Chapter 49: The Second Floor, The Third Floor

“Will there be any more guests checking in tonight?”

Mu Yu silently reached for his gun, his expression unreadable. With Luo Ling here, he felt his hands were tied. He couldn’t exactly reveal his abilities and then kill Luo Ling too. What would make him any different from people like Feng Tun? Mu Yu was, after all, renowned for being a good man.

“There are four more, all truck drivers.”

Luo Ling crouched behind Mu Yu, gazing into the darkness and swallowing hard. For some reason, a sudden chill had surged through him moments ago, but he couldn’t tell from where it came.

“They seemed to have arrived together. They took two rooms. I was planning to scare them, but instead, you showed up.”

“So you were playing marbles right next to my room and pretending it was nothing?”

Mu Yu and Luo Ling exchanged a glance, confusion written across both their faces.

“Aren’t you staying on the second floor? This is the fourth.”

“The fourth floor?”

Mu Yu fell silent, suddenly feeling an urge to turn and run. The mysterious absence of the first floor was beyond unsettling. What bothered him most was that he still sensed neither the presence of any object nor that of some otherworldly being.

“Why don’t you stay here? I’ll go down and take a look.”

Mu Yu glanced at Luo Ling, who was still crouched behind him. Compared to wandering about, it was safer for an ordinary person to stay put. Moreover, Mu Yu wasn’t sure he could protect him if things went badly.

“No, please, let me go with you!” Luo Ling, thinking Mu Yu meant to abandon him, clutched at his sleeve, his eyes earnest and pleading. “There’s safety in numbers! Brother, I’ll help you!”

Perhaps it was trust in the police that made Luo Ling feel so secure beside Mu Yu. The thought of being alone in a dark corner, with unknown things lurking nearby, made his scalp tingle.

“Alright, just don’t get separated.”

Since Luo Ling insisted, Mu Yu said no more. He pressed himself against the wall and began to move down.

…

“How long has Zhao been gone? He’s not back yet?”

Three middle-aged men sat around a bed, a stack of cards before them, chatting idly out of boredom.

Wang Zhiming glanced at his phone and joked, “Probably got lost in the bathroom. It’s been half an hour, hasn’t it?”

“It’s getting late. Let’s clean up and get some sleep. We’ve got deliveries in the morning,” Li Xiang said, absently rubbing the black mole at the corner of his mouth. He was the oldest of the four, and no longer as energetic as he once was.

“I’ll go look for Zhao. You two, sweep up the cigarette butts so that kid won’t nag us tomorrow.”

“Got it,” Wang Zhiming replied, but made no move. Instead, the usually silent Li Yan picked up the broom.

“You’re so lazy you’re about to get lice,” Li Xiang muttered, putting on his shoes and heading to the door.

“What’s wrong, Li?” Wang Zhiming asked, curious as he saw Li Xiang linger by the door.

“Did you guys hear anything?” Li Xiang turned, his face a mix of confusion, worry, and an unspoken panic.

“What are you talking about…” Wang Zhiming’s dismissive tone faded, his expression freezing. Even Li Yan paused his sweeping.

Click, click, click.

The crisp sound of marbles bouncing echoed along the corridor, coming closer and closer, until it stopped right at their door.

“What the hell is that?” After a long silence, Wang Zhiming swallowed, his throat so dry he could barely speak.

“Could it be…” The three exchanged glances, as if recalling something deeply buried.

The dusty memories were being awakened, bit by bit, by the sound of marbles. They had thought, after all these years, that they’d forgotten it completely. But the memory remained, vivid and alive, haunting them still.

“Don’t overthink it. Maybe it’s just a prank,” Li Xiang said, his hands trembling so much he couldn’t light his cigarette, no matter how hard he pressed the lighter.

“Who’d be out here in the middle of nowhere!” Wang Zhiming was now thoroughly panicked. “I told you back then, we shouldn’t have done it. But you dragged me into it, and now…”

“Enough!” Li Xiang snapped, finally managing to light his cigarette, the tip glowing and fading in the light. It was only in those moments that he felt brave enough to face the truth.

“What’s done is done. And you got your share, didn’t you?”

Wang Zhiming collapsed onto the bed, clutching his hair. The mere sound of marbles seemed about to shatter the small group they had held together for over twenty years.

