yangtze River Oasis" area outside the Fifth Ring Road, the average price had already reached 7,300 yuan per square meter just after the Spring Festival this year. To settle down and start a family, they needed at least 200,000 yuan. Until they saved that much, they had no choice but to rent. Whenever she saw the rent bills handed to the landlord, her face would darken—complaining that he was useless, not only without a car, but also without their own little place. Since they were both destined to be mortgage slaves for life, sooner or later they'd be wearing these shackles called "house," so what difference did it make? His girlfriend's disapproving gaze always made his legs go weak.

Finally, one day, his girlfriend couldn't bear the endless waiting any longer and ran off with another old man who owned a house and a car. "I love you, but I love a house with my name on the deed even more," she said coldly. With one less person to pay the rent, he simply gave up the apartment he had been renting and just wanted to find a small place suitable for a penniless bachelor like himself.

His only requirement for the new house was that it be cheap; the cheaper the better, ideally less than 1000 yuan per month—almost impossible within the city's fifth ring road. However, fate seemed to smile upon him, and he found an excellent house without much effort:

"Single room, cable TV, basic furniture. 100 yuan/month. Phone: [phone]."

Following the landlord's directions, he found the house. It was an incredibly old house, its walls entwined with lush vines, exuding an eerie atmosphere. He noticed the air was thick with a damp, musty smell, a stench that seeped into his very soul.

The room was impeccable; in fact, with a rent of 100 yuan, any complaints were superfluous. The room was small, barely enough space to turn around besides the bed and desk. The entire place, from the ceiling and walls to the furniture, exuded a gloomy, old-fashioned atmosphere, much like the air outside. Like all unsuspecting landlords, the landlord was too lazy to promote the property, simply displaying an indifferent face, waiting for his decision. He nodded silently, only to ask a question out of the blue after signing the contract:

"What's that so dark thing on this wall?"

The landlord merely snorted and pointed his index finger downstairs, where sunlight filtering through the lush foliage made the signboard in front of the house shine.

The Delicate Mansion.

"No matter how many people live there, the Mei Mansion can still accommodate them all." This isn't just the landlord boasting; it's based on substantial data. Each room is a mere 15 square meters, barely enough for one person. Yet, even with such a small space, buying it at today's market price would cost around 100,000 yuan. Renting it for only 1200 yuan a year is surprisingly cheap. I really don't know how the landlord manages to recoup his costs.

However, as the saying goes, you get what you pay for; the dampness in the room was extraordinary. The once pristine white walls were now covered in a mixture of black and brown mold, forming large, oddly shaped patches that at first glance resembled abstract murals! A heavy, damp feeling permeated everything; even the television, desk, and bed were speckled with mold. The dampness seemed to seep into his very being, leaving him sluggish and aching. Sometimes he would wake up at night to find his slippers filled with a thick, sticky liquid clinging to the soles of his feet.

On the third day of moving into the unfashionable mansion, the landlord posted another "For Rent" ad, and coincidentally, the room next door was vacant. He vaguely remembered what his neighbor looked like when he moved out: a burly man with a frighteningly long beard who would come home from work every day and shout louder than anyone else. He had originally thought the bearded man was too noisy and was hoping the landlord would be accommodating and let him move to another room, but to his surprise, the bearded man actually left on his own. While relieved, he couldn't help but feel suspicious. The bearded man, who was always so loud and boisterous, was surprisingly quiet this time!

The room grew increasingly damp, and he often felt as if he were wading in icy water, the chill penetrating to the bone, followed by a general aches and weakness. He thought it might be due to insufficient sunlight; after all, a massive sycamore tree stood before the only window, inevitably blocking the sun. So, he cautiously asked the landlord to move him to the bearded man's room. He had already scouted it out; the view from his window was unobstructed and excellent.

