L'affaire du messager fantôme - Le récit d'une âme qui quitte son corps

Chapitre 22

In the dimly lit, spacious classroom, all the students held their breath, silently watching the oil painting on the slides—in the foreground, a person stood on a bridge, looking emaciated, an image that was neither human nor ghost, his hands clutching his head, his eyes wide with terror, his mouth agape in an exaggerated way, as if emitting some kind of desperate scream. In the background, on the lake, were two small boats and two ghostly, long figures walking towards him from the other end of the bridge. The painting evoked a strong sense of desolation and horror; the river and sky were depicted with strange lines, blurring the lines between heaven and hell. Chunyu stared blankly at the screaming "person" in the painting, as if she could truly hear a scream herself.

Gao Xuan began, “Students, Munch was born in Oslo, Norway in 1863. He studied painting in France, and you can see from this painting that his style was deeply influenced by Van Gogh and Gauguin. He was adept at using intense colors and distorted lines, using love and death as themes to express human anxiety, fear, and despair about life. This painting, *The Scream*, was created in 1895 and is a world-renowned masterpiece of Expressionist art. Students, now please don't worry about technique; use your own hearts to experience this painting. Don't you feel a certain place deep within your heart being shaken? At least I was shaken by it long ago. I believe this painting comes from Munch's own inner hell, expressing the irredeemable despair and unease deep within the human soul. But what I find most remarkable is that this painting accurately predicted the spiritual state of humanity more than a hundred years later—that is, today. That's why I've always said that every great artist is also a great prophet.” He lectured with great passion, seemingly immersed entirely in the painting. Especially when he spoke the last few sentences, his eyes gazed deeply ahead, right where Chunyu was sitting in the last row. The lights in the large classroom came back on, and Gao Xuan let out a long sigh, ending his excellent class. Both male and female students applauded him for a long time. Although get out of class was over, Gao Xuan couldn't leave; several girls surrounded him, talking to him, and it took him a long time to break free. Chunyu was waiting for him outside the classroom. Gao Xuan finally managed to run out and immediately led her to the art studio on the second floor. After closing the studio door, Chunyu immediately voiced her question: "It's Saturday today, why are you still having class?"

Gao Xuan wiped the sweat from his brow and said, "The class was supposed to be yesterday, but I had some things to take care of and couldn't come, so I had to postpone it to today. But the students really enjoy my classes, even on Saturdays." "I can tell they seem to admire you a lot. Are you always this dedicated to your lectures?" "Of course." Gao Xuan opened the window again to let in some fresh air. "Actually, I'm not a formal university professor. After I returned from Europe six months ago, the university hired me to teach three times a week, mainly classical oil painting and European art history. They also gave me this studio."

So he's a visiting teacher at the school? Chunyu has always felt that visiting teachers are better than the school's professors. She nodded and asked, "So what's your official status?" "I don't have any official status. I run a few galleries along the Suzhou River, so you could call me a freelance painter. But since I have a studio here and also teach classes here, I usually stay at the school during the day. I guess I still miss the days when I studied here."

Gao Xuan's words relieved Chunyu; at least she wasn't as nervous as when she spoke to her teacher. She relaxed and said, "I came to see you today because I wanted to ask you something."

Then she took out a pen and paper from her bag and wrote a line of English letters on the paper: "—". Gao Xuan immediately recognized it: "Isn't this the Italian spelling of the painter Mazzolini's name?" "This is Mazzolini's name, right?" "It's impossible to be wrong. I can recite the English names of almost all European painters."

His affirmative answer confirmed Chunyu's hypothesis. Then, she told Gao Xuan everything about visiting Xu Wenya at the hospital that morning and discovering many names on the wall. Gao Xuan's expression also turned serious. After a moment of contemplation, he asked, "Do you think Mazzolini is really related to the Hell Game?" "At least related to Xu Wenya's madness." "But Mazzolini has been dead for a hundred years." "In the Hell Chat Room, isn't there someone with the nickname 'Mazzolini'? You said that Mazzolini is very dangerous and told me never to talk to him." "Yes—" Gao Xuan was speechless. He paced a few steps in the cramped studio and said, "What are you going to do now?" "Can you find information about Mazzolini? I want to know what kind of person he was?"

Gao Xuan nodded, closed the small window, then turned on a laptop and plugged in the phone line to access the internet. He quickly accessed a foreign English website; the homepage featured many pictures of oil paintings, suggesting it was an art-related site. As he clicked the mouse, Gao Xuan said, "This website is connected to the British Library. When I was abroad, I often used this website to find a lot of art history information."

