A terrifying story that took place in an abandoned apartment

Chapter 3

Let me tell you, I've always enjoyed collecting, especially old thread-bound books. It's not about collecting or investing; it's purely a love for antiques. To put it nicely, you could call it "rescuing cultural heritage."

The snow was slow to fall, so I lowered my head and walked to the side, stopping in front of a stall specializing in Qing dynasty thread-bound books. Among a thick stack of thread-bound books was an old book titled "The Ghostly Tale of the Ancient Mirror." The peculiar title immediately drew me to open its title page.

The author is identified as "The Madman of the Wilderness," and the book was printed by the Gushan Bookstore in Hangzhou in the 43rd year of the Qianlong Emperor's reign. Several collector's seals are found inside the pages. Aside from some yellowing, there are no signs of damage or insect infestation, and the cover and back cover are relatively intact. Considering that over two hundred years have passed since the 43rd year of Qianlong's reign, the book's preservation in this condition is quite remarkable.

The stall owner's asking price was far too high; he really thought this book was an antique. Even at auction, it would only fetch a few hundred yuan. But the book was truly excellent. Not only was it well-preserved, but more importantly, the text itself gave me a special feeling after just a few pages.

As I hesitated over this book, something wet suddenly fell into my palm and slowly melted into water—

It's Yukiko! I looked up in surprise, and sure enough, it was snowing lightly. Unable to contain my excitement, I seized the opportunity of my sudden joy and readily paid the stall owner. Carrying this unexpected treasure, "The Ghostly Chronicles of the Ancient Mirror," I excitedly rushed home.

The snow had stopped when I got home. Although I still felt a little heartache about the money, at least I was now the new owner of this thread-bound book. I patiently waited until evening, with only a dim yellow light on in the room, the effect resembling an ancient candle. Finally, I respectfully opened "The Ghostly Tale of the Ancient Mirror".

It turns out this is a notebook-style book, divided into dozens of short articles. It's hard to tell whether it's a novel or prose. It mainly records anecdotes and stories from the Jiangnan region. The style feels somewhat similar to Ji Xiaolan's "Notes from the Thatched Cottage of Close Observation".

The first notebook in the book is called "The Ghostly Relic of the Ancient Mirror". It tells the story of a woman in the Ming Dynasty who died unjustly. Her ghost remained in an ancient mirror and could not be dispelled. People in the mirror could often see the woman's beautiful face.

This story made me gasp, and what's worse, it also included illustrated portraits—

In a boudoir, there is an antique bronze mirror. There is no one in front of the mirror, but the mirror reflects a woman combing her hair.

The vertically formatted classical Chinese was very taxing on the eyes, and it took me a long time to finish the first entry in the notebook. But I couldn't stop reading. In the dim light, I read one entry after another, completely immersed in the strange world woven by this "madman of the deserted village," until the very last entry—

Ghost tales of a deserted village.

The last story is quite peculiar. It tells of a scholar from Fujian who was traveling to the capital to take the imperial examination. That winter, a heavy snow fell in the mountainous area of eastern Zhejiang, and the official road was covered by an unusually heavy snowfall. Unfortunately, the scholar took a wrong turn and ended up in a place called "Desolate Village" by the sea.

By this time, the scholar was starving and freezing. He stumbled into the largest house in the deserted village. The owner of the house, who called himself "The Madman of the Deserted Village," was a middle-aged man in his forties. The owner was unexpectedly friendly to the scholar, arranging a sumptuous meal for him and a spacious and comfortable room.

That night in the deserted village, snow fell heavily and waves crashed. The scholar was discussing Buddhist scriptures with the owner in the old house when suddenly a woman's shadow flashed past the door. Startled, the scholar went outside, but there was no one there. He then went back to his room to sleep.

In the middle of the night, the scholar was awakened by a strange sound. He followed the sound to the door of the next room, licked a hole in the window paper with his saliva, and found a beautiful woman combing her hair inside.

The young scholar was taken aback; he had never seen such a stunningly beautiful woman in his life. Unable to contain himself, he quietly entered the woman's boudoir.

The woman was not surprised, but instead offered the scholar tea. Standing before the beauty, the scholar, his heart stirred, confessed his love to her, revealing that he was unmarried. The beauty did not refuse, saying that she had overheard the scholar's conversation with his master and felt that he possessed great talent for governing the country and the world, and that she too secretly admired him. The scholar was overjoyed, and that very night the beauty served him in bed.

The next day, the scholar awoke to find that the beauty had vanished without a trace, and even the owner of the mansion was nowhere to be found. By then, the heavy snow had stopped, and the scholar had no choice but to leave the deserted village with utter despair.

When the scholar arrived at Xiling Town, dozens of miles away from the deserted village, he paused for a moment in front of an unfrozen pond.

"Ah!" the scholar cried out. He had seen his reflection in the pool, and it looked terrifying. His face was bloodless, like a zombie.