The landlord was quite accommodating. After packing his meager belongings, the move was completed cleanly and efficiently. Sure enough, sunlight streamed through the bearded man's window, but the pervasive humidity offered no escape. Faced with that intense, almost tangible moisture, the sunlight, like a painted surface, lacked presence, devoid of warmth or temperature, leaving only a hazy, ethereal golden glow.

The mold on the wall was still an eyesore. Compared to the original room, the mold here seemed darker and more vividly outlined. He didn't know if the mold was a random aggregate of mold, but the mold on the wall seemed to have a different shape. He raised his flashlight and slowly slid it up along the black edge. A sharp triangle, the acute angle pointing to the ground, followed by an elliptical arc along the edge of the triangle, with what seemed to be a vertical line in the middle, and two deep black horizontal lines across it—he suddenly shuddered, feeling a genuine fear of the secret he had just discovered. Horizontal lines were eyes, vertical lines were noses, and that huge triangle… a beard, the beard the mover was so proud of…

He stood there, stunned, as if all the strength had been drained from his body. Beneath the moldy stubble on the wall, a black crack appeared, silently growing like a gaping maw, its lips stretching from the floor to the ceiling, so black…

"Xiao Qing, I have a house!" His girlfriend, who received the call, could hardly believe her ears, yet she still excitedly rushed to the location he had mentioned. The moment she saw "him," her mind was still replaying the conversation they had just had:

"How many bedrooms and living rooms? What's the floor area? Is it a multi-story or high-rise? Most importantly," she couldn't contain her excitement, "have you paid the down payment yet?"

They had a relationship spanning many years, and she firmly believed that as long as they had a house, they would have a happy life together. His response was a chilling sneer:

"Don't worry," his voice was exceptionally charming, "the Mei Mansion can accommodate as many people as you want."

So she stood before the door, eyes wide, wanting to scream, but fear silently choked her, rendering her speechless. On the increasingly dark wall, the mold, through its unconscious aggregation, highlighted his face. He opened his arms, as if overjoyed to welcome her. The mold seemed to be telling her with glee:

"Xiao Qing, I have a house now!"

With soaring housing prices, it's not just love that's going to rot.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Vomiting Woman (Part 1)

A strange couple moved in next door.

Please don't misunderstand; I'm not someone who enjoys prying into others' privacy. It's simply out of a sense of vigilance befitting a law-abiding citizen, a somewhat lukewarm curiosity about the things around me. The area where I live was once the city center over a decade ago, but with the city's rapid expansion, it has long since fallen beyond the third ring road, becoming an aging, outcast in urban planning, no longer favored by builders. The old buildings have no need for demolition and reconstruction; they are simply left to age inefficiently under the sun and rain. Unlike the vibrant new large residential communities, this old area is mostly inhabited by aging workers and office workers, gradually consuming their remaining vitality in the monotonous routine of their daily work.

Therefore, the couple's stay carried a unique and special significance. Although there was little furniture and their clothing lacked any sense of luxury, I always had a vague feeling that the couple couldn't fit in with our place. In other words, their appearance, temperament, and attire all seemed out of place in this dilapidated old house. Leaving aside the wife—in fact, I only saw her twice, once as she was taking out the trash, and once as she was getting milk, both times leaving a deep impression—the husband often went out dressed casually, but his cheap clothes looked too new, as if specially prepared to match the atmosphere of the old town, creating an odd sense of incongruity. He left promptly at 8:00 every morning and returned at 10:00, invariably carrying a basket of groceries. Then, the clanging of kitchen knives would come from next door, followed shortly by the harsh aroma of cooking food carried on the wind, telling me that lunchtime had arrived. For the rest of the day, the couple kept their door tightly shut and didn't step out again. I've been wondering why the two peacekeepers never go out to work from morning till night. This mystery has been puzzling me for days.

