The last words of the homeless man sounded quite desolate, and I had no idea where he was headed. I got up and collected all the trash from the ground, tossing it into the garbage bin.
An elderly sanitation worker, his skin tanned dark from the sun, stood resting by the bin. Wearing an orange vest and smoking a four-yuan pack of Baisha cigarettes, he sighed and said, “Him? He’s been petitioning for ten years. Usually, he just scavenges for food nearby. He keeps two packs of documents tucked inside his clothes.”
“What happened?” I asked curiously.
“Apparently, his younger brother was executed for a murder case. He believes his brother was wrongfully convicted… so he keeps petitioning. I’ve seen his legs broken twice.” The sanitation worker finished his cigarette and stubbed it out.
He took a few steps and picked up two skewer sticks that a couple had just discarded.
Under the streetlight, a little girl sat on a small stool, diligently doing her homework. She smiled at the old sanitation worker.
“Grandpa, I can write ‘I love the Republic’ now…”
I fled with the Jade Corpse in tow. What kind of belief keeps the people at the bottom of society going?
By the time I rushed back to the Bai Meng Flower Shop, it was already past eleven at night. Yu Yuwei was tidying up, probably about to close.
Most of the business these days was handled by Yu Yuwei.
I asked if she had taken a liking to either Iron Ox or Liu Jibao. She shook her head with a smile and said, “Boss, don’t ask. I’m not worthy of them. They’re kind-hearted, good people.”
I burst out laughing. “If you can’t decide, just flip a coin!”
Yu Yuwei’s face darkened. “How can you decide something like that with a coin?”
…
At midnight, the flower shop closed. I took Xiao Jian and Xie Xiaoyu home to Apartment 4, Unit 4, Floor 4, Room 4. Xie Lingyu still hadn’t returned.
Strangely, the person who had asked for my address to send me documents still hadn’t made a move.
The next day, I started ordering takeout.
I searched through all the information about the old building, much of it from university archives, and finally found the owners of the units on the third and fifth floors.
Unit 502 was where Ye Wenxin lived.
Unit 302 had housed several people, but the strangest thing was that all seven of them had gone mad. None of them lasted more than a few days before losing their minds. Rumor had it they all died under mysterious circumstances. Given the era, it wasn’t uncommon for people to succumb to the pressures of superstition and fear.
The problem with Unit 302 was far worse than I’d imagined.
To uncover the full story, I didn’t leave the house for seven whole days.
It wasn’t until the seventh day after Xie Lingyu left that Xiao Jian finally adjusted, accepting the takeout fried rice and fried chicken I ordered.
That evening, I ordered two stir-fried dishes to fatten Xiao Jian up a bit—a skinny dog just doesn’t look good.
After dinner, Chen Tucha called me.
It had been a while since I’d heard from this Shanghainese woman, and at first, I didn’t recognize her voice. But after a few words, it clicked.
Chen Tucha asked me to come over, so I had no choice but to go. Not wanting to give her the wrong idea, I brought Xie Xiaoyu and Xiao Jian along. Sensing trouble, I also packed some gear before hopping on my motorcycle.
Chen Tucha lived near the Second Bridge. When I knocked and entered, I found her wrapped in a blanket, shivering—apparently, she had a fever.
It was strange. Why would she call me for help with a fever? Then again, not many men would willingly visit a woman who spent her days handling corpses in the middle of the night. I was the exception.
Chen Tucha glanced at Xie Xiaoyu, displeased. “Why did you bring so many people?”
Ignoring her, I pressed my hand to her forehead—burning hot. “I have to take care of them,” I said firmly. “Get dressed, bring your ID and insurance card. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Chen Tucha had no retort. Weakly, she stood up, changed clothes, and threw on a coat.
I bundled her bedsheet around her, lifted her onto my back, and carried her downstairs. Wrapped tightly in the sheet, she sat in front of me on the motorcycle while Xie Xiaoyu took the back seat. With a roar, we sped off.
Chen Tucha nearly toppled a few times, but I steadied her—though some accidental contact was unavoidable.
At the emergency room, her temperature was measured at 39°C—almost enough to fry her brain.
Slumped in a chair, I helped her see the doctor. She needed an IV overnight.
After tucking her in, I went to the restroom, whistling as Xiao Jian followed.
Outside the restroom, I saw Ye Qingyou, the fake flower seller, sitting alone on a bench, crying.
In his hands was a critical illness notice.
I’d heard before that he only resorted to scams because someone in his family was sick—his wife had some kind of cancer. It seemed to be true.
