Henry clapped his hands with a flourish, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Wonderful, utterly wonderful,” he praised. “Is there anything in this world more wonderful than a spine chilling ghost story?”
Qin Lei felt a surge of anxiety as he looked up. He had been worrying, aware that he had only a few horror stories to share. He needed to tell two of them, one for himself and one for his daughter, Yue Yue, who was too young and frightened to join in. He had to act quickly before soone else told his stories.
“I’ll go next,” he announced, adjusting his black-frad glasses and wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. “Tell , do you have the courage to look under your bed at night? I don’t. I’ve always been a coward, ever since I was a child. But I had a friend who was fearless; he would lean over the edge of his bed every midnight, gazing into the darkness below.”
His wife, Zhang Shu, who was sitting next to him, shifted uncomfortably.
Qin Lei’s face was filled with remorse; he blad himself for dragging his family into this nightmare. He had wanted to save so money and had agreed to join Henry on this vacation, not knowing what horrors awaited them.
He averted his eyes and went on, “In the beginning, he would only peek for a few seconds, but as ti went on, he beca obsessed. He would stare for hours, as if hypnotised. I asked him what he found so fascinating under the bed, where nothing but shadows and dust lurked. He said it was a mystery, that sothing under the bed was calling to him. I asked him what it was, but he said he had no idea. Then one day, he disappeared. His family filed a missing person report, and many relatives and friends joined the search, but they found no trace of him.
Months later, his mother, who was cleaning his room, slled sothing rotten. She scoured the room, but could not locate the source of the odour. Eventually, she and her husband realised that the stench was coming from under the bed. They moved the bed aside and saw a wet, human-shaped stain on the floor.
They pried open the floorboards and found my friend’s decayed corpse.”
“Wow, wonderful!” Henry exclaid, jumping to his feet. “Absolutely wonderful, the most spine-chilling story I’ve heard so far!”
“Uh, thank you,” Qin Lei said, forcing a smile. “I have one more story to tell, for my daughter.”
“Of course,” Henry said. “By all ans, continue.”
Qin Lei grabbed the red wine in front of him and drank it in one gulp, nearly choking.
Zhang Shu quickly slapped his back.
Qin Lei gave his wife a tender look before resuming, “Do you drive often at night? Those who work as taxi drivers must be familiar with this, that so roads are forbidden after dark.
He was a taxi driver, a friend of a friend of mine, and he was about to call it a night when he picked up his last passenger. The passenger gave him an address that was far away, too far for his liking. The passenger said it was close, if he took a certain road, a shortcut. The taxi driver hesitated, because he knew that road, and so did everyone else in this city who drove for a living. That road was fine by day, but not by night, because too many accidents had happened there after dark.
The passenger noticed his hesitation, and said he would pay him well, very well, two thousand yuan (269 EUR) for the ride. The taxi driver was in a tight spot financially, and the offer was tempting. He clenched his teeth and agreed.
He steered the car into that forbidden road at night, and for a while, everything was calm and normal, and he relaxed a bit, telling himself that there was nothing to fear, nothing out of the ordinary in this world. Then, he heard a crackling sound on the window above his head, and he thought it was raining.
The passenger in the back seat let out a low chuckle then, and he felt a chill down his spine. He looked up and saw that it was not rain that was hitting the car, but dozens, hundreds, thousands of blood-red handprints, covering the car like a grueso blanket…
The next day, when they found him, he was already dead, and the car was twisted beyond recognition.”
Ripley’s face was ashen, Zhang Shu covered her daughter’s ears with her hands, and tears stread down her face. But Yue Yue seed oblivious to what her father had said, or did not comprehend it, and she gazed at Qin Lei with wide, curious eyes.
The seven patients were unfazed, they had seen worse things than ghosts.
“I’m done.” Qin Lei nodded.
“That was wonderful.” Henry exclaid: “I never thought you could tell such a splendid story. It was fantastic, I can’t wait to hear more stories like this.”
Zhu Miao Miao decided it was her turn to speak. She was not good at telling stories, and she lacked confidence in her own story, and she knew that the longer she waited, the more nervous she would beco.
“Next, I’ll tell you one.” Zhu Miao Miao was a lovely girl, with eyes that were especially beautiful, like fox eyes that had captured the essence of heaven and earth. She said: “So old people would advise their young ones not to go to the toilet at night, because they believe the toilet is a filthy place, and it easily attracts so evil things.
Uh.. the na… It’s about this girl, Xiao Fang (小芳). Ah, Xiao Fang, she was one of those sceptics, you know? She thought it was all nonsense. But one night, she made a terrible mistake. She drank too much water before going to bed, and woke up in the middle of the night with a full bladder. She stumbled to the bathroom, half-asleep, and sat down on the toilet. And then, she felt it. Sothing soft and hairy brushing against her skin. Sothing that shouldn’t be there.
(小芳: Little Fragrant)
She gasped, pulled up her pants, and looked into the toilet bowl. To her horror, she saw a human head subrged in the water. A human head, with long hair and a pale face. And it was licking her with a long, slimy tongue.”
She looked at her listener’s faces. Yu Xiao was staring at her with a weird expression, not quite fear, but more like disgust. Henry was smiling politely, but clearly not impressed. Kang Jun was yawning, bored out of his mind.
Zhu Miao Miao felt a pang of disappointnt.
“That’s gross, not scary.” Henry said, in a patronising tone, “Well, that’s quite a story, Zhu Miao Miao. But not as good as the ones we heard before.”
Zhu Miao Miao’s shoulders slumped. She knew she was bad at telling stories. Was it going to be her fate to spend the night in that haunted room? She hoped not. But even if she did, she swore not to be afraid.