Soon they were taken to Mazzolini's page, where a black-and-white photo of him appeared—a very handsome European man with a small mustache and deep, gazing into the distance. Chunyu glanced at Gao Xuan subconsciously and suddenly realized that his eyes resembled Mazzolini's.

Gao Xuan looked at the long passage of English below, translated it into Chinese in his mind, and then read it aloud: "Mazzolini, born in 1870 and died in 1905, was an Italian from Florence. He lived in Paris, France from the age of twenty, and later moved to London, England. He adhered to the traditional classical oil painting style, but most of his works were about sin and death, with a bizarre style and dark tones. In June 1898, Mazzolini held his first solo exhibition in London, titled 'Hell.'" "Hell? Is that the painting I saw last time?" "You could say that. In fact, he painted a total of eighteen such paintings in Europe, titled 'The First Level of Hell,' 'The Second Level of Hell,' and so on, up to 'The Eighteenth Level of Hell.' The painting you saw last time was 'The Third Level of Hell.'"

Chunyu remembered again: "You said you copied it in a European art museum?" "Yes, the one I copied was Mazzolini's original. That painting had a great visual impact on me at the time." "Have you copied any other of his paintings?" "I've seen a few in the materials, but I've only actually copied that one." Gao Xuan sighed softly, "Mazzolini's eighteen paintings about hell once shook the European art world, causing a wave of return to the classical style. Unfortunately, most of his paintings were bought at high prices, and very few have survived to this day. It seems that the only one preserved in art museums is the one I copied in Europe." "Then why are there so few?"

Gao Xuan clicked on the computer again, and a new webpage quickly appeared. He looked at it and said, "Legend has it that during World War II, Hermann Göring, one of the Nazi leaders, plundered European art for his own use, including many works by Mazzolini. Göring hid these paintings in an old castle in Germany. Coincidentally, a large number of SS troops were stationed around this castle, and in January 1945, it was heavily bombed by the Allied forces. As a result, the entire castle was reduced to ruins, and the famous paintings hidden inside by Göring were all reduced to ashes." "It really was fate. Eighteen oil paintings about hell ultimately returned to hell in the flames."

Gao Xuan continued reading the webpage, then softly read aloud: "Although Mazzolini had already achieved success in Europe, critics were quite critical of his paintings. It's said that someone who bought one of his paintings mysteriously committed suicide shortly afterward. Others, after visiting his exhibition, jumped into the Thames River in London and drowned. As a result, his exhibitions could no longer be held, and his works were rejected. Mazzolini decided to leave Europe. In 1900, he traveled across the ocean to Shanghai, China, where he lived in seclusion for about three years before returning to Europe in 1903." "He actually went to China?" "I didn't even realize that." "Perhaps I should also look into Mazzolini's experiences in China." Gao Xuan maintained a solemn expression, closing his laptop as he said, "I will definitely investigate this matter. Perhaps I can find records from that time in the art archives of the fine arts department." The sky outside the window was already darkening, and Chunyu regained her shyness: "I'm sorry to have bothered you today." "No, the information you've given me is very important to me as well; at least it gives me another clue." Gao Xuan finally smiled slightly. "Are you leaving? Feel free to come to me anytime if you need anything; I'll do anything to help you."

However, Chunyu declined Gao Xuan's offer to take her and walked out of the art department building alone, rushing back to her dormitory before dark.

It was past midnight. Chunyu lay quietly on the top bunk, staring blankly at the ceiling. The silence of the dormitory made her feel suffocated, like a "locked-room murder" scene from a mystery novel.

In fact, aren't the deaths of Qingyou and Sulan also like "locked-room murders"? Both died in rooms where no one else was around, and no trace of foul play could be found. The endings are as enigmatic as the "Honjin Murder Case." Was it suicide or a ghost in the air? If it really is a ghost, then he (or she) must still be floating somewhere in this room.

Suddenly, the ghost really did come to call her—the text message ringtone sounded, and Chunyu looked at the screen with trembling hands. Sure enough, it was that number from hell—"You have entered the 9th level of hell. Leave the Ghost Inn and you will choose 1: Lanruo Temple; 2: Dracula's Castle; 3: Hell Cafe."

It was midnight again. Suddenly, Chunyu remembered Xu Wenya, whom she had met that morning. This was the outcome; who would be next?

