Incendie mystérieux

Chapitre 72

"I was really stupid. I really regret it now. Why did I panic and run away with you? You were the one who killed him. I didn't lift a finger. Even if the police caught me, it would just be a case of failing to report something, which is not a serious crime. Why did I listen to you and let you fool me?"

"Knowing but not reporting, is that all?" The man sneered. "What about the 500,000? You found it?"

"That's all because of you!" The woman clenched her fists. "You instigated it all! It's all your fault!"

Indeed, after seeing the wealthy man collapse to the ground, she panicked at first, and only then did she remember to dial 120. However, just as her finger touched the keypad, Mr. Zhao kicked the phone far away.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded fiercely. "Do you want us both to be finished?"

“But he…” she stared fearfully at the wealthy man on the floor, “if we don’t call an ambulance soon, he’ll die! He’s never had a heart condition…”

The man grabbed her hair and dragged her to the rich man's side, forcing her face to press against his foamy mouth.

"Open your eyes and look carefully!" the man roared gruffly. "The old bastard is dead! Gone!"

What should I do...? She collapsed to the side, tears streaming down her face. She had never imagined this ending. How was she going to handle this...?

"How much money do you have here?" the man asked simply. "Gather all the money, and then we'll run!"

"Run?" She raised her head blankly. "Hide for the rest of your life?"

“Of course not, let’s lay low for a while, then we can smuggle ourselves to America, or any other country, as long as we have money…” He deftly rummaged through the rich man’s briefcase, then suddenly whistled excitedly, “Wow! The old man is really rich! Enough for us to live on for a while!”

“…Indeed, that money all went into your pocket,” Xing Xiuwen said to the man with a cold smile, “but don’t forget, my share was in it. Now,” she stretched her beautiful hand forward further, “I want my share!”

Short Story Collection: Horror Night Stories of the Stinky Mansion (5) - Complete

The man's brows furrowed into a deep frown, clearly showing he was genuinely angry; however, he still forced himself to coax her, "Xiuwen, what's wrong with you? Why are you breaking up with me all of a sudden? It's so hurtful!"

“I couldn’t be clearer,” the woman raised her eyebrows, “I’m taking my share of the money and leaving this stinking mansion! As for you, do as you please!”

"You're going to abandon me?" a deep growl came from the man's throat. "Go fly away alone?"

Xing Xiuwen tossed her hair, unconcerned. "You killed him, why should I suffer with you? Don't worry, once I get out, I absolutely won't reveal your whereabouts. But then again, it seems the police can't get into this stinking mansion. As long as you stay here, you'll be safe..."

"You filthy woman!" Mr. Zhao lunged forward and grabbed the woman by the neck like he was choking a chick. "How dare you play me!"

Beneath his strong, powerful arms, the woman's face gradually turned pale. "No... I just..."

"The money is mine, and so is you... You think you can sneak away? No way!" The man deliberately tightened his grip on his wrist. "Behave yourself! I need your looks to make big money in business! If you don't, I'll kill you!"

The woman nodded repeatedly, like a chick pecking at rice, indicating that she fully understood her position. Mr. Zhao then released his grip, satisfied. The woman coughed a few times, recovering from the suffocating threat, and opened her mouth. Her voice was firm, yet filled with anger.

She said, "Xiao Liao!"

The door was flung open with a bang, followed by a barrage of gunfire. When the smoke cleared, Mr. Zhao stared at the row of bloody holes in his body. The intense pain had numbed his senses, making him unable to feel the blood gushing from the bullet wounds. He stared in astonishment at the man holding two guns before him—his introducer, the man whose smile revealed his pearly white teeth—Liao Chengkai. Mr. Zhao could hardly believe his eyes.

"What...what exactly happened?" His blood-stained lips twitched.

Xing Xiuwen ran into the gunman's arms, Liao Chengkai embraced her, kissed her deeply, and then replied with a smile:

That's it. You're out!

With a loud thud, the defeated man's body fell to the ground unwillingly.

"What do we do next?" Xing Xiuwen was a little scared. "Was the gunshot too loud? Will the other tenants call the police?"

“You forgot? This is the stinking mansion.” Liao Chengkai grabbed the corpse’s feet and dragged it forcefully. “Nobody will bother with this. Besides, this kind of thing is very common here.”