I forgot to introduce myself. I'm an unknown freelance writer with countless pen names, and I don't want to tell you my real name. Every day, I painstakingly peddle my shoddy articles to various newspapers, magazines, and publishers. Whether it's romance, fantasy, documentary, or supernatural, whatever genre is popular and sells well, I'll follow suit and write that. For a while, I even wrote erotic novels for a Taiwanese publisher, using a pseudonym, of course… But I digress. In short, I'm just a frustrated young writer with plenty of time to spy on my neighbors and brazenly call it "gathering material." The saying goes, "Literature originates from life but transcends it." If a writer doesn't strive to get close to the essence of life, how can they evoke a sense of resonance in their readers?

In short, precisely because I'm an unsuccessful writer, I genuinely dislike those who reap the rewards without putting in much effort. Since the couple next door don't work, they're probably either making a living by writing like me, or receiving a stable investment income or something similar, living a comfortable life. From my month of persistent observation, their life is maddeningly mundane; aside from the aforementioned schedule, only one thing needs a slight modification. Every Friday afternoon, the husband, being the man, goes out, and three or four hours later, he returns carrying or lifting a huge woven bag filled with square, brick-like objects, looking quite heavy—because his face is usually scrunched up and he's covered in sweat—and for his thin, frail husband, the bag is indeed rather heavy. Several times I couldn't resist helping him, but the thought of the potential questions that might follow quietly silenced my helpful angel.

The bag probably contained books, judging by their shape and weight. Buying so many books at once, and every Friday like this, their spending was unusually extravagant! I was both envious and jealous. If I could afford it, who would want to read ebooks online? I would have already bought all my favorite novels in print. However, I wondered if the person reading was the husband or wife. As a fellow man, I didn't mean to criticize, but the thin husband certainly lacked a certain "literary air" in my eyes; he seemed more like a poor, low-level civil servant, the kind of person whose legs would go weak at the slightest fart from their boss. As for the wife…

A gentle breeze suddenly swept over me, releasing wisps of five-colored steam, refreshing and pleasant. I had never seen such a captivating woman. The ancients had described her as "moving like a willow swaying in the breeze," a phrase I had always thought was merely a literary exaggeration. But seeing her, just one glance, was like a bolt from the blue. "Willow swaying in the breeze"—I unhesitatingly bestowed those four words upon her. She bent slightly, her long floral dress rippling like spring breezes, dancing alluringly around her waist. Her neck, partially hidden by her long, soft black hair, was fair and translucent, like a delicate lily glistening with dew. When she smiled, her small nose would wrinkle up adorably, making her appear both innocent and helpless.

"How could God create a woman like this?" I muttered in dissatisfaction. Her body was clearly that of a mature, well-rounded married woman, yet her face and demeanor were those of a young, innocent, and delicate girl in the prime of her youth. Most of the time, she acted as a dutiful housewife, but sometimes she made some utterly ridiculous mistakes that would make most people laugh. For example:

"Would you like some milk too?" She stood in front of the milk carton, looking quite nonchalant, and said to me, who was secretly eyeing her, "Here you go."

"But this was ordered by your family, right?" I didn't say it aloud, but kept my eyes fixed on the ground and whispered, "No need." I can be shy too!

"It doesn't matter, anyway, it's a magic box!" she explained cheerfully, as if afraid I wouldn't know. "Just close the lid and wait a day, and a bottle of milk will automatically appear inside. Isn't that amazing?"

It sounds just like those "money-generating sacks" from fairy tales, doesn't it? "This house must be blessed by a god, it's wonderful!" she clapped her hands triumphantly. The so-called "god" probably refers to the milkman, right? In my mind, I couldn't help but picture the milkman with the most typical Chinese worker face, his snow-white wings spreading behind him, descending from the sky to distribute milk... Thankfully, I swallowed back the laughter that was about to burst from my chest.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Vomiting Woman (Part 2)

But then again, it's surprisingly endearing that a mature young woman like her still believes in fairy tales...

