The Haunting Pursuit: Ethan's Final Stand

Ethan Blackwood had never seen a situation quite like this before. As he steadied his camera, the haunted corridors of Blackwood Mansion seemed to close in on him. Behind him, the faint sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the darkened hallways, a sign that his colleague was far from comfortable.

I was losing my patience, unable to endure the oppressive atmosphere of Blackwood Mansion any longer. With a final glance at Ethan, who still seemed absorbed in his filming, I bolted for the exit. "Nathan, run! We have enough footage for the episode!" I shouted as I sprinted down the hallway.

Ethan had a knack for self-preservation, but his priority wasn't saving me. My own sense of urgency propelled me faster than I thought possible. They say humans have untapped potential, and when pushed to the limit, that potential becomes apparent. In this case, my life was the catalyst.

I burst into the stairwell, the inky darkness swallowing me whole. As I tried to catch my breath and locate the stairs, a cloud of dust surged toward me from the shadows. Then, out of nowhere, a pair of icy hands clamped around my neck, squeezing tightly. It felt as though my neck was wedged between two blocks of ice, and I was lifted off the ground.

My vision dimmed as I struggled, my lungs burning. Through the haze, I saw the figure before me—a young man in an old-fashioned jacket, his appearance disturbingly grotesque. His face, twisted and brutish, was reminiscent of someone with severe facial deformities. His eyes were cold, reflecting a malevolence that rivaled any ghostly apparition I had encountered.

Desperately, I kicked and flailed, trying to alleviate the crushing grip. Ethan, to my dismay, was still filming, seemingly more interested in capturing the moment than in my plight. "Ethan! Help!" I gasped out, but he remained focused on his camera, stepping back to find a better angle.

"Hold on. This scene is crucial for tonight's shoot," Ethan said, his voice devoid of concern.

Frustration boiled over. Did he really think his art was more important than my life? But as I struggled, a chilling realization dawned on me—neither the flag-waving specter nor this hideous demon paid any attention to Ethan. They seemed to ignore him completely, choosing to focus their aggression solely on me.

Growing up, I was no stranger to feeling overlooked and mistreated. From walking home alone while other children were chauffeured, to facing unfair treatment in school, and later, struggling in the workplace—being a victim of injustice had become a recurring theme in my life.

In my anger, I felt a surge of strength. Summoning every ounce of defiance, I spat at the demon's face. The spittle, infused with my fury, struck the demon's forehead with a satisfying crack. A wisp of white smoke emerged where it made contact.

Freed from the demon's grip, I stumbled to the floor. The adrenaline that had fueled me began to fade, and I turned to flee downstairs. Clutching a small packet of cinnabar from my pocket, I cursed the internet's unreliable remedies. I knew I was running out of luck; my previous attempts to escape had been futile.

As I descended the stairs, a blinding red light surged toward me. The air was thick with the stench of blood, and within the crimson haze, I could barely make out a shadowy figure. Before I could react, I was hurled through the air, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust. Dazed, I found myself in the grand hall of the mansion.

Two tattered paper figures, grinning maliciously, loomed before me. My heart raced as I struggled to stand, only to find the grotesque demon from earlier was still hot on my trail.

I spat once more at the demon, hoping to distract it, and began to run again. But as I took a few steps, the red light reappeared, revealing an elderly specter in traditional garb. This ghost was draped in blood, its presence radiating an aura of intense malice. I had never encountered a spirit so menacing, its blood-red aura filling me with a primal fear.

"Oh no, an evil spirit," Ethan's surprised voice came from behind. "These are rare and hard to deal with. A person steeped in blood is particularly difficult to handle."

Desperation drove me to scream, "Ethan, help me!"

"Hold on. I'll come after I finish this scene," Ethan's dispassionate voice responded.

I was frantic. How could I wait while facing this nightmare? If only I could draw Ethan into the fray. Perhaps if the spirits feared him, they would leave me alone—or if not, his intervention would be my only hope. I grabbed a talisman I had drawn and ran towards Ethan, all the while spitting in the direction of the menacing spirit.

But luck was not on my side. The talisman had no effect, and the old ghost was already upon me. In a final, desperate move, I hurled the talisman at the ghost.

It stuck, but the ghost's blood-red aura intensified, and I was thrown backward with tremendous force. Pain exploded across my body as I crashed into one of the paper figures, which suddenly sprang to life. I was enveloped by its paper arms, unable to resist the overwhelming force.

Weak and disoriented, I glanced up to see the old ghost and the grotesque demon standing over me. The old ghost seemed to be observing from a distance, while the demon, now even more hideous and enraged, seized my throat with its clawed hands. "You dared to sleep with my bride!" it bellowed.

It seemed my fate was sealed. Just then, Ethan strolled over, his camera discarded. He casually drew a cigarette from his pocket and approached the demon. With a quick, fluid motion, he slapped the demon's head, causing it to disintegrate with a sickening crunch.

Ethan's voice cut through the tension. "Seriously? We're done here. Don't be so melodramatic."

I watched in disbelief as Ethan dispatched the demon with a single strike. The old ghost, taken aback by Ethan's sudden intervention, charged at him with newfound aggression. Ethan met the ghost's advance with a calm demeanor, his eyes black as night.

He spat out his cigarette and performed a swift, intricate gesture. A golden symbol, like a writhing serpent, erupted from his hand and struck the old ghost. The spirit was engulfed in a putrid stench and vanished without a trace.

Exhausted and bruised, I slumped to the ground, staring at Ethan. He casually retrieved another cigarette and handed one to me. "You're a Daoist, aren't you? What happened to your skills?"

I couldn't help but feel a mixture of relief and frustration. Ethan had effortlessly handled the situation while I struggled to survive. It was clear that, despite my efforts, I was simply outmatched in this game of life and death.