"Nothing unusual? Does that mean people die frequently in that stinking mansion?" The woman stepped forward to help move the body, leaving gruesome streaks of blood on the floor. "But what should we do with the body?"

Liao Chengkai pulled out a crumpled woven bag from the corner, roughly folded Mr. Zhao up, and stuffed it inside. "Come with me, and I'll show you a miracle," he said.

They walked to the end of the corridor, where there was an incredibly narrow elevator lobby. Just as the woman was about to enter, Liao Chengkai reached out and stopped her. "Don't move," he said. "This is an elevator for the dead."

"Huh?" The woman was startled. She saw Liao Chengkai forcefully throw the woven bag from his shoulder into the elevator, and the doors quickly closed. Without Liao Chengkai pressing any buttons, the elevator immediately emitted a chilling scream and started moving on its own. The woman was terrified and collapsed against the man. "What... what's wrong with the elevator?" she stammered.

"It can automatically identify dead bodies and bring them to the top floor," Liao Chengkai replied. "Pretty advanced, right?"

"What... what would happen if a living person got into the elevator?" Xing Xiuwen asked as they headed towards the top floor.

“It’s very simple,” Liao Chengkai smiled eerily. “Just become a dead person and then come out.”

The stairs led directly to the top floor. Xing Xiuwen had expected to see a wide platform, but instead, a thick fog enveloped her, blinding her. Luckily, Xiao Liao reached out and helped her up.

The fog grew thicker and thicker. If you weren't careful, you couldn't even see the road ahead.

"What are we doing here? Throwing him off the building?" Xing Xiuwen cautiously groped along the wall. She found it very strange. If it was a platform, judging from the walls she had walked past, there seemed to be quite a few houses; but it wasn't entirely houses either, because many walls only had one side—was it unfinished? She followed behind Xiao Liao and somehow ended up in front of the elevator lobby. At that moment, the eerie elevator doors were wide open, and the woven bag lay flat on the ground. Xing Xiuwen hid to the side, watching as Xiao Liao dragged the woven bag out and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

"Which place is better?" he muttered to himself. "Xiuwen, where do you like it?"

Xing Xiuwen didn't understand what he meant at first.

"This will do, it's perfect for you." Xiao Liao walked towards her; she was leaning against a wall. As Xiao Liao moved, she was surprised to discover that there seemed to be a large, human-shaped recess on the inside of the wall, roughly the size of a normal man. Xiao Liao lifted Mr. Zhao out and then placed him into the recess.

"Xiuwen, can you check if it's aligned? Is it crooked?" he said.

Faced with this bizarre scene, the woman was almost too frightened to speak, "It's...it's alright."

Xiao Liao tilted his head, seemingly quite satisfied. Then, he pulled out several long nails from under the wall and hammered them into Mr. Zhao's limbs, one by one. Finally, when the nails pierced Mr. Zhao's heart, a heart-wrenching scream shattered the woman's eardrums. She pointed frantically at Mr. Zhao on the wall: "Is that him screaming? He's not dead yet?"

"No..." A sinister smile appeared on the man's lips, "It's the satisfied cry of the stinking mansion, and also the confirmation that the rent has been collected."

Next, next to Mr. Zhao's wall, a brand new wall was breaking through the ground and rising slowly. A human-shaped groove on the wall was empty, which was the rent reminder for the next rent payment.

The man leaned close to the woman's ear, "Can you still smell the stench? Do you still think it stinks here?"

The woman closed her eyes. The mist was clear and sweet, without a trace of foul odor. She shook her head. "There's no foul odor. I can't even smell the blood on him anymore."

“Very good,” he kissed her cheek, “From now on, you can live in this stinky mansion.”

The woman stretched out her soft arms and embraced him. Standing beside the wall where Mr. Zhao's body hung, on the misty rooftop, they kissed passionately. Overwhelmed by feverish desire, they lost all sense of direction, spinning endlessly in their embrace until finally coming to rest against a hard wall. The woman held the man's head tightly, demanding his kisses insatiably.

Then, she pressed her finger lightly.

The elevator doors opened.

She pushed the man inside.

