Upon reaching the residential area, I noticed security guards patrolling at night, likely due to the incidents from the past two occurrences, which had heightened the community’s vigilance.
I carried Little Rascal out and happened to run into Xu Guangsheng leading a few new security guards. Recently promoted to team leader, he was basking in his newfound authority, often taking the lead in patrols. As they walked, he regaled the newcomers with stories, like inviting his deceased friend for a drink, all to establish an air of invincibility among them.
Xu Guangsheng greeted me first: “Master, heading out on business again tonight?”
I chuckled. “No, just taking a walk. Team Leader, is there a park nearby?”
He shook his head. “There is one, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Rumor has it that at night, it’s full of men… looking for other men. Best to avoid it.”
“Ah, where is it?” one of the new guards couldn’t help but ask.
“Why do you care so much?” Xu Guangsheng snapped.
With that, I abandoned the idea of strolling in the park and instead decided to take Xie Xiaoyu to an overpass to enjoy the night breeze, listen to street performers, and bask in the moonlight.
Exiting the neighborhood, within fifteen minutes, we reached an overpass where a busker was singing under the moonlight, its glow spilling onto the passing cars below.
Xie Xiaoyu leaned against the railing, hands propped up, gazing at the moon.
I handed the busker ten yuan and requested Leslie Cheung’s *When Love Becomes a Memory*. The cool wind blew, carrying the melody into the distance.
The busker adjusted his strings, and the melancholic tune filled the air.
“Don’t bring up the past again…”
Suddenly, my phone rang. By the time I pulled it out, the caller had already hung up.
The number was unfamiliar, registered in Jiangcheng.
Assuming it might be a prize notification from a Hong Kong notary office, I didn’t call back.
But soon, the phone rang again.
“Hello? Who is this? Speak up, speak up.”
“Are you *Little Rascal Loves Kittens*?”
“Yes,” I replied.
It was likely the person who had last sent me a private message.
The caller fell silent for a long moment before finally uttering in a low voice, “I’ll just text you.”
About half an hour later, I received a lengthy message.
The busker packed up his guitar. I asked him to play one more song, but he smiled and declined. “I’ve got to be at the construction site by six tomorrow morning.” With that, he stowed his speaker, pulled his rolling suitcase, tossed me a cigarette before descending the overpass and disappearing into the city’s night.
I carefully read the message.
The gist was that the sender had once explored an abandoned building with his girlfriend during their school days. One night, while wandering the campus, they took a shortcut to the derelict structure. On a whim, they ventured inside, but just as things were heating up, they saw a massive eye. His girlfriend, unable to handle the shock, suffered a mental breakdown and later died.
Teenagers sneaking into abandoned buildings wasn’t unusual—adventurous, hormonal, seeking secluded spots for intimacy. The building also provided shelter from the wind.
This only reinforced my suspicion: there was definitely an eye inside.
I replied, “Can we meet? I’d like to hear more.” No response came, likely because the sender was still debating whether to see me.
The next day, while practicing close combat moves with Brother Jun in front of the flower shop, my phone rang again. After a pause, a voice spoke: “Meet me tonight. I’ll talk to you about it.”
I agreed and asked for the location.
“There’s a Starbucks across from the main road near the old building. Seven o’clock. Bring a red rose as identification.” The voice belonged to a young man.
At seven that evening, I arrived at Starbucks with a rose, leaving Little Rascal at the shop but bringing Xie Xiaoyu along.
Inside, the café was moderately crowded. In a corner near the entrance sat a man in an expensive-looking black suit, a rose resting on his coffee.
As Xie Xiaoyu and I approached, placing our rose beside his, I got a clear look at his face. He didn’t seem like the type who’d sneak into abandoned buildings with his girlfriend.
He had the air of a killer.
But as Wong Kar-wai once said, *Even killers have elementary school classmates*. Even assassins fall in love in school.
“Are you *Front Back Left Right*?” I cut to the chase.
He nodded. “And you’re *Little Rascal Loves Kittens*.”
Our mutual recognition eased his guard, especially after he glanced at the guileless Xie Xiaoyu beside me.
“It’s been five years since it happened. I’ve never told anyone. But yesterday, while working, I stumbled upon your post online and saw the photo. It brought everything back.” His speech was rapid, his Mandarin flawless.
“Go on.”
“My name is Zhou Liangliang. My girlfriend was Guo Furong—not the one from *My Own Swordsman*. That night, Furong and I went to the old building. On the way, I saw someone burning paper money, but we ignored it and went inside anyway. It’s my fault. Then we saw that eye.”
“Which room?”
“302.” He answered without hesitation.
My stomach dropped. Was 302 really the problem?
“Want something to drink?” Zhou Liangliang asked, noticing my reaction.
I ordered an Americano. “What happened next?”
“I felt something pressing down on me and blacked out. Furong did too. When I woke up, she was pale, lying at my feet. I carried her back, but within days, she went insane—claiming she was a princess who could fly. Eventually, she disappeared.” His expression remained stoic, betraying no emotion.
A man who could control his feelings so well was no ordinary person.
I took a sip of coffee. “I went in recently and saw the eye too. It felt like it was following me, always just out of sight.”
Zhou Liangliang nodded, clearly understanding.
“I’ll call you.” He paid the bill and left, his steps measured, as if constantly on guard.
Strangely, I found myself more intrigued by Zhou Liangliang than the eye.
Half an hour had passed since we’d met.
The most crucial detail Zhou Liangliang shared was that Room 302 was undeniably haunted.
I hadn’t expected Guo Furong to not only go mad but also die.
Before leaving, Zhou Liangliang handed me a photo of Guo Furong on her eighteenth birthday—long hair, a sweet smile, wearing a simple dress. She looked familiar, though perhaps it was just that all beautiful faces share a resemblance.
Then it hit me: the sleeping homeless man from 302. I hurried out of Starbucks.
The old building was located west of my alma mater, where crows gathered at dusk.
A path led from the building to a quiet main road, frequented by vagrants and beggars.
After searching for a while with Xie Xiaoyu, I finally found the homeless man near a trash can.
“Uncle, want some chicken?” I approached.
“Nah, ate five roosters yesterday.” He pulled a half-finished soy milk from the trash and gulped it down.
“Tell me what you’d like.” I stifled a laugh—so *he* was the one who’d eaten the chickens I’d left in the building.
“Get me some duck necks, a bottle of Zhijiang liquor, and let’s chat here.” He pointed to the bank steps beside the trash can, eyeing me sideways.
Without another word, I bought five duck necks, chicken wings, lotus root slices, seaweed, and a bottle of Zhijiang liquor.
The man rubbed his hands together, drooling as I returned. He devoured the duck necks, grease coating his hands and mouth, then cracked open the liquor and chugged.
After a satisfied sigh, he said, “Would be perfect with a cigarette.”
Damn it. I handed him one without complaint.
He took a drag. “Ask away.”
“Anything strange happen while you slept in that building?” All this effort just for this question.
He scratched his back, plucked out a louse, crushed it between his fingers, and flicked away the blood.
“Corrupt officials are like lice on the people.”
“Very poetic. But seriously, what happened?”
“Every night, a hand would grope me,” he said, glancing at Xie Xiaoyu before lowering his voice. “It’d slide down my chest, my stomach, even my… well, let’s just say it was quite enjoyable.”
He burst into laughter, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.
I shuddered. Was this homeless man returning to the building every night just for some spectral hand job?
“Anything else? Did you see anyone?” I pressed, suppressing my disgust.
“Look, I’m not afraid of death or ghosts. But some folks? Too many sins. They’re terrified.” With that, the homeless man wobbled to his feet and staggered away.
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