I answered the phone, and a coarse male voice blared, "Yo, Old Liu, where the hell are you?"
I recognized him instantly. He was a mutual friend of mine and Li Damin, a classmate from university. He bragged about his "big second" and was the leader of his dorm, so we all called him Big Second. Big Second and Li Damin were tight—three generations of family friendship. Their grandfathers served in the army together, their fathers were sent to the countryside together, and their families' businesses collaborated. They were way closer than I was with Li Damin, having grown up together.
Big Second now ran his dad's company, a young tycoon in suits and shiny shoes, his hair slicked back, mingling in high-flying business circles—a real big shot. After college, we barely kept in touch. We weren't on the same wavelength, and even if he was a billionaire, I didn't give a damn.
The call had nearly given me a heart attack. I snapped, "What do you want, calling me in the middle of the night?"
"You know where Li Damin's at?" he asked.
This guy's mouth was something else, always throwing around "dead" like it was nothing. I growled, "No idea."
"Come on, you have to know. You two are always glued together. Whatever, nobody cares about your nonsense. Here's the deal: Li Damin's gone AWOL, and his family's freaking out. Only son, you know. His mom came to me, asking if I knew anything. I didn't want to stress her out, so I said he's off somewhere meditating in seclusion. Let's keep our stories straight—if his family asks you, say the same."
"Seclusion" sounded ridiculous for anyone else, but for Li Damin, it wasn't new. He was obsessed with all sorts of mystical nonsense. Back in college, he'd spend big bucks on stuff like Bagua charts, Hetu diagrams, ghost-catching manuals, and dubious antiques, studying them like a fanatic. I once saw him with a complete set of Baopuzi Inner Chapters, an ancient-looking book with yellowed pages, thread-bound, filled with elegant vertical calligraphy in traditional characters. I couldn't make sense of it. He said it was written by some old immortal named Ge Hong, all about Daoist ascension. It wasn't the original, just a Republic-era copy, but even that knockoff cost him thousands, supposedly picked up from a village in Henan during a holiday.
He didn't just read—he acted on it. Right after college, he vanished for six months, driving his family nuts, thinking he'd died abroad or gotten stuck in some pyramid scheme. When he finally showed up, he looked like a beggar, worse than a homeless guy. He claimed he'd been in a Daoist temple in Sichuan, "seeking the Great Way."
He was born in the wrong era. In the Qin or Han dynasty, he might've actually ascended.
Snapping back, I traded a few more jabs with Big Second and hung up. His call eased my fear a bit. Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I psyched myself up—just scaring myself, that's all.
I quickened my pace, bounding up the stairs to the top.
At the top, it was like a different world—about a hundred square meters of space. I shone my flashlight around; the corners were piled with junk, like a small warehouse. Sweeping the beam, I spotted two iron doors on the opposite wall.
The doors were old, rusted, with peeling red paint. The handles were wrapped in several loops of chain, secured with a large lock. Strangest of all, there seemed to be words written in black ink on the door.
I crept closer, cautiously illuminating it with the flashlight. Scrawled messily were the words: "Rooftop Dangerous. No Entry. Consequences at Your Own Risk!" The handwriting was childish, with excessive ink dripping down the strokes, making it look especially eerie.
I pushed the door lightly. With a sharp "creak," it opened a crack. The chains held firm, preventing it from opening further. Gripping the handle, I squinted through the gap.
A cold gust blew in, making me shiver. Inside was pitch black, impossible to see anything.
The silence was deafening. I stared for a bit, too scared to keep looking, and slowly closed the door. Breathing a sigh of relief, I told myself, Nothing to it. Time to sleep.
Before leaving, I swept the flashlight around again. Nothing seemed off, so I started down. Then, something felt wrong.
I hadn't seen a ceiling.
That couldn't be right. It was freezing outside with strong winds, yet this place was oddly warm—no way it was open to the elements.
I slowly raised my head, shining the flashlight upward. What I saw gave me chills.
The architecture was bizarre. There was a ceiling, but it was insanely high—at least six or seven meters up. Normal buildings have floors about three meters high, but this ceiling was two stories tall. Not only that, its shape was odd, with trapezoidal edges, like they'd built an open top floor and then added a slightly larger ceiling to enclose it.
The ceiling's long, narrow shape reminded me of something: a coffin and its outer casing, an ell. Everyone knows a coffin holds the dead, but an ell—a larger coffin encasing the inner one—is less familiar. In ancient times, only the elite used coffins and ells to show status.
I'm just a regular white-collar guy, no expert in feng shui. My only knowledge comes from half-baked tomb-raiding novels online. I didn't understand it, but my gut screamed this building was wrong. Too many details defied logic. As the saying goes, anything abnormal is trouble. Could this eerie, sinister place be tied to Ma Danlong?
The more I thought, the deeper and more unfathomable it seemed, beyond my understanding. I checked my watch—past 9 p.m. already. Time to sleep.
As I turned to leave, something in the corner caught my eye among the junk. It stood out because it looked like a person.
I shone the flashlight on it. It was a doll.
I picked it up. The doll was terrifying, wrapped tightly in white tape like a mummy, pierced with countless pins.
Startled, I dropped it, my forehead beading with sweat. I'd seen enough horror movies to know what this was—a voodoo doll, right? These creepy dolls are used in all sorts of dark rituals. In China, a prince used them in Emperor Wu's palace. They're in Thai black magic, Haitian voodoo, even African tribal rites. Basically, they're said to bind someone's soul, letting the caster control them from miles away.
This thing oozed malevolent evil.
Under the flashlight's beam, the doll lay face-down, its pin-riddled body arched like it was alive.
It made my skin crawl, an indescribable unease. I nudged it with my foot, flipping it over. What was that? I noticed writing on it.
Squatting down, I saw two characters written vertically on its face in red dye: "Guan Feng."
It looked like a man's name. Who would do something this vicious, cursing someone like this? Guan Feng, good luck, man, I muttered.
The more I looked, the more it creeped me out. Whoever made this was pure evil. Anger surged. I kicked the doll, sending it spinning into the dark corner, out of sight.
Coming downstairs, I was drenched in sweat, exhausted, like I'd just left a sauna. I dragged myself to my door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. The living room was dark, but I didn't bother with the light, collapsing onto the worn sofa, rubbing my face.
My mind was consumed by that bandaged doll. The more I thought, the sicker I felt, my stomach churning. Unable to hold it in, I rushed to the bathroom and vomited.