The last thing Liao Chengkai saw in the world was Xing Xiuwen's chilling gaze: "You're right, the rent at that stinky mansion is too expensive."

"I need to pay the rent in advance."

Then, the elevator doors, with an irresistible air of authority, slowly closed. Xing Xiuwen gazed at the thick fog, the fog's color mirroring the crimson hue of her hands.

“From now on, I can survive anywhere.” With a sly smile, she stepped into the blood-red mist.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Fish Wife (Part 1)

The upper body is that of a beautiful woman, and the lower body is like a water snake.

Her breasts were beautifully shaped, harmonious and proud, standing tall atop her haughty heart. Her eyes were bright and clear, her face pure yet arrogant. Who knows? Perhaps, like a myth, something wavy, dragon-like, lies hidden in the translucent, murky depths of the sea. Deep within dreams, evil lurks beneath virtue.

—Victor Hugo, The Man Who Laughs, Part Two, Volume One

it's all over.

He tossed his large body onto the bed, staring blankly at the white ceiling. He wanted to do nothing, think nothing, and do nothing. When the phone rang, his remaining rationality told him that what was coming had finally arrived, and he needed to calm down.

He spoke with a tone that was three parts nervousness, three parts fear, three parts worry, and one part hope. He expected the other party to tell him to accept his fate and that they had discovered his wife's body, and he had already prepared his superb acting skills to instantly transform shock into wailing. However, this phone call did not give him the opportunity to perform.

Unfortunately… that's how the police dismissed him with their cold, bureaucratic tone. Rescuers had only recovered some items; the search for the body was still ongoing. However… the policeman tactfully told him to be mentally prepared, as the search had been going on for four days, and the chances of survival were extremely slim; she might have perished at sea… The phone receiver slowly slipped from his hand. He stared at the messy, mottled floral wallpaper on the wall, feeling that the emptiness and darkness in his heart hadn't dissipated but rather gradually expanded, like a giant black hole swallowing him whole.

They were once an enviable couple, vowing to spend their lives together under the moonlit flowers. However, after a brief honeymoon, irreconcilable conflicts arose in their lives. She was a proud and strong-willed woman, unwilling to be subservient to a man and a devoted wife and mother, instead focusing all her energy on her career. He, on the other hand, was a traditional, somewhat chauvinistic man who loved to boss people around. As the saying goes, economic status determines social status. Initially, his words carried some weight because of his salary, but later, as she rose from freelance writer to columnist and even published several best-selling novels, her temper grew with each increase in earnings. He, who had always considered himself a "real man," now had to defer to his wife's every whim, letting her lord it over him. He couldn't swallow this, and the two frequently argued. What annoyed him even more was that after five years of marriage, she still hadn't conceived or given birth. It wasn't that she couldn't, but she didn't want her thriving career to stall because of her pregnancy, so she consistently used contraception after marriage. He had argued and fought with her countless times about this, but she remained obstinate. Sometimes, when he was pushed to the limit, the word "divorce" would slip out of her mouth. And whenever she heard that word, she would resort to her usual tactics of crying and making a scene, even enlisting her parents to punish her son, whom she accused of being "fickle and easily bored." He was a filial son; seeing his elderly parents weeping, he could only force himself to apologize, and from then on, he gave up on the idea of divorce.

This trip was supposed to be a honeymoon to rekindle the romance between Xiu Mi and his wife; they even specially chose the same honeymoon suite as they had five years ago. But who could have imagined that fate would so cruelly end their marriage?

Bearing deep wounds and the sympathy of others, he returned to his city. The first thing he did upon arriving home was to tear down the enormous wedding photo hanging on the wall. The image of the deceased woman smiling at him, her enormous face as radiant as a spring flower, was utterly chilling. All her photos, her personal belongings, clothes she had worn and never worn, were locked in a camphor wood chest in the attic, and the key was thrown into the Yangtze River. He still had to gather the sheets and blankets she had slept in, the furniture she had touched—what a massive undertaking! It seemed he would have to move again.