A clear conscience fears no ghost knocking at the door.

“Come here, you two,” Li Xiang beckoned. “Don’t scare yourselves. If nothing’s happened in all these years, why now? Here’s the plan: I’ll open the door. If it’s just that kid trying to spook us—”

“And if it’s not?” Wang Zhiming’s voice trembled.

“If it really is, we run downstairs to find Zhao. Out of respect for him, they wouldn’t harm him, would they?” Li Xiang gritted his teeth and put his hand on the doorknob, but couldn’t bring himself to turn it. He was afraid. Afraid that the figure from his nightmares would be standing right there. The upward-reaching hands that had always dragged him toward the abyss, tearing him apart over and over.

Each time he woke in the night, he’d sneak into the living room for a smoke, despite the doctor’s countless warnings about his lungs. He couldn’t walk alone at night, couldn’t drive alone, and once even lashed out at his son for playing with marbles. His wife had fiercely scolded him for it, and in the end, he hid in the bathroom to smoke. Staring at his own twisted reflection, all he could see was terror.

He had always known he was still imprisoned in that night, and only a weak shell had escaped.

Li Xiang’s trembling hand refused to obey him. But then, unexpectedly, Li Yan brushed past him and opened the door.

A glass marble lay on the floor, shimmering with rainbow colors under the light.

“Is… is anyone there?” Wang Zhiming asked in a low voice.

He thought, perhaps, it was just his imagination, but the instant the door opened, a chill seemed to seep into the room.

Li Yan didn’t answer. He simply stood there, frozen.

In the deep darkness of the corridor, a small figure stood at the far end, waving at him. A childish voice seemed to travel through time, echoing once more in his ears.

“Uncle Yan, help me pick up my marble.”

“What marble? That’s called a shooter,” Li Yan replied instinctively, bending down to pick up the marble. A biting chill ran through his fingertips.

“Li Yan! Li Yan! What are you doing?” Wang Zhiming nearly lost his mind, rushing over to stop him.

For the first time, the usually compliant Li Yan shoved him aside and closed his fist around the marble.

“You two go on. I’m not running anymore,” Li Yan said quietly, stepping aside.

Wang Zhiming looked at his tear-streaked face, stunned, then bolted for the door. Li Xiang hesitated a moment, then followed.

The corridor was cold and dark, just as it was in his memories. Li Xiang shivered, but he didn’t dare stop or look up, only ran toward where he remembered the stairs to be.

Logically, Wang Zhiming had only just sprinted out, but Li Xiang heard nothing of his footsteps—only his own ragged breathing echoing down the corridor.

He’d never felt the corridor was this long before—so long it made him tremble.

As he ran, the stained walls began to brighten, the time-worn floor beneath him gleamed anew. When the rest stop was first built, countless truck drivers had stayed there—eating, resting, grumbling about the downturn in business. After a hearty meal, they’d head off again, thinking of buying toys for their children, clothes for their wives. Happiness, mingled with sweat.

The paint and floorboards faded away, revealing rough concrete and bare rebar, which scraped his ankles and left bloody tracks. He felt as if he was running not along the corridor, but across his own memories. And at the end waited that pitch-black winter night.

Suddenly, a light shone from a room. Gasping for breath, Li Xiang glanced inside.

Four young men sat around a table, food and bubbling soup before them, empty bottles at their feet. Hearing his hurried steps, they turned, faces flushed with drink and confusion.

Those faces—he knew them better than his own. The buzz-cut hair, the black mole at the corner of the mouth, and those bloodshot eyes after a drink.

Warmth inside, cold in the corridor—the doorway a boundary between memory and reality. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stop himself.

Regret and apology are the most useless things in the world—because memory is only memory.

But Li Xiang kept running, never stopping. When his lungs burned with pain, the stairwell finally appeared.

He brightened, grabbing the handrail. For some reason, he looked back.

Everything that had just happened seemed an illusion—the corridor was as dark as ever, the stains on the walls unchanged, the floorboards creaking. He could still see the light spilling from the room and Li Yan bent over in the doorway.

Li Yan seemed to be handing the glass marble to someone, a gentle smile on his face—gentler than Li Xiang had ever seen in their long years together.

“Thank you, Uncle Yan.”

“You’re welcome, good boy.”