The mountain road was slick at dusk. Mist crept slowly out from between the trees.
The car came to a halt before an old villa wrapped in moss. Rust dripped from the eaves like dried blood, and when the wind passed, the signboard—its four faded characters reading South Peak Villa—swayed with a groan.
Xuan An stepped out, his expression stiff but forcing a smile.
"Here we are," he said quietly. "My family lives on the second floor now. The top floor… is locked."
Jia Hao didn't answer right away. He stood at the gate, eyes closed, sensing.
The air carried the smell of damp iron and timeworn wood, like something old and buried was trying to breathe again.
Yi Teng, the YouTube ghost-hunting vlogger, lifted his camera, excitement flickering in his eyes.
"Bro, this place has everything—old house, murder story, midnight crying. We've got ourselves a perfect video!"
Xuan An gave a thin smile. "I just hope you won't regret it."
They pushed open the wooden door. A gust of cold air and dust spilled out.
There was no light on the first floor, only slivers of gray leaking through the windows.
Rusting bicycles leaned against the wall, their chains hanging loose, their tires cracked.
A broken sofa, a toppled rattan chair, an old box TV—all buried beneath decades of dust.
In the corner lay a child's tricycle, its paint peeling. A single shoe sat abandoned in the middle of the floor, as if its owner had fled in a hurry.
Yi Teng swept his flashlight across the room. The beam flickered and pulsed.
"This looks exactly like a horror set," he muttered half-jokingly.
Jia Hao moved slowly, brushing the thick dust from a piano lid. There were fresh fingerprints on the yellowed keys.
"Someone's been down here recently?" Jia Hao asked.
"No one," Xuan An said, shaking his head. "We never clean this floor. Everyone stays upstairs."
Jia Hao didn't reply. His gaze settled on an antique phonograph. Its brass horn faced the door—almost deliberately—like someone had left it there to speak.
Beside it sat a cracked music box. He lifted the lid; the dancer inside was crooked, her porcelain face frozen mid-spin, the metal spring inside rusted dead.
Through Yi Teng's camera viewfinder, a faint human outline appeared—half a shadow.
"Hey, Jia Hao, did you just move?"
"I didn't," Jia Hao answered softly.
The figure vanished. Only dust hung in the light.
Xuan An wiped the sweat from his brow. "Let's go upstairs. The air down here feels wrong."
Their footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs as they climbed.
The second floor was completely different: warm lights, polished floors, modern art on the walls. The faint scent of lavender floated through the air.
Yi Teng looked around, impressed. "Man, it's like two different worlds."
"My mom insisted on only renovating this floor," Xuan An explained. "She said the first floor was unlucky. The third… shouldn't be touched."
Jia Hao's eyes drifted to the hallway's end—to a locked door with a faint dark stain beneath the frame.
"That leads up to the third floor?"
Xuan An nodded. "Yeah. That's where… it happened."
"The murder?" Yi Teng asked, already raising his camera.
After a pause, Xuan An replied, "Her name was Li Ya. Nineteen years old. She worked here as a maid. They said she was strangled. Room locked from the inside, no sign of entry. The police couldn't solve it. No one's gone up there since."
Jia Hao touched the doorframe. The wood was cold, almost alive.
"You live just below this room," he said softly. "Aren't you afraid she might come down?"
Xuan An gave a hollow laugh. "Sometimes we hear crying late at night. We wear headphones and try to sleep."
Night swallowed the window. The trees outside were silhouettes.
Yi Teng switched the camera to night vision, the corridor washed in eerie green light.
"Okay," he whispered, "final shot for tonight."
Standing before the door to the third floor, Jia Hao felt the air turn heavy and cold.
The temperature sensor beeped—dropping fast.
"How long has no one gone up there?"
"Since I was a kid," Xuan An murmured. "More than ten years."
"There's still a bed?"
"Yeah… they said she died on it."
Something thudded softly from behind the door—thunk, like an object rolling off a bed.
Yi Teng jerked the camera up. The recorder picked up a faint melody: the same broken lullaby from the music box downstairs, warped and halting, yet unmistakably real.
Jia Hao's eyes darkened. He turned toward Xuan An.
"Can you hear that?"
Xuan An's face had gone pale. He shook his head slowly.
"No… but I know this sound. It means she's here."
They stood before the door.
The shadow it cast stretched long on the floor, like a mouth waiting to swallow.
The air pressed close; the walls seemed to listen.
Jia Hao reached for the small wooden box he always carried and said quietly,
"Don't move. Tonight—we only listen to what she has to say."
The next moment, from behind the door came a single clear chime—
ding-ling—
sweet and brittle,
like a tear falling into silence.