He curled up completely under the covers, pulling the covers tightly around his head. Her scent in the bedding was so strong it was suffocating, as if he were still in her gentle embrace, a breathtaking tenderness. When he closed his eyes, he felt as if he were back in that turbulent ocean, his body rising and falling uncontrollably, the dreamlike sound of waves crashing in his ears—splash, splash… The sound was terrifyingly real. He was back on that day, the water, the filthy, broken yellow river, surrounding him from all sides, roaring and surging towards him, then instantly shattering into white. His ears were filled with the rushing water; he could hear nothing else… His body felt like it was floating on clouds, utterly powerless, dizzy and disoriented, desperately paddling upwards, trying to break free from the heavy shackles of the water. In that life-or-death moment, only one thought flashed through his mind: He must survive!

He succeeded, but his wife sank forever to the bottom of the icy water.

He recalled a spring night, a gentle breeze and a bright moon, flowers on the branches sending forth intoxicating fragrances. She lay in his arms, her clear black and white eyes brimming with the sweet aroma of love, shining with a faint yet crystalline starlight in the darkness.

"If one day, your mother and I both fell into the water, who would you save first?"

This was a classic test for her boyfriend, but luckily he was prepared. So he pretended to have a headache and pondered for a moment before confidently answering, "I won't save either of them."

She sat bolt upright, her large eyes shining even brighter with astonishment. He seized the opportunity to kiss her soft lips, whispering in her ear, "Saving you is called 'loyalty,' and to my mother, that's 'filial piety.' If that unfortunate day ever comes, I'll either perish with you both at the bottom of the water, or I'll find a way to save you both at the same time. That's what it means to be both loyal and filial!"

The scene from that day was still vivid in his mind, etched deep within, as clear as if it had just happened last night. But alas, everything had changed. She would never again hear his sweet words, never again respond to his tender kisses and embraces. No, what she could enjoy now was not her husband's passionate kisses, but the relentless devouring of fish, which gnawed at her smooth, white skin, sucking and swallowing her life-sustaining food until she was riddled with holes, leaving only a white skeleton swaying gracefully in the water… It was all his fault! In despair, he clenched his teeth, stuffing even a pillowcase into his mouth to prevent himself from screaming. In his boundless fantasies, his wife, now a skeleton, was in the water, arms outstretched, awaiting his embrace once more. Cold sweat trickled down his cheeks, sliding onto the pillowcase like dried tear tracks.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Fish Wife (Part Two)

Splash, splash. The sound echoed in his mind the moment he closed his eyes—the relentless pursuit of fate. He sighed weakly, realizing a truth: he would spend the rest of his life accompanied by this sound of water, day and night, like a shadow. He found a bottle of sleeping pills, stared at a glass of water with a strange, hateful gaze, and finally, resolutely tilted his head back, swallowing the pills with his saliva.

Cold, a bone-chilling, piercing cold, not only cold but also damp. When he woke up, his legs were trembling uncontrollably, his whole body felt damp and cold as if he were soaking in water—no, it was like being submerged in water! Large puddles of water covered the bed, soaking everything from the sheets and blankets to his underwear. It wasn't ordinary water; when he sniffed it, a strong, fishy, salty smell filled the air. The smell was so familiar.

A protruding object on the bed caught his attention. It was a long, human-like thing, covered with a blanket, completely submerged in water. He observed it for a while; the thing seemed to be sleeping soundly, evidenced by the rhythmic, steady rise and fall of the blanket. Not wanting to disturb it, he quietly slipped a hand under the blanket through the water. It was a smooth, delicate touch, with evenly proportioned flesh and bone… it was clearly a woman's leg.

The water cooled his momentarily dazed mind. The woman beside him slept soundly, as peacefully as a baby in a cradle in this vast expanse of water. He carefully lifted a corner of the blanket; the cotton wadding, soaked with water, was so heavy. A pair of small feet lay securely in the water, their shape looking strangely familiar.

Above that were smooth calves, which, perhaps from being soaked in water for too long, seemed to be covered with some viscous, glistening liquid, reflecting a bewitching and dazzling sheen under the light. He rolled up the blanket little by little, revealing a patch of colorful clothing from beneath the folds. When his attention fell again on the exposed floral hem, his heart sank.

That was the dress she was wearing when the accident happened.