I couldn't help but feel indignant. It was one thing for others, but this adorably scatterbrained (or, as the popular saying goes, "eccentric") beauty was being taken by that lowly civil servant type. The couple were completely mismatched! While my husband was out grocery shopping, I abandoned my writer's nocturnal habits and started staking out suspicious spots like the garbage dump, mailboxes, and milk boxes, seizing every opportunity to strike up a conversation with my wife. Not to brag, but I'm a handsome and talented young man, more charming than my scrawny husband in every way. Plus, I have a silver tongue; it's hard not to win a woman's heart. As I expected, my wife was completely unguarded. With skillful guidance, she opened up and unleashed a torrent of family secrets.

My initial guess was only partially correct. Her husband wasn't a civil servant, but a popular novelist. Hearing this, I was taken aback. Compared to a frustrated young writer like myself, a bestselling author… that's a status shrouded in mystery! Even with only a 20% royalty, selling 50,000 copies of a novel at 20 yuan each would bring in 200,000 yuan. In contrast, my thousand words were worth a paltry 50 yuan—the difference was dozens of times greater! Envious, I couldn't help but wonder why such a wealthy author would condescend to live in our impoverished community.

"Why?" The lady turned her beautiful almond-shaped eyes in confusion, tilting her small head to one side. "Why what?"

It seems that great writers often prefer solitude, letting the loneliness of being away from people stimulate their inspiration and creativity. Could it be that the novelist next door is doing the same thing? With my limited imagination, I try my best to speculate: perhaps, after I become famous and successful in the future, I will also deliberately live in a slum?

"Isn't this the stinky mansion?" The lady blinked her charming eyes, her long, curled, golden eyelashes as lovely as a doll's. "We've always lived here," she answered matter-of-factly, "the stinky mansion!"

"The Stinking Mansion!" I remember now. This was a sensational horror novel from years ago, telling the story of a series of bizarre and bloody supernatural events that occurred in an old mansion called "The Stinking Mansion." What's remarkable about the book isn't its writing style, but rather the endless stream of bizarre events beyond human imagination—such as a beautiful waitress with a fish head and a human body swimming in the damp mansion, giant potted plants adorning the rooms, and the "balloon popping" game at the welcome party for guests. All of these are chilling and unforgettable. Even more memorable is the ending: the secret wall of the Stinking Mansion opens, and the male and female protagonists, who have barely escaped their companions' pursuit, are sucked in and transformed into stones used to build the wall—the mansion, constructed from human bones, has been constantly emitting a stench since its inception. It devours human flesh and souls, absorbing nourishment from human evil. As long as the dark side of the human heart exists, the Stinking Mansion will stand and continue to grow.

To be honest, the book *The Stinking Mansion* and Stephen King's *Rosered* share a similar overall structure. However, compared to *The Stinking Mansion*, the latter is much smaller in both its thematic content and framework. Moreover, *Rosered*'s horror methods are extremely old-fashioned, consisting mainly of ghosts running amok and killing people, which cannot be compared with the imaginative and unrestrained nature of *The Stinking Mansion*. Therefore, *The Stinking Mansion*'s rise to the bestseller list is closely related to its ingenious and unparalleled structure.

So that's how it is... My throat tightened. The skinny, middle-aged man next door was Zhou Dexi, the author of "The Stinky Mansion," the famous horror novelist? At that moment, I suddenly felt that the lively, girlish lady in front of me had somehow radiated a dazzling, saintly light, making it impossible for me to look directly at her... Alas, could I only look up at her majestic and dignified appearance from afar?

Now all the mysteries have been solved. Needless to say, the books Zhou Dexi brought back were his reference books—his reason for staying home was, of course, to conceive his next thriller masterpiece. This is completely different from me, a writer begging for articles to be reprinted; I wonder how many publishing houses are fighting tooth and nail for his novels!