Kang Jun raised his hand and said, “Let
go next. I’m not good at storytelling, and I don’t usually like these kinds of stories. I have a real story to tell, not so made-up nonsense. A story that happened to , personally.”
He squinted his eyes slightly, as if recalling a distant mory, and began his tale. “You see, once, I had to spend the night in a haunted house with so of my buddies. We were on a mission, and we had no choice. It was a creepy place, full of strange noises and cold drafts.
In the middle of the night, I got a task. I had to make a midnight snack for my best friend, who was feeling hungry. I was so exhausted and sleepy that I didn’t pay much attention to what I was doing. I just grabbed so ingredients from the kitchen, and cooked sothing up. Then I brought it to him, and he started eating.
And then, he started crying. His cries woke
up, and I asked him what was wrong. He said, between bites, that his ears hurt. I looked at his ears, and I saw that they were gone. Nothing but holes. And then I realised, what he was eating, what I had given him, was his own ear. Half chewed, half bloody, his own ear.”
Kang Jun’s words hung in the air as he scanned their faces, but all he saw was boredom and indifference. He let out a long sigh and said, “I told you, I really can’t tell stories.”
Ripley, who had turned as white as a sheet, whispered, “Is that true?” His eyes were wide with fear. “What you just said, was it really your own experience?”
“Of course,” Kang Jun said, giving Ripley a look that said you wouldn’t understand, you’re just a mortal. “What benefit would I get from lying to you?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not,” Ma Shan said, slapping Kang Jun’s shoulder with a grin. “Now it’s my turn.”
Ma Shan was a man who had seen a lot of things, and it showed on his face. His chin was covered with stubble, and his eyes had a mischievous glint. His laugh was easy and relaxed, but it also had a hint of sothing wild and reckless that you rarely encountered in real life.
He sprawled on the chair, his right hand resting on the table, his fingers drumming a rhythm on the wood.
“Where should I start…” he said, then snapped his fingers. “Ah, right. There’s a girl in our village, very beautiful, and she’s a good worker, a teacher at the middle school. Every day, she rides her bike to and from work, and she has to cross a small bridge to enter or leave the village. I don’t know when it started, but every ti she crosses that bridge on her way ho from work, her bike tire pops. But it’s okay, because right after, a man dressed in black shows up to help her, every single day.
She started to feel uneasy, sensing that sothing was off. One day, on her day off, she was chatting with the village elders, and she brought it up. The old man’s face grew grave, and he asked her if she had ever seen the man’s hands.
She thought about it and said she hadn’t really noticed. The old man told her, if you see him again tomorrow, check his hands. If he has them, then you’re fine. But if he doesn’t have hands, then run as fast as you can, forget the bike, just run, and whatever you do, don’t look back.
The next evening as she pedalled her way ho from work, crossing the sa bridge where it had happened before, her tire popped again with a loud hiss. She cursed and stopped, looking around nervously. There he was, walking towards her with a slow and steady pace. Her eyes kept darting to his hands. Where were they? Hidden in his pockets.
He didn’t say a word as he reached her. He didn’t offer to help her with her bike, like he had done all the previous tis. He just stood there, looming over her, his hands still buried in his pockets. She felt a surge of fear, a primal urge to flee, but her legs were frozen. She could only muster a shaky voice, a desperate question. “Are you human or ghost? And where are your hands?” She saw his head tilt up, his lips curl into a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with malice. He opened his mouth and said…”
Ma Shan paused, enjoying the suspense he had created. He scanned the room, seeing the faces of his audience. They were all hooked, hanging on his every word. He got up from his seat, raised his voice, and said, “He said…,” Then he suddenly threw his arms in the air, shouting, “Here are the hands!!!”
“Ahh—!!” Zhang Shu shrieked, grabbing her daughter and running out of the door.
Ma Shan collapsed on the floor, laughing hysterically. Brother Nan dropped his cigar, Henry gasped, and the other patients looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Hahaha~…” Ma Shan cackled, enjoying his own joke. “Isn’t this a scary story? Isn’t this scary enough? Look at you all, scared out of your wits, hahaha…”
Yu Xiao rolled her eyes, feeling disgusted by this lunatic. She wished he would shut up.
“Hehehe~…” Henry forced a smile, trying to be polite. “Indeed, wonderful good, a thrilling story. Who’s next?”
Yu Xiao shrugged and volunteered, saying, “I’ll go next.”
Her bored tone suggested that she considered the whole thing a waste of her ti. The room seed perfectly fine to her, even cosy. She wouldn’t mind living there, with the ghosts as her only company. Perhaps she could even coax them into telling her a bedti story.
She coughed lightly, feeling a tickle in her throat. The grape juice she had earlier was too sweet for her liking. Clearing her throat, she continued, “I’m a student and I have a hobby of writing stories, all sorts of stories. However, there’s sothing peculiar about it. Whenever I write in other genres, everything is fine. But when I write horror stories at night, I sense a chilling breeze around . It seems to co from different directions – sotis from the left, sotis from the right, and occasionally from above my head. It’s as if soone is blowing on .
One night, while I was once again engrossed in writing a horror story, I got tired halfway through, so I decided to take a break and browse so forums online. It was then that I stumbled upon a thread dedicated to spooky stories. The thread’s creator claid that spirits are curious about the stories that the living write about them. They like to read them and watch the writers.
So, when you feel a slight breeze while writing horror stories, it’s not the wind. It’s them. Those nasty things. Breathing on you.
Watching… You… Write…”
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