"I'm looking for Li Xiumei. Is she home?"
The voice sent a fresh wave of terror crashing over me—cold, sharp, and impossible to ignore. Anger didn't even register anymore. My legs turned to jelly, and I practically crawled back to the bedroom, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock until it clicked.
This was the third time. Third. And now she'd followed me home.
I scrambled under the covers, pulling the blankets tight around my shoulders like they could shield me from whatever was on the other side of that door. But the fear didn't fade—not even a little. It clung to me, thick and suffocating, mixing with a flicker of confusion that burned brighter with every passing second.
Who was she? Was she the mummified woman we'd pulled out of that wall? Her dress, her shoes—they were identical, down to the scuffed red heels and the faded black fabric. Jake and I had whispered about it on the drive home from the station, our voices tight with dread. We'd both thought the same thing: the ghost and the corpse were one and the same.
But if that was true, who the hell was Li Xiumei? Was she the one who'd killed the girl, the reason she kept knocking, kept searching? And why was she haunting me? I didn't know Li Xiumei. I'd never even heard the name before that night in the condo.
My fingers closed around my phone, and I fumbled to turn it on, desperate to call Jake. But when the screen lit up, my heart sank. No bars. Not a single signal. My apartment always had full service—always. I remembered now, though: the first night in that house, when the girl had knocked, my phone had died in the bathroom, no signal either. I'd brushed it off then, blamed the old building's shoddy wiring.
Now I knew better. It wasn't the house. It was her. Wherever she went, signal died. Silence followed.
Panic clawed at my throat. The knocking was getting louder, sharper—angrier—like she was tired of waiting, tired of playing games. She was forcing me to open the door, and I was frozen, paralyzed by fear. I couldn't call for help. My phone was useless.
What if she broke in? What if she didn't stop knocking until she found a way inside?
Survival instinct kicked in, raw and urgent. I threw back the covers, stumbled to the bedroom window, and threw it open. The cold night air hit my face, but I didn't care. I leaned out, cupping my hands around my mouth, and screamed.
"Help! Is anyone there? Call the cops! Please!"
It was humiliating—begging for help like a scared kid—but I didn't have a choice. No one answered. Not a single light flickered on in the apartments above or below. Not a single voice called back. I leaned out farther, my heart pounding, and stared at the dark windows of my building. It was midnight—young people lived here, night owls, people who stayed up streaming shows or playing games. The building should've been glowing, alive with light.
Instead, it was dead silent. Empty.
I screamed again, louder this time, my voice cracking with terror. "I'm in 1302! Someone help me!"
Nothing. The only sound was the relentless rap-rap-rap of knuckles on my front door, echoing through the quiet apartment.
Desperate, I climbed onto the windowsill, my legs dangling over the thirteen-story drop. If she broke in, if she found me, I'd jump. I'd rather die than face whatever was on the other side of that door.
I stared down at the street below, my breath catching in my throat—then froze.
She was there.
Standing on the sidewalk, looking up at me. A figure in a black dress, red heels glinting in the faint glow of the streetlamp. Her face was pale, almost translucent, and even from thirteen floors up, I could feel her eyes on me—cold, empty, hungry. The stench hit me then, carried on the night breeze: rot and decay, sweet and sickening, just like it had in the condo.
I nearly lost my balance, my hands slipping on the windowsill. I scrambled back inside, slamming the window shut and yanking the curtains closed, like that could keep her out. I collapsed onto the bed, my body shaking so hard I could barely breathe.
The knocking was still going. Rap-rap-rap. Steady. Unstoppable.
Wait.
My blood ran cold. The knocking hadn't stopped. Not for a second.
But she'd been outside. Standing on the sidewalk, staring up at me. How could she be knocking on my door and staring at my window at the same time?
How many of her were there? Had I been haunted by more than one ghost this whole time? Or was she something worse—something that could be in two places at once?
Despair washed over me. I buried my face in the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut, and prayed for dawn. Prayed for the sun to come up and chase her away. The knocking went on for hours, a relentless drumbeat in the dark, and I didn't sleep. I just lay there, frozen, waiting for the sound to stop.
Finally, it did.
The first hint of gray light was seeping through the curtains when the knocking faded, then went silent. I lay there for a long time, too scared to move, too scared to breathe. When I finally dared to peek out from under the covers, the sun was rising, painting the sky pink and orange.
I stumbled out of bed, my pajamas soaked through with sweat. My phone was glowing on the nightstand—full signal, five bars. I grabbed it, fumbling to unlock it, desperate to call Jake. Before I could hit dial, my phone rang.
It was Jake.
"Ethan! Get over here now!" His voice was shrill, trembling with panic. "We're fucked. So fucked."
I thought he was talking about the lawsuit, about Mr. Hu's threats to ruin us. I opened my mouth to tell him about the girl, about the knocking, about seeing her standing on the sidewalk below my window. But he cut me off, his voice sharp with urgency.
"I don't have time to explain! Just get here! I'll text you the address!"
He hung up before I could say another word. I stared at my phone, my head spinning. First the ghost, then the lawsuit, now this? Had my family really been cursed, like Jake's grandpa had said?
I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I barely recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror—pale, gaunt, dark circles under my eyes. I looked like I'd seen a ghost.
Because I had.
I threw on a clean shirt and a pair of jeans, my hands shaking as I buttoned them. I hesitated at the bedroom door, then the front door, my heart hammering in my chest. I was a prisoner in my own skin, terrified of every door, every knock, every shadow. But Jake sounded desperate, and I didn't have a choice. I had to go.
I took a deep breath, then unlocked the door and pulled it open.
The ghost wasn't there.
But a photo was.
It was lying on the welcome mat, face up, like someone had left it there for me to find. It was old—yellowed at the edges, the paper brittle with age. The faces were faded, almost blurred, but I could make out three figures: a young man, a young woman, a little girl, maybe five or six years old, standing between them.
My hands started shaking as I picked it up, my eyes fixed on the young woman.
She was wearing a black dress. Floor-length, just like the ghost's. And on her feet, peeking out from under the hem, were a pair of red stilettos.
Identical. Exactly the same.
The stench hit me again, sudden and overwhelming—rot and decay, sweet and sickening. I dropped the photo, stumbling back into the apartment, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.
On the back of the photo, written in faded ink, was a name.
Li Xiumei.