Could it be…? He dared not look at the woman on the bed any longer, nor let his thoughts run wild. His own experience, and the search and rescue team's findings, confirmed with 99% certainty that she was dead, never to return to his side. Yet, a faint flame of hope flickered within him—what if, by any chance, she had escaped death's clutches? He gazed at the woman sleeping soundly on the bed, her head covered, a complex mix of emotions swirling within him. He composed himself, until the dizziness subsided and his hands stopped trembling, before grasping the two corners of the blanket. "One, two…" he silently counted to himself, and as soon as the word "three" escaped his lips, he gritted his teeth and pulled back the blanket.

As expected, he saw his wife again.

Exactly the same as that day, she wore a beige knitted cardigan and a floral knee-length skirt, except her feet were bare—no socks, no shoes—and her legs were as round and white as ever. However… he could hardly believe his eyes. What was wrapped under the cardigan? From her waist up, her body, as thick as a dark blue bucket, was covered not with fair skin, but with dark blue fish scales, shimmering like the dark, surging waters of a new moon night; and extending from the sleeves of her cardigan—were they still soft and flexible human arms? They were indeed soft, spread out on the bed like unfolded fans, their textures clearly visible. He remembered seeing them before, and even had the privilege of eating them. For sharks, they were called shark fins; for ordinary fish, they were called fins.

What is it called that grows on his wife?

Gone was the long, elegant neck of a swan; her body was now directly connected to her head. Her head was submerged deep in the water, her gills rising and falling rhythmically, releasing strings of pearl-like bubbles from beneath the surface. She was asleep, yet her moist, deep gray eyes were wide open, staring blankly at him, who stood beside her, dumbfounded. He was chilled by this eerie gaze, goosebumps rising on his skin without him noticing, until much later when he remembered learning in high school biology class that fish don't have eyelids; they don't blink and can only sleep with their eyes open.

But science could not explain what he was seeing. First, his supposedly damned wife was now safely home; second, she had turned into a fish.

To be precise, his upper body turned into a fish.

He had never remembered his wife being so close to water as she was now. She grew up in a mountainous region filled with rocky deserts, and had never been a swimmer. Even today, he could vividly recall her first time at the swimming pool: wearing a swimsuit for the first time, she hid behind him with a hint of awe, unable to meet his burning gaze. When he embraced her and gently lifted her to the surface, the instant he released her, the sudden buoyancy and the wondrous up-and-down sensation caused her to let out a thunderous scream—a scream a mixture of wonder and fear, like a child discovering a new continent, filled with extraordinary excitement. That level of excitement was something he, who had already learned to swim, had experienced long, long ago.

Ultimately, however, she never learned to swim. She seemed to have a natural aversion to water; after that one and only time she went into the water, she never went anywhere near it again. Except, of course, for "that day," which ended everything.

In his countless nightmares, his imagination constructed everything, yet he forgot one thing. She struggled futilely in the dark, sunless water, her long hair fluttering like seaweed, desperately scattering and spreading in all directions. The water was a natural cage, imprisoning her breath and binding her movements. She was forced to breathe, but only water, merciless and filthy water, flooded her lungs, filling every empty space in her body, stretching her belly until it swelled and bulged, turning it into a giant, human-skin-like blister. But he overlooked one thing: the human instinct for survival.

Like him, she also had to fight to survive, at any cost, as long as she could live.

His choice was to abandon his wife; and she, on the other hand, could only swim desperately, swimming tirelessly, desperately seeking oxygen from the water.

And so, she turned into a fish.

She stirred, indicating that she was awake; the fish wife propped herself up on the bed with her two fins and slowly sat up. He could sense without turning around that her wet head was pressed against his side.

Short Story Collection: Horrifying Night Stories - The Fish Wife (Part 3)

Her two pale black fins splashed water as she raised her body. Her fish-like eyes, positioned on either side of her head, could only meet his gaze by turning her upper body. Her dull, wet eyes stared straight at him, and her indifferent expression sent a chill down his spine. He wanted to act nonchalant, to greet her as usual, but he couldn't. Even without deliberately looking away, he couldn't accept the horrifying truth before him: his once beautiful wife had transformed into a fish-headed, human-bodied monster, solely to return to his side. Even if he were blinded, his senses dulled, and pretended not to know anything, even if he simply said to her, "You're back?"—he couldn't do it.