Zhong Cheng decided to relieve himself first before hitting the sack—otherwise, the long, lonely night would be utterly unbearable.

He slipped out of bed, slid into his slippers, and headed toward the outhouse.

The old house had no proper bathroom—just a crude outhouse, good only for a quick pee. For anything more, he’d have to trek to the village’s public toilet.

A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the corridor, making Zhong Cheng shiver slightly.

He peered outside: pitch black, not a single light. Eerie silence, biting chill—the oppressive dread crept in like a scene straight from a rural horror tale.

Unlike the city, Bao Hua Village had no streetlights. Night outings demanded a flashlight.

Zhong Cheng stood on tiptoe, scanning the darkness. Not a single window glowed. Everyone must’ve turned in early.

True, the blackness might stir uneasy thoughts—but villagers lived simply, with few desires. The village’s remoteness even deterred thieves. Crime? Never happened here.

Ghost stories? Plenty. But disbelief stripped them of power.

Zhong Cheng reached the outhouse door—a flimsy wooden plank barely covering the entrance. Memories flooded back: childhood nights at the ancestral home, heart pounding at the thought of what might lunge out once the door opened.

Once, too scared to go, he’d held it in… only to wake to a "fresh and vibrant" watermark on his sheets.

Blame mountain superstitions. But nine years of education, faith in science, Party membership—he’d outgrown the fear.

*With the Party in my heart, even ghosts and spirits retreat!*

Hand on the door, he hesitated. A cold knot tightened in his chest. *Tonight feels… off. Something’s hiding inside.*

He scolded himself—*feudal nonsense!* Was the Ancient Shrine incident making him jumpy? *Just coincidence.*

No more doubt. He shoved the door open, flipped the switch. Bright light flooded the space.

Empty. Just his imagination.

He closed the door and relieved himself.

*Trickle, trickle.*

Outside, a shadow flickered—blurry at first, then solidifying into something almost human, yet not. It fixed its gaze on the outhouse and grinned, cold and cruel.

Zhong Cheng shuddered, splattering the last drops. A wave of icy dread washed over him.

He turned, frowned, then froze—pants still down. No wonder his "little bird" felt chilly.

A quick shake, zipper up. Warmth returned.

"Mountain nights really are freezing," he muttered.

Stepping out, the shadow was gone. Silence. Stillness.

But the air felt colder.

Zhong Cheng glanced around, uneasy. *Something’s off…*

"Whatever. Bedtime."

*Rustle.*

A faint sound near the courtyard. His foot froze mid-step.

Not just rustling—he heard murmuring. Faint, fragmented whispers.

That was the horror: the blur between real and imagined.

Pitch-black night. Whispering voices. Deeply unsettling.

*Wind whispers. Mischief stirs.*

Leave? Or investigate? What if he saw something…?

*"Clear conscience fears no midnight knock!"*

He muttered the old saying. Couldn’t let fear take root. No ghosts. No monsters. Just tricks.

The Ancient Shrine had already left a mark. If he ran now, the anxiety would stick.

Time to brave the wind.

He tiptoed toward the sound—led straight to the woodshed.

Calm settled in. *Probably rats.*

Though… rats were manageable. A thief? That’d mean a fight.

No thefts ever reported in Bao Hua Village… but better safe than sorry.

He snatched a nearby stick. Weapon in hand, courage rose. Even against "unclean things," he’d stand a chance.

*Rustle.*

Rummaging inside. Not a rat. A person.

Zhong Cheng crept to the door, eased it open a crack, and peered through.

His pupils shrank to pinpricks.

There—furtive figure digging through firewood. Flashlight in hand. Human. A thief.

Clumsy one. Nothing valuable hid in a woodshed.

"Could it not be here? Where did that old woman stash it…" the figure muttered.

Familiar voice. A villager? Shame would follow him forever.

Wait—that voice…

"Grandpa, what are you doing?"

Zhong Cheng flipped the light. His grandfather stood there, back slightly hunched.

Startled, the old man spun around, mustache bristling. "Scare your grandpa?! Good thing my heart’s strong!"

"Looking for that old woman’s hidden water pipe," he grumbled.

"Must it be *tonight*? Those whispers nearly gave *me* a heart attack!" Zhong Cheng shot back.

"Afraid she’d see me in daylight and hide it again!"

Zhong Cheng sighed. *This tobacco addict…*

"Help me find it, good grandson. Then Grandpa can sleep," the old man pleaded.

"Fine." No peace until it was found.

After searching, they spotted it—a corner of the courtyard. Grandma’s genius: hiding in plain sight.

Obvious once seen, yet utterly unexpected. No wonder Grandpa searched so long.

"Crafty old woman!" Grandpa muttered, clutching the water pipe.

*Say that about Grandma?* If he weren’t family, Zhong Cheng would’ve thrown a fiery punch.

Peace restored, they headed back to bed.

Zhong Cheng lay down. Drowsiness hit fast—exhaustion from the search.

Then cold. Sharp, sudden. He curled tighter into the quilt.

*Why so cold?*

Fully awake now. Mountain winds shifted like moods—sharp drops, easy colds.

He’d check on Grandpa and Grandma. Offer extra quilts.

He tried to rise.

Couldn’t move.

Not weakness—something *pressed* him down. Heavy. Immovable.

Struggle harder? Pressure crushed his chest. Breath vanished.

Stop. Play dead. Or suffocate.

*What the hell is this?!*

Panic flared. Too real for a dream. Mind clear. Body aware. Memories sharp.

He forced his lips apart—no sound. Opening his eyes felt like lifting stone.

*Pitter-patter.*

Footsteps. Close.

Air turned glacial. A shiver wracked him.

Through a slit of vision—he saw them.

Figures by the bed.

Not one.

Many.

He was surrounded…