Thinking about this, my thumb trembled even more, hovering over the key for a long time, wondering whether I should reply.

However, Chunyu felt her thumb was no longer under her control and automatically pressed "2". She couldn't control it anymore and almost involuntarily pressed it.

The second text message arrived quickly—"You have arrived in Transylvania, Romania. In the desolate wilderness, you see an ancient castle, which is the tomb of Count Dracula. You will choose 1: Enter the castle; 2: Return to the 15th century; 3: Return to the 19th century."

Spring Rain chose "1: Enter the castle".

Seconds later, she entered a place she had never imagined, deep within a dark, ancient castle, where thousands of bats lurked, hanging upside down in cave-like basements, emerging at sunset to fill the night sky. However, the most terrifying of all was the castle's owner—Count Dracula.

In the dim candlelight, Count Dracula's young and handsome face was revealed. He had once been the most illustrious nobleman in Romania, the dream lover of countless young women. The young count gazed at Chunyu, his eyes as bright as jewels, piercing into the deepest recesses of her heart. Chunyu's heart melted at his eyes, and she slowly leaned into his arms. The count's lips, exceptionally red, gently kissed her.

Suddenly, the count revealed a pair of sharp teeth, and she instantly felt a chill on her neck, followed by a burning sensation—the count was sucking her blood.

Chunyu felt a wave of dizziness, as if all the blood in her body had been drawn from her throat and sucked into the Count's crimson mouth. In the instant the last drop of blood was drained, the Count softly asked her, "Do you know what the 19th level of hell is?" "No! I don't know!"

She practically jumped out of bed, screaming wildly at the ceiling. Then, she sat down, drenched in cold sweat, feeling a burning pain in her neck. She picked up a mirror and looked at herself, only to find a distinct red mark on her throat, as if she had just been choked.

Chunyu was truly terrified this time. She was clearly alone in the dormitory, so who had choked her? Could there really be a ghost lurking here?

She slowly raised her right hand, looking at her bright red palm—she suddenly thought of Qingyou and Sulan.

Only then did she understand who Dracula really was. She remembered an American movie she had seen, *Bram Stoker's Dracula*, the most famous vampire film, which tells the story of Count Dracula, the oldest vampire in Europe, and how he came to London to find his beloved woman. Suddenly, another text message broke her reverie—"You have passed through the upper nine levels of Hell. From now on, you will enter the lower nine levels of Hell."

When Chunyu woke up, she realized it was already 10 a.m. Thankfully, it was Sunday, so sleeping in wouldn't hurt. Perhaps it was the tension from her night in the ninth level of hell; she didn't fall asleep until after 4 a.m., the image of Count Dracula constantly flashing through her mind. It was strange; she had never actually seen Dracula, and she had long forgotten his appearance in the movies. Although she had only seen those words in text messages, his young, handsome face seemed vividly present before her, deeply etched into her mind. Chunyu suddenly remembered the photo of Mazzolini she had seen online yesterday afternoon; that face also seemed very much like Count Dracula. Could it be because of Mazzolini?

And the last text message from last night seemed different from those of the previous days. It said that she had passed through the "upper nine levels of hell" and was now entering the "lower nine levels of hell." So, she was already halfway through hell. Adding that up, wouldn't that make 18? Then where was the 19th level of hell? Her mind was increasingly agitated. She quickly climbed out of bed, looked at her pale face, blurry eyes, and sweat-drenched hair in the mirror, and couldn't help but feel a pang of self-pity.

On Sunday afternoon, the entire girls' dormitory was quiet, except for Chunyu, who was staring blankly out the window. In the past, she would always go shopping with Qingyou on Sundays. Although they didn't buy much of anything valuable, shopping from Printemps to Isetan always gave the girls a good feeling.

But Nan Xiaoqin and her friends were always in a hurry to go home on Friday nights, often leaving Chunyu alone in the dorm. Although she was born and raised in this city, she had no home to return to for a long time. To her, the dorm was home, and her roommates were her closest family. But now, that home had been taken over by ghosts.

Suddenly, she heard a knock on the door; no one had knocked on this door for a long time. Chunyu hurriedly opened the door and saw Officer Ye Xiao's face. The arrival of this uninvited guest made Chunyu immediately lower her head.

Ye Xiao slowly walked into the room, carefully looking around the dormitory, and said, "What, staying in the dormitory alone on Sunday? Aren't you going out to play?" "I've been preparing my graduation thesis these days, so I haven't had time to go out." Actually, she was just staying in the room in a daze. No wonder, after encountering such an unbelievable thing, she had no desire to play at all.