The scholar was terrified, then noticed a small wound on his neck, like a bat bite. He hurriedly cut open his skin with a knife, but not a drop of blood came out—

It turned out that all his blood had been drained.

Upon realizing what had happened, the scholar immediately breathed his last and collapsed to the ground, dying.

Afterwards, some residents of Xiling Town passed by the pond and found a young man who looked like a scholar lying by the roadside, who had become a zombie.

That's the end of the story. On the last page, there's an illustration of a young scholar lying in bed with a small wound on his neck, while a stunningly beautiful woman sits beside him, her lips seemingly still stained with blood.

Suddenly, I felt as if the last page had turned into color, and the bright red blood at the corner of her mouth seemed about to flow from the book. I quickly closed the book, a chill running down my spine.

It was already past midnight when I finally finished reading this strange book called "The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror." The one that left the deepest impression on me was naturally the last story, "The Ghostly Tales of the Desolate Village."

The most infuriating thing is that the author of this book, "The Madman of the Deserted Village," actually appears in the story of "Tales of the Deserted Village" and is the owner of that terrifying mansion. I don't know if the stories in this notebook are true or false, nor do I know who this "Madman of the Deserted Village" really is. But judging from his writing alone, I think it is no less impressive than Pu Songling's "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio."

Clearly, this "wild man from a deserted village" comes from a deserted village. But does a deserted village really exist?

In that instant, I made up my mind that I must find the deserted village.

This copy of *The Ghostly Chronicles of the Ancient Mirror* is still lying in my drawer. I dare not look at it again, hoping only to slowly forget it. Now, I wonder, if I hadn't gone to the used bookstore that day, if I hadn't discovered this "madman's" ghostly notebook, would those incredible things have happened afterward, and would so many people's fates have been changed?

Perhaps, life is shaped by countless "probabilities".

Part 1, Day 1, Section 4, Day 3

This morning, I received an email reply from that mysterious person—

Hello:

You're a bit smarter than I thought.

"Two children playing hide-and-seek in a big house"? Your analogy is interesting, but not quite accurate. More precisely, it's a cat and a mouse playing hide-and-seek in a big house. I am the cat, and you are the mouse.

Okay, I've mentioned many errors in your novel. Now I remember some, like those three ancient stories about Rouge—in the first story, you said Rouge's husband, Ouyang An, left the deserted village because of war. That's not true. The village was attacked by Japanese pirates, and Ouyang An was kidnapped and taken to sea. From then on, Rouge could only wait alone for her husband's return. Years later, people discovered a pirate ship floating on the sea. Everyone on board was dead, reduced to skeletons—what people usually call a "ghost ship." They were the same pirates who had plundered the village. The inscription on the ship indicated that shortly after the pirates left, they died one by one, until only one remained—their captive, Ouyang An. However, no remains or clothes were found on the ship; he vanished like a mystery on the ghost ship.

In the second story, you said that Rouge and Ouyang An's ghost met on the Double Ninth Festival and she gave birth to a son. You're wrong. Three years after separating from her husband, Rouge found a drowned man on the beach; it turned out to be her husband, Ouyang An. Rouge brought her husband's body home and every night smeared her own blood on his lips, eventually bringing him back to life. However, everyone believed Ouyang An was dead, so he could only hide secretly, like a ghost husband, and later had a son with Rouge.

The third story you mentioned is about epitaphs unearthed from tombs. Do you know what happened to those tomb raiders? They boarded a bus with the artifacts they had stolen from the tombs, intending to leave Zhejiang. However, they were involved in a bus accident while crossing the provincial border. Incredibly, all the other passengers on the bus escaped unharmed, but the three tomb raiders all died tragically.

You must be very surprised after hearing so many stories from me, right?

However, you yourself didn't realize that you had already made a mistake. You shouldn't have written the novel "The Abandoned Village," much less published it in a magazine, letting so many people know about its existence. You're probably wondering why, and unfortunately, I don't know either. In short, neither you nor I can imagine the consequences this novel will have.

If you insist that I leave a signature, my signature is—Nie Xiaoqian

Nie Xiaoqian? I suddenly chuckled to myself. How did the beautiful ghost from "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio" suddenly appear and send me an email? Also, why do I always feel that the three stories she (or he) told seem more like novels than my "The Deserted Village"?

Perhaps she (or he) was making up stories with me too. I once posted something online about those three ancient tales of a deserted village—

Is the world we see and the things we hear the truth or an illusion? How many "mirrors" of the same thing will appear in the mouths of different people? The stories we hear are not actually the entities themselves, but rather the images reflected in mirrors. Different mirrors may reflect different images. For example, the letters we see in a mirror are reversed. If the letters of the actual entity were reversed, then the mirror would show them upright. Would we then believe that what we see is the actual entity? In this way, the entity and its reflection become blurred, and none of us can clearly distinguish between them. I mentioned three different versions of the story, and each version is closely related to the storyteller—of course, the last version is a dead man's epitaph—although I said in the novel that "the dead don't lie," if we think about it more deeply, do the dead really not lie? Here we discover that there may be a fourth, fifth, or even N versions of the story, and we, the readers of the story, are like standing in a maze house filled with countless mirrors. Standing in front of each individual mirror, we would think that what we see is real, but if we saw all the mirrors—we might go crazy.

