I was lying in bed, deeply regretting not having asked for a piss pot earlier; now I had no choice but to get up and head to the restroom.

My head was still groggy, but I forced myself up from the cot, gritting my teeth as I shuffled toward the observation room door.

Up to that point, I still hadn't grasped what exactly had happened. I vaguely recalled being blindsided and knocked down right outside my apartment building. When I woke up, I was in the hospital, completely cleaned out. Some kind Samaritan had covered the initial medical expenses.

I pulled open the door to the observation room, and the scene in the hallway made the hair on my scalp stand on end.

By the door, one girl was supporting another as they walked past. I heard the girl being supported say, her voice tight with pain, "This backache won't ever heal, it's the worst."

I didn't pay attention to how the other girl comforted her; I only saw a formed, bloody infant clinging tightly to the waist of the supported girl. Its tiny arms were twisted and elongated, far surpassing the limits of what a human body should endure, and its two small hands, barely recognizable as hands, were locked together.

I quickly averted my gaze, forcing myself not to look at her.

Finally reaching the restroom, a man in a patient gown was washing his hands at the basin. Suddenly, the water stream, which had been perfectly fine, surged violently, splashing him.

"Damn it, this shoddy plumbing, always acting up," the man grumbled, leaving without even turning the water off. But I clearly saw a figure clad in a black robe suddenly crank the faucet wide open—and more unnervingly, I couldn't see the figure's feet.

I went straight back to the ward without even washing my hands.

On the way back, a homeless man, dressed in tattered rags, was wandering the corridor, brandishing long, jet-black fingernails. I tried hard to keep my eyes straight ahead as I brushed past him. When he turned, I saw both his grimy, bare feet suspended above the floor, floating along silently, following me.

A wave of chill washed over my back. I entered the room, collapsed back onto the cot, and squeezed my eyes shut, feeling that thing standing by my bedside for a long time before finally departing.

I secretly cracked an eye open. This observation room wasn't clean either. Against one wall stood a woman facing it, occasionally turning to survey the room. Her tongue, already blue, was unnaturally long, lolling out past her lips.

I don't know how I managed to survive that night. As soon as dawn broke, I left without a second thought to check out downstairs.

The mere fact that I had gotten through one night in that hospital left me feeling incredibly lucky.

After returning home, I didn't dare step outside for a long time, terrified that I wouldn't be able to handle the sheer horror of those repeated experiences, and even more fearful that whatever was in that place would find me.

Although I had reported both robberies to the police, there had been no progress due to the lack of any witnesses.

Enduring it felt like living in constant dread. During that period, I was like a prisoner who had been sentenced to death but didn't know the execution date—sitting foolishly at home, unable to eat or sleep properly.

If I had continued down that path, I probably wouldn't have made it to the present day; I’d have been dead already.

But ultimately, I wasn't defeated, and the catalyst was a simple thirst.

Back then, when I was thirsty, I habitually went to the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and took a few direct sips. When I looked up, I saw the mirror hanging on the wall above the sink. In a momentary lapse of focus, I thought I saw an unfamiliar figure flash across the reflection, startling me badly.

But upon closer inspection, I realized it was just my own reflection. The problem was that, at that moment, I almost didn't recognize myself. My hair was a wild, tangled bird's nest, my beard had grown long and ragged, and my eye sockets were sunken. In those dark hollows, red blood vessels had almost completely covered my sclera.

I touched my face and leaned closer to the mirror for a better look. Suddenly, I saw the red veins in my eyes beginning to spread outwards at a visible rate. Countless threads of red seemed like igniting fuses, radiating toward my ears, nose, lips, neck, and the top of my head, as if watching my own face shatter.

"Ah..." I cried out in alarm, unable to stop myself from lunging forward and smashing the mirror with my fist.

With a sharp smash, my face instantly fragmented into pieces.

But quickly, I realized that in every shard of the broken mirror, scattered with red veins, was a face that was neither human nor ghost. Every eye in every reflection burned with a terrifying, blood-red hue.

In truth, witnessing such sights had become commonplace for me. During that time, I frequently woke up in a daze in the middle of the night to find a figure hunched over, squatting near my feet; or when opening the refrigerator, I would see a faint shadow flicker across the mirror-like door.

Someone once said that when fear reaches its absolute peak, it turns into rage. I felt that rage now. Since death was inevitable anyway, I decided I would resist before being taken, because simply waiting for the end felt too cowardly.

The first act of rebellion was to clean up my room. I didn't know how long I had wallowed in misery, but the entire apartment had become disgustingly filthy. Perhaps due to the tightly sealed windows and doors, the interior was not only dim but damp, with a pervasive smell of mildew emanating from the corners.

After exerting immense effort to tidy the room, I suddenly realized I was hungry. This was the first time during that period I had felt genuine hunger.

There was nothing left to eat in the refrigerator; I couldn't even find a single packet of instant noodles. So, I went out. I didn't just buy food; I also bought this notebook. I intended to write down everything that had happened while I was still alive and still possessed my memories. At least when someone found my body after I died, they could read this book and know what I had gone through.

After eating a proper meal, I decided to choose a different kind of life.

I started going out, searching everywhere for a new place to settle down, and then I decided to rent out my current apartment.

No one would have guessed where I chose to live, subsisting on the rental income.

I secretly moved into Pi Hou’s house. It still held those files we had once gathered, most of them concerning that place. Although no one had ever been able to explain anything about that location to me, now I was determined to try and piece together some sense from the documents.

First, it was certain that that place was crawling with malevolent spirits, and they apparently had no intention of sparing the families who had once resided there.

Next, based on the legends Pi Hou had collected and the accounts I heard while living with Uncle Ye, that place showed no anomalies when people first moved in. What was strange were the attic and the basement. I heard that when the place was first occupied, a family used the attic as living quarters, but they moved out soon after for unknown reasons—apparently a recently married couple. However, because the documentation was scant, Pi Hou couldn't find their names or where they moved afterward. Uncle Ye’s information was limited to what he could recall.

After that, the attic and the basement became dumping grounds for everyone's junk. But after some time, everyone began noticing terrifying things happening there: women weeping and unintelligible singing late at night; the sight of female figures lurking in hallways or dark corners; the faint sound of an infant crying.

Could there be two ghosts, one large and one small? I couldn't help but think that.

But why would the ghosts target the former residents? How did they find these people?

Now, perhaps I am the only one left alive among those who had moved in. As for Ye Wenmo, who fled abroad, I don't know if he is alive or dead; I suspect he is most likely dead, and Pi Hou would never have found him even if he lived.

Furthermore, the three Sarira that Uncle Ye’s master risked his life to leave behind are all gone. Without those things protecting me, the ghosts from that place have likely set their sights on me.

Suddenly, an impulse surged through me: I had to visit that place and confront those malevolent spirits directly—the ones capable of ending my life.