The edge of the carriage curtain lifted. Anna peeked out cautiously from behind it. She seed to have forgotten she had no body and froze in that position, like a cat in unfamiliar territory, warily scanning her surroundings. But aside from the occasional crackle of the torch, the night's silence was absolute. The air grew heavier, heralding the coming rain.
"Oh?"
Anna, scanning her surroundings, suddenly gasped in surprise as she looked toward a corner of the garden. The carriage, hidden in the darkness, almost blended in with the thick, tall grass, making it nearly invisible.
"Could soone be here?" Anna scratched her head in confusion.
...
First page.
[I'm not crazy! I'm a normal person! Why did they send
here... Aren't I their daughter?! What kind of parents would send their own daughter to a psychiatric hospital?! I have to escape... I have to escape!]
Second page.
[I don't know what my parents told them, but it's obvious the staff looks at
strangely... Not just strangely, I feel like they're watching , restricting my freedom. The other patients can walk freely in the garden, but I can't.]
Third page.
[That trick didn't work. I just swiped a fork during lunch, and they found out it was
only an hour and a half later... Why does every single staff mber here look at
like a prison guard watching an inmate?! Is this a hospital or a prison?!]
Fourth page.
[I don't feel well... They gave
an injection this morning, and then they took
to the basent... Why? There are plenty of empty rooms upstairs. I told them I'm claustrophobic, but they say strange things, like they treat claustrophobia with confinent. I don't feel well... What did they inject
with? Why are my joints itching so much... Is it an allergy? I don't feel well...]
Fifth page.
[It hurts and itches... It's not cold at all, but my fingers feel frozen stiff, they won't bend... It took
half an hour to write these words, maybe more. What did I do to deserve this... I just have so ntal problems... No! I'm perfectly healthy! I want to feel the sun... Soone, help ...]
Sixth page.
[Sothing is wrong... Definitely wrong. They ca to give
another shot of that drug. Every ti, my joints stiffen afterward... What are they doing to ? Experinting?]
Seventh page.
[I tried to resist, but it was no use. After the injection, they wanted to put
in a straitjacket and force
to lie still in bed. But finally, after I threatened suicide, they temporarily backed off. Temporarily.]
Eighth page.
[I can't take it anymore... I won't last... My fingers won't bend, I'm writing these words holding the pen with both hands, and my hair has started falling out, a lot of it... How many days have I been here? A week? Or ten? It feels like a whole year has passed... Tomorrow, when they co to give the injection, I'll try to escape... Otherwise, I'll definitely die here.]
Ninth page.
The handwriting on this page was starkly different from the previous, increasingly illegible entries. It looked as if it belonged to soone else, and the entire page contained only one phrase. [You can't escape.]
The patient's diary entries ended there. Lu Li set the diary aside. He needed to sort through his thoughts. First of all, this was reality, not a horror movie or a ga, even if it was another world. If this patient's diary had appeared in a ga, its absurd content might have been a crucial clue for the player, but in reality, it all seed... a little contrived. Like the phrase "I'm gonna kick your ass," which only exists in fiction; no one would say it seriously in real life. Of course, maybe soone would, but the odds of that were lower than running into a ghost.
Moreover, the patient's diary was lying in the most conspicuous spot, as if it had been deliberately left for anyone who entered to see.
As he pondered, a strange, quiet sound echoed through the room. Lu Li's gaze shifted from the diary to the air vent, from which a scraping sound emanated... An animal couldn't make a sound like that; it was as if sothing heavy was dragging itself along.
The thumbnail of his right hand, hanging at his side, twitched slightly, nudging the holster at his belt.
Scrape... scrape... scrape...
The sound of movent in the vent suddenly quickened—sothing was approaching rapidly, and then, at the very last mont, it went silent!
An ominous silence hung in the room for several seconds, then a loud bang shattered it—the vent cover was blasted off by so force and sent flying.
From the narrow opening of the vent, a disheveled, eerie figure crawled out. Its contorted body writhed as it dragged itself across the floor toward Lu Li.
"Why didn't you co save ... Why didn't you co save ..."
Lu Li grabbed the handle of his Spirit Gun and drew it from its holster, only to imdiately slide it back in. He didn't sense any supernatural energy from this "ghost." And besides—he couldn't figure out why a "ghost" would need to carry a kerosene lamp.
While Lu Li remained silent, the strange figure suddenly stopped crawling, scrambled to its feet, pushed the black hair from its face with dirty fingers, and pointed at Lu Li. "Hang on, where did you co from?"
"...?" The abrupt change caught Lu Li off guard, but he quickly recovered and holstered his Spirit Gun again.
"Wrong!" a shout suddenly erupted from the side. The closet door burst open, and a sturdy man in a newsboy cap with a kerosene lamp in his hand jumped out.
Waving away the dust, he coughed, "Ahem... Pfft. Your expression is all wrong, and your movents are off, too. I told you, when you see the ghost, you're supposed to scream and recoil. Hey, wait a minute..."
The man finally noticed sothing was amiss, gave Lu Li an appraising look, and his voice sharpened. "Who are you?!"
"A detective. I was asked to investigate sothing here."
"Is there anything to investigate in this dump?" the man scoffed, glancing at the cobweb-covered ceiling.
Lu Li didn't bother to explain and, with a slight raise of his eyes, asked, "And what are you doing?"
The man pointed at the guy who had been playing the ghost. "As you can see, we're writing a novel."
"What I just saw has nothing to do with novels," Lu Li countered calmly.
"Field research and plot developnt are essential parts of a writer's work," the man declared pompously, displaying a delicate artistic soul and lofty aspirations that seed at odds with his appearance.
"Great works are born from reality, even a fictional one."
It actually sounded quite reasonable. Otherwise, how could one explain soone coming to an abandoned psychiatric hospital at night, making his friend pretend to be a ghost, while he himself hid in a closet, watching the whole thing unfold?
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