If you are reading this, it means I am already dead. Unfortunately, I always knew this day would come, yet I struggled ceaselessly, praying it wouldn't arrive so soon.

My name is Shen Jun, and if I am dead, I will say that I know exactly who murdered me. However, I do not know who will read my words. If you think I am insane after reading this, then I have nothing more to say; just consider it the ramblings of a madman and perhaps burn this notebook immediately.

But if you can believe me even a little, please read on, learn everything about me, and let someone know that I died.

Sadly, my memory is becoming increasingly confused and failing me. Many things in my mind are just vague fragments. I don't know if this is my fault, or if it's...

My friends, my companions from back then, they are all gone, not a single one remains. I cannot make new friends, not even one.

The last one of them passed away a few months ago. I was with him that day, watching him jump from the upper floor. I knew then—he had found them, or maybe they had found him. They are hunting them one by one, and one by one, they are dying. That day, I shamefully ran away.

I could only run. There was no way to prove my words. If someone had witnessed my death, I fear that witness would soon follow me to the grave as well.

It’s like a chain reaction; I could only flee.

But where could I run to? Even if my parents took me to a remote village, we still couldn't escape the reach of him or them. It was as if we had a GPS tracker embedded in us.

I am writing this messily because my mind is a mess. I... I am terribly afraid of death. Even huddled in this rundown building, I can feel the presence of death; every day could be my last.

If I recall correctly, the reason we left that place originally was the inexplicable disappearance of the children from the first-floor apartment, the one with two doors. I still remember the heart-wrenching screams; that scene is vividly etched in my mind. My father stayed downstairs continuously, while my mother held me close inside the apartment—it was like that for days. They wouldn't even let me go to school.

At first, I didn't understand what was happening. Later, I finally realized their disappearance wasn't because bad people had abducted them or because they got lost while playing. They were taken by ghosts.

There are ghosts in that building—real, genuine ghosts.

Just like the face I saw—no one grows a second face on the back of their head, no one, yet I saw it.

But when I told people, no one believed me, not even my parents. This continued until they vanished, disappearing without the slightest warning.

One day after they disappeared, I stumbled upon all the adults holding a meeting, discussing some past incidents in the building.

My friends of a similar age and I knew bits and pieces about these matters, but we hadn't paid much attention before. After all, who pays attention to hearing a baby cry in the middle of the night? Though, thinking back now, that crying sounded strangely distorted.

I overheard some of their discussion. Aunt Wang mentioned seeing a woman flash by in the hallway late one night, clearly visible in her red dress against the darkness.

Others claimed to have seen the woman in the attic, her smile sinister and terrifying, holding something resembling an infant in her arms.

Initially, no one believed these accounts, but now, more and more people were starting to accept them.

Not long after, people began moving out one by one, my parents included. Although I vehemently protested leaving my school friends, even crying and throwing tantrums, they remained unmoved and insisted on quickly vacating that home.

Now, I truly regret it—regret not leaving that place sooner. If we had left earlier, perhaps none of this would have happened today.

Evidently, I haven't mentioned where "that place" is, not because I don't want to, but because I am afraid to. Perhaps keeping the location unknown, aside from me, is the safest thing for everyone else.

If you do not believe in ghosts, then there is no need for you to know where that place is. If you do believe in ghosts, it is best for you to stay far away from it.

Originally, I thought moving away from there meant we would be safe. My parents and I returned to our ancestral home and lived there for a long time, everything peaceful. We gradually forgot about that place.

Our hometown was poor, but I was quite happy. There were times I couldn't attend school, but my parents insisted I study independently, with them teaching me the lessons.

But happy times always end. I forget the exact date, but it was a few days after my eighteenth birthday when someone suddenly appeared at our house.

At first, I didn't recognize him. After he introduced himself, I finally remembered—he was "Monkey-Face" (Pi Hou'er), the boy who lived in the house next door to us in our old place.

You can't blame me for not recognizing him. Firstly, he had grown taller, and his appearance had changed. Secondly, his look was terrifying: his face was ghastly pale, devoid of any color, his expression abnormally panicked, and his eyes darted around constantly, as if something dreadful might materialize beside him at any second.

When I saw him, my parents were driving him out of the house. I watched from a distance at first, finding this person's appearance strange. Though he seemed vaguely familiar, I just didn't place him.

But I was curious, wondering why I chased after him as he left our home.

The moment of recognition is also very blurry in my memory, but I recall one thing: after we identified each other, we were both very excited, after all, we used to play together.

However, after briefly exchanging stories about how we left that place, a sudden silence fell between us.

Finally, I summoned the courage to ask him why he had come to my house.

He stared at me strangely, then suddenly lowered his voice and asked, "You still haven't figured out what happened?"

Without waiting for my reply, he continued, "My mom and dad are dead. They died very strangely..."

Saying that, he suddenly burst into loud sobs.

I was startled and it took considerable effort to calm him down.

From his halting narrative, I learned that his parents had passed away just a year prior. The unbelievable part was that his father had personally killed his mother and then committed suicide...

He couldn't accept this reality, and neither could I.

For some unknown reason, Monkey-Face was absolutely convinced it was connected to that place we used to live in. I didn't understand.

He grabbed my hand tightly, his expression shifting unpredictably, and pleaded, "Let's investigate the truth together..."

We played together as children; that bond is hard to explain. So, after only a moment's hesitation, I agreed to his request.

Investigating the truth—we had zero experience, and I couldn't let my parents know. So, I decided to tell them I was leaving our hometown to find work elsewhere.

It must be said, Monkey-Face was more capable than I was; he had already tracked down the whereabouts of every family who had left that place.

Monkey-Face had already visited the two families whose children went missing initially. One family had since passed away, and the other was confined to a mental institution.

Frustrated, our first target after uniting was Uncle Wu, who lived in the large apartment on the left side of the second floor.

I remember clearly that Uncle Wu was the man whose back had grown a face.

Hearing me say this, Monkey-Face was equally astonished, as he had seen it too. Back then, he was merely curious and had even sketched a pencil drawing of it. Monkey-Face was an excellent artist; my success in art class back then was thanks to him.

Uncle Wu had a son about our age. We found his new home—a high-rise building, newly constructed, fifteen stories tall. It truly opened my eyes.

However, just as we stood by the entrance downstairs, we heard a sudden, heavy "THUD" nearby.

Someone had landed on the ground, their skull cracked open, every bone shattered.