Realizing this, I suddenly had a brilliant idea: "The Unknown Horror Writer Zhou Dexi"—what do you think of that title? Those gossip magazines in China that specialize in reporting on celebrity relationships and family secrets would probably be scrambling to pay me, right? Who told me I'm so lucky? Of all places to live, Zhou Dexi had to move next door to me—isn't this just a way of giving me money? Even God is helping me ride his coattails to fame and fortune!

With this seemingly legitimate reason, I felt even more justified in spying on—no, gathering material—from next door. After several days of observation, I quickly compiled a schedule of their daily activities.

From Monday to Thursday, in the morning, Zhou Dexi goes grocery shopping, while Mrs. Zhou either sleeps in or goes out to do some chores (as soon as she goes out, she inevitably "encounters" me and has a long conversation with me).

At noon, Zhou Dexi personally cooked (I'm ashamed to admit I can't do that; I can only make the simplest clear soup noodles, maybe with a poached egg for extra nutrition). Judging from the aroma wafting over, it was going to be a delicious and visually appealing meal.

In the afternoon, the couple slept and watched TV, their laughter lasting all afternoon (they have great stamina and aren't tired at all!).

In the evening, Zhou Dexi (it was him again) cooked.

In the evening, watch TV, laugh, and go to sleep.

This incredibly boring schedule is baffling; I just can't understand what this great writer is thinking. Does he expect to draw inspiration for his horror novels from those mindless soap operas? Friday, Book Day, is here, and I hold my breath, listening intently to everything happening next door.

"You've worked hard." The wife's voice had a charmingly coquettish quality that was incredibly soothing to listen to. "It seems like there's quite a lot this time. I wonder what the 'quality' is like."

“If all else fails, I’m powerless.” Zhou Dexi’s voice was listless, as so as his face. “The deadline is fast approaching, and there’s really no other way,” he murmured, “I’ll just have to use the last two ‘productions’ to make up the difference…”

"No!" the woman shouted, silencing him completely. That powerful shout sent chills down my spine; I couldn't believe it came from the mouth of the sweet-voiced Mrs. Zhou.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Vomiting Woman (Part 2)

"Using someone of inferior skill will only tarnish the name of 'Zhou Dexi'!" Zhou Tai scolded without further ado. "Enough with the nonsense, let's begin."

Zhou Dexi didn't answer, perhaps intimidated by his wife's imposing aura? I strained my ears, not daring to miss a single sound from next door. However, from that moment on, only a strange silence remained in the air.

then.

The sound of heavy objects being moved. The sound of pages turning. And... the sound of books being torn?

The sound of chewing.

The speed was incredibly fast. Each tear of the book was followed by a chew, the movements perfectly coordinated, the clanging of teeth, the licking of the tongue, and the swallowing of saliva filling the air. The chewing, though rapid, was orderly and methodical. The two people next door suddenly fell silent, uttering nothing but the aforementioned synchronized sounds. It's unclear how long the eerie sounds lasted, but finally Zhou Dexi spoke, sounding somewhat terrified. Even I could sense him trembling:

"...That's all."

Mrs. Zhou didn't answer; silence filled the next room. I pressed my ear against the wall, my palms sweating profusely. Suddenly, without warning, a loud, nauseating sound erupted from the other side of the wall:

"vomit……!"

"Coming, coming!" Zhou Dexi said, a mix of panic and excitement. "Ugh... ugh..." A hoarse retching sound instantly filled the entire room, relentlessly assaulting my eardrums. It was truly disgusting; I wanted to cover my ears. If I listened any longer, I felt like I was going to throw up my dinner from the night before. Admirable was the great writer next door. Amidst this nauseating retching, he not only persisted on the front lines but also kept encouraging the vomiting person, shouting things like "Keep it up!" and "Give it your all!" His spirit was commendable and respectable. What seemed like an eternity to me was perhaps too short for him! Because when the retching finally stopped, Zhou Dexi was actually somewhat disappointed:

That's it?

His reply was a woman's weak groan: "I can't... I'm already..."