Ye Xiao glanced at the empty bed next to him and said, "Chunyu, I already know. You had three roommates, but in the last ten days or so, one named Qingyou committed suicide, Xu Wenya suffered from schizophrenia, and Nan Xiaoqin was in a car accident. Now you're the only one left in the dorm." "You're right about all of that. But you don't need to worry about these things, because they either committed suicide or had accidents; they don't need your intervention." Chunyu, seemingly out of nowhere, had the courage to speak so stubbornly to a police officer. Ye Xiao was somewhat surprised, thinking that this girl was indeed much more mature than before, perhaps as a result of experiencing the fear of being in a deserted village. He shook his head and said, "You've really changed." "Maybe I've become stronger." "Yes, if it were any other girl in your situation, she probably would have collapsed long ago." "I'm sorry, Officer Ye, you came to me just to ask me these questions?"

Ye Xiao shook his head meaningfully and said, "Of course not. Tell me everything you know, without holding back a single detail."

Chunyu was a little scared. She avoided Ye Xiao's sharp eyes, lowered her head, and whispered, "I don't know what I can tell you." "For example—that mysterious text message number." "Which number?"

Chunyu's words couldn't hide the panic in her eyes. Ye Xiao immediately took a step closer and said the number: "741111." "You know everything?" "Yes. Do you know what 741111 represents?" He paused for a long time, then coldly uttered the English word: "..." "Hell?"

Chunyu touched her neck and blurted out, something she hadn't expected. "Alright, I know what's hidden in your eyes; you can't escape my notice. Chunyu, you've left a deep impression on me, and I've always wanted to help you. Now, please tell me everything you know, okay?"

Chunyu sighed softly; she knew she couldn't escape it. But where should she begin? She sat down quietly and thought for a moment, finally choosing the day she went to the haunted building with Qingyou. She slowly recounted her bizarre experiences after returning from the haunted building, Qingyou's possessed behavior in the middle of the night, until she discovered Qingyou dead inside the haunted building. What Ye Xiao was most interested in was the last text message on Qingyou's phone.

Soon after, she received a text message from Qingyou, seemingly from hell, which dragged her into the dark world of hell as well. Then came the story of Xu Wenya's madness, even the story of the monkey she told Ye Xiao. She also truthfully recounted the contents of Nan Xiaoqin's phone call that morning. Of course, the most important thing was the last text message on their phones.

After saying everything, Chunyu let out a sigh of relief, as if something had been pulled out of her body.

After listening, Ye Xiao remained silent for a long time. After pacing back and forth in the room a few times, he slowly said, "Now we can summarize it into three points: First, Qingyou, Sulan, and Xu Wenya are all so-called 'thumb tribe' (people who use their thumbs up to communicate with others); second, you received a text message from Qingyou after her death, while Nan Xiaoqin received a text message from Sulan after her death; third, Qingyou was your best friend, and Nan Xiaoqin was closest to Sulan." "What does this prove?" "At least it proves a pattern: after Qingyou or Sulan died, her phone number would send a text message saying 'Do you know what the 19th level of hell is?' to her best friend." "But they're both dead, so who sent it?" "I can't explain that either, but I can speculate like this—your number is the most frequent contact in Qingyou's phone's communication history. Because you were best friends, you had the most opportunities to contact each other by phone."

Chunyu seemed to understand: "That's right, Qingyou's number appears most often in my phone." "It should be the same for Nan Xiaoqin and Sulan." "In other words, once you're on that list, your number will send the question about the 19th level of hell to the number that appears most frequently in your phone's call history, thus spreading the hellish game." Chunyu couldn't quite believe what she was saying, but upon reflection, it did make sense. "Sounds like a cursed videotape?"

Ye Xiao lowered his head and thought for a moment before saying, "Chunyu, have you been playing Hell Game these past few days?" "I don't consider it a game, but rather—"

She herself couldn't tell whether it was an experience of another life or just a pure illusion. "Don't reply to those messages anymore. Leave this to me." Ye Xiao's tone gradually softened. He looked at Chunyu's pale face and said, "Do you still have nightmares?" "No!" Chunyu's eyes became unusually calm. "I haven't had a nightmare in six months."

"Yes." "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have asked that question. You've become very strong."

Ye Xiao finally smiled, then said goodbye to Chunyu and left.