A man wouldn’t cry unless he was truly desperate. I walked softly, even muffling the sound of my footsteps in the restroom, not wanting to disturb this lovesick fraud.
[That night, I heard a little ghost story. Let me share it with you.]
It was a tale swapped between two night-shift nurses. Ghost stories thrive in certain places: hospitals, girls’ dorms, funeral parlors, haunted houses, and—curiously—taxis.
Stories about corpses in hospital morgues, mysterious footsteps in dormitories, disappearing bodies in funeral homes, and twin black cats in haunted houses.
But why so many taxi ghost stories? Because taxi drivers work the night shift, encountering all sorts of strange passengers and events.
Honestly, more than half of taxi drivers have had this experience: counting their earnings the next morning, only to find a few hell banknotes mixed in.
The story I heard that night took place in a hospital—but didn’t originate there.
With only a few patients needing IV changes, the nurses had little to do. Since I had nothing better to do while Chen Tucha slept, I decided to listen in. It was always me telling stories—time for a change.
I have to say, hospital nurses have nerves of steel.
One nurse began, “Once, when I visited my grandma in the countryside, I heard a bizarre story—absolutely true. It’s about two brothers. My grandma told me.”
The other nurse urged her to continue.
Clearing her throat, the storyteller went on.
…
There were two brothers, dirt poor, with patched-up underwear they still wore despite years of repairs.
Marriage was out of the question—no girl within ten miles would have them. Worse, they were lazy. With a bit of effort, they could’ve made a decent living.
One night, a tiny old woman in black, carrying a basket of eggs, met the brothers on their way home from their uncle’s house. Seeing her struggle, they offered to escort her home. Grateful, she insisted on feeding them and letting them stay the night.
The brothers, who’d gone to their uncle’s to beg for money, had been scolded and left hungry. So they agreed.
The old woman served them braised pork and stewed trotters, then gifted them a scroll, telling them to open it at home.
The next morning, the brothers woke to find themselves half-buried in a grave, chewing on a piece of shoe leather. They vomited instantly.
But the scroll was real. Terrified, they hurried home.
The older brother wanted to burn it, but the younger one convinced him to open it.
After seven days of hesitation, they lit an oil lamp and carefully unrolled the scroll. Inside was a painting of a classical beauty with her back turned, her head twisted to reveal a stunning face, her eyes radiating allure.
Her hair was elegantly styled, but on her arm was a painted eye—almost like a tattoo.
The brothers, lifelong bachelors, were instantly entranced.
At midnight, a ghostly breeze snuffed out the lamp. A smooth-skinned figure emerged from the scroll, grabbing their hands and pulling them close.
In the darkness, the eye on the beauty’s arm seemed to blink…
…
“Ah!” I jumped. “That’s not a tattoo—it’s alive? Something’s wrong with that painting!”
The storyteller shot me a disdainful look. “Man up, will you? You’re scaring me with your yelping.”
“What happened next?” the other nurse pressed.
“Later, villagers noticed that every night, the brothers would lock their door, and strange noises—like lovers’ whispers—would emerge. But no one ever saw them with wives. In some poor areas, brothers sometimes share a wife. The old men in the village speculated that the brothers had turned to each other for comfort.”
The storyteller seemed unfazed by the story’s risqué twist. I, however, was intrigued and didn’t interrupt.
The listener’s eyes sparkled. “Fascinating! I love it. Too bad it was just the brothers and the ghost. If it were really them together, that’d be something.”
“Lay off the BL novels. Forty-nine days later, the brothers were found dead in their home, the scroll beside them. Their dying wish was to be buried together with the painting—or their vengeful spirits would haunt the village. The villagers complied, burying them side by side, the scroll between them.”
Just then, a patient needed an IV change, so the storyteller left. The other nurse was called away by a doctor. Left with half a tale, I returned to Chen Tucha.
After fever-reducing and anti-inflammatory injections, her temperature had dropped. She slept soundly in her chair. As I adjusted her blanket, she suddenly grabbed my hand, gripping it tightly.
Trapped, I sat beside her. Xiao Jian dozed under the chair, occasionally staring wide-eyed at the wandering spirits in the hospital.
But he didn’t bark—these ghosts were lingering, not malicious.
They clung to life, unwilling to leave.
After all, the human world has friends, lovers, stars, and the moon.
At dawn, a slap woke me. A recovered Chen Tucha glared. “You… how dare you take advantage of me while I slept… holding my hand…”
Luckily, her post-fever slap didn’t hurt much.
“Your hand was soft and fragrant—a hand that touches corpses. I just wanted to see if it felt different.” I deadpanned.
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