Perhaps even more bizarre versions will emerge. However, I'm becoming increasingly interested in this person who calls herself "Nie Xiaoqian."

I immediately replied to her (him) with an email—

Nie Xiaoqian:

Although I address you this way, I don't believe you ran away from Lanruo Temple. You should know that I am not Ning Caichen, but Yan Chixia, who slays demons and monsters.

Furthermore, I don't object to you saying cats catch mice, but why must you be the cat and I be the mouse? I think it should be said the other way around.

I hope you're just making up a story or writing a novel; if so, I think I can support you. However, if you continue to try to scare me with these mysteries, I'll add your email to my blocked address list.

It's up to you whether you reply or not.

After sending this email, I felt a bit more relaxed than a few days ago, which is something I don't usually do.

"Nie Xiaoqian?"

I suddenly chuckled softly.

Part 1, Day 1, Section 5, Day 4

That day, as soon as I opened my email, I started looking for "Nie Xiaoqian's" email. However, I didn't find any reply from her (him). Oh well, maybe she was just joking with me.

As I mentioned, I'm writing a new novel. I always research a lot before writing a novel, so much so that I learn a lot more with each one. Luckily, I'm good at using Google, so I can find most of the information online. That night, while I was frantically searching on Google, someone suddenly called my QQ. It was a completely unfamiliar QQ number, and the nickname startled me even more: "Nie Xiaoqian".

Could it be another ghost sighting? Then I saw "Nie Xiaoqian" on the other end of the internet saying to me: I know you're here, hurry up and show yourself.

I shook my head and had no choice but to obediently "reveal" myself: You ran away from Lanruo Temple?

Nie Xiaoqian: Don't mention Lanruo Temple to me. Let's talk about the deserted village now.

Me: How did you find my QQ number? I rarely chat online.

Nie Xiaoqian: That's none of your business.

Me: Why are you always staring at me?

Nie Xiaoqian: Since you wrote "The Deserted Village," the one who tied the knot must untie it.

Me: What does that mean?

Nie Xiaoqian: You will understand.

Me: Did you receive the email I sent you?

Nie Xiaoqian: Received. You'll see who the cat is and who the mouse really is. Also, I didn't make up any stories or write any novels. If anyone is "playing tricks," then that person is you.

Me: Since you want me to believe you, then please tell me, who exactly are you?

Nie Xiaoqian: Why are you asking when you already know the answer? Didn't I already tell you?

Me: You mean "Nie Xiaoqian"? Forget it, what does Nie Xiaoqian have to do with the deserted village?

Nie Xiaoqian: I'd like to know that too.

Me: I can't stand you anymore, I feel like you're playing a prank on me.

Nie Xiaoqian: No, I promise you'll believe me soon.

Me: Stop it, I never want to see "Nie Xiaoqian" again. Sorry, I'm logging off.

Nie Xiaoqian: You can't escape.

I logged off as if I were escaping for my life, and then I even turned off the computer.

I never expected this "Nie Xiaoqian" to actually follow me on QQ. Whether it's a prank or not, just thinking about chatting with "Nie Xiaoqian" is enough to remind me of *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*. It seems even going online isn't safe anymore; this is really troublesome. At this moment, I thought of Ye Xiao—no, it's not time to bother him yet.

I closed my eyes and lay there for a while, when suddenly my heart started racing for no apparent reason—my phone rang.

The midnight ringing of my phone always makes me restless. I slowly picked it up and saw an unfamiliar number. Could it be that the all-powerful "Nie Xiaoqian" even knows my phone number?

I hesitated for a long time, the "Phantom of the Opera" ringtone continuing, seemingly urging me on. Finally, I couldn't resist answering. A strange sound came from the phone, slightly jarring, then calmed down, like some kind of strange breathing.

Hey! Say something!

I called out into the phone a few times, but all I heard was that strange voice. Just as I was about to end the call, a noisy voice reached my ears: "Hello. This is Huo Qiang."

The cell phone signal was very poor, with a lot of static I had never heard before—a hissing sound swirling inside.

"Huo Qiang?" The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

"These are the college students who came to see you a few days ago. There are four of us here to visit you."

"Yes, I remember now. It's the middle of the night, is there something you need?"

"We want to tell you that we have arrived now."

I didn't react for a moment: "We're here? Where are we?"

“The deserted village—” His voice sounded unusually excited on the phone, “We’ve arrived at the deserted village.”