Jiang Qianyu pulled the curtains shut and lay back down on the bed.

That thing must have seen her.

She’d been careless. She’d thought it would vanish once the fire ended.

If this entity was part of an urban legend—as she guessed—it likely replayed the fire scene periodically. Anyone who witnessed the blaze fell under its psychic influence.

And every witness paid a price for their choice.

Save others? Likely die with the monster in the flames.

Ignore it? Earn its hatred. One night, it would appear at your home—to kill you or burn everything to ash.

Sleep was impossible. She glanced at her daughter, sleeping soundly beside her, utterly untouched by that thing. A trace of relief eased her chest.

She pulled a fruit knife from under her pillow, gripped it tight, and switched on the bedroom light.

The brightness and the cold steel in her hand offered fragile comfort.

No sleep tonight.

She couldn’t confirm if her theory was right. But if it was… danger was already here.

First time facing the supernatural. And as a disabled woman? Denying fear would be a lie.

Zero experience. Total uncertainty.

Every decision carried unknown consequences.

The unknown was the true terror—it magnified every fear inside.

12:30 AM.

Just as her nerves began to loosen after ten quiet minutes—*thud-thud-thud!*

Heavy, frantic knocking erupted downstairs. Urgent. Silent. No words.

The dull thumps carried clearly to her second-floor room. Worse—after three minutes, pounding replaced knocking. Vibrations shuddered through the walls.

The video store’s front door was old wood. Not a security door. Not even close.

At this force, it wouldn’t hold long.

Inexperience. She’d assumed it was ghostlike. To her, urban legend entities and ghosts weren’t so different.

She threw off the blanket, pulled on her clothes, and swung her legs out of bed. No wheelchair. One hand braced against the wall, she forced her stiff, sluggish legs forward—step by painful step—to the bedroom door. Locked it from inside.

Her legs weren’t numb. Just slow. With support, she could walk.

Fruit knife clenched, she pressed her back against the door.

Downstairs, the assault intensified—relentless, rhythmic. Her pulse hammered. Sweat slicked her palm around the knife handle.

She was only a Witch in name. This body was frail. Beyond soul manipulation? No real power. Could she even fight off an adult?

Fear of the unknown. Frustration with her weak limbs. Terror for her daughter’s safety.

All tightened like a noose.

Reborn or not—body, identity, none of it mattered.

She wanted to live. To live well.

She pulled her clothes tighter and began counting seconds in her head.

Waiting for death was agony.

Then—silence.

Complete. Sudden.

She’d reached 350.

For a heartbeat, she wondered: *Was it all a hallucination?*

In the dead quiet, every sound swelled.

A rustle near the door—like insects crawling, or fingernails lightly scraping wood. A single drip from the bathroom faucet echoed sharply.

Beneath the clock’s faint tick… a new sound.

*Creak.*

The old wooden front door swung open downstairs.

The Witch’s hearing never lied.

Footsteps followed. Heavy. Wandering the first floor. Searching.

She killed the bedroom light without a sound. Still leaning against the door, knife trembling in hand.

*Please be a thief.* But thieves don’t smash doors at midnight. Don’t rummage through a worthless video store this loudly.

Five minutes of chaos below. Then—a footstep on the stairs. Rapid ascent.

It was coming up.

Cold sweat soaked her shirt. Heart slamming.

Footsteps halted on the second floor.

One full minute of silence.

Then—low, ragged breathing right outside the door.

“You… why didn’t you save me? *Why?*"

A voice scorched raw, rasping inches away through the thin wood.

*Thump! Thump! Thump!*

Palms slammed the door. A venomous whisper seeped through the grain:

“It hurts… so much…”

“Why didn’t you save me…”

“Pain… unbearable…”

Fingernails scraped—*skritch-skritch-skritch*—a sound that clawed at her nerves.

A stench of burnt flesh and rot flooded the room.

She looked down. Thick black liquid oozed under the door. Viscous. Foul.

It spread fast as the scratching continued.

Then—pale green flames flickered across its surface.

Jiang Qianyu’s pupils shrank.

If this reached her daughter… their end would be no kinder than his.

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