Chapter 331

The streets outside were empty, save for the occasional wind sweeping through the narrow alleyways. Yinhaie had lived in the same apartment for four years, a small, old place tucked between two buildings in the heart of the city. It wasn't much, but it was hers. Quiet. Isolated. Perfect.

But lately, something was wrong. It started small. A feeling she couldn't explain. She chalked it up to stress. Maybe it was the constant pressure at work, or the sleepless nights she'd begun to suffer. But it didn't stop.

At first, it was just a few things out of place. Her keys weren't where she left them. The bathroom light would flicker on and off at random. Her phone, when plugged in, would show random photos in her gallery—photos of people she didn't know.

Then came the dreams. Or maybe they were memories. She wasn't sure.

In one, she stood in a small, cramped room, facing a woman. The woman's face was pale, too pale, and her eyes were sunken and dark. The woman's lips trembled as she reached for Yinhaie, her fingers so cold they seemed to seep through the skin. The words she spoke were indistinct, like a garbled chant, yet Yinhaie understood. She had to leave. Had to get out.

But when Yinhaie woke, the room was cold. And the strange woman's face lingered in her mind, like a taunt. She'd never seen her before. Had she?

It wasn't long before the ghost began to make itself known in the real world. The apartment began to feel...wrong. The walls seemed to close in when she was alone. Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the hallway, even though she never moved faster than normal. A creaking sound from the ceiling at night—always the same, like a door opening and closing, over and over.

She tried to ignore it, tried to pretend she was imagining things. It was the stress, she told herself. Just stress. But then she saw the figure, one evening after work.

She was in the kitchen, washing her hands, when she saw it. A pale, blurred face in the window. A woman. Her features were obscured, but the feeling of malice was unmistakable. Yinhaie froze. Her breath hitched.

The woman outside didn't move, didn't blink. She just stood there, staring. Her mouth opened. Her voice—if it could even be called that—slithered through the window like some long-forgotten memory.

The next morning, the woman was gone. But the air around Yinhaie felt thicker, like she was being watched. She called her mother. No answer. She called her friends. None of them could make time. Her phone became useless, vibrating with a hundred unread messages, but none of them mattered.

Yinhaie sat alone, in the corner of the couch, staring at the wall. She thought about leaving. But then...the sound. It was soft at first—just a shuffle on the other side of the door. Then louder. A tapping. An insistent tapping. She didn't move, didn't breathe, just waited.

Then the door opened. Slowly. Her heart stopped.

There was nothing there. Just the empty hallway, stretching off into the darkness. Yet the air felt colder. It was like something, someone, was waiting just beyond the door. The phone, which had been dead for hours, buzzed again.

The message that appeared made her stomach drop.

"Leave."

She'd thrown the phone across the room, but that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that she'd felt the presence before the message arrived. It was as though someone, something, was already there.

For the first time, Yinhaie started to think about the woman in her dreams. What did she want? Why was she following her?

The next day, she found something strange. Beneath her mattress, hidden in the dust and forgotten corners of the bed, she discovered a small piece of paper. It was folded neatly, with strange symbols written on it—symbols she didn't recognize. Her hand trembled as she held it. The symbols were old. Very old.

That night, after the sun had set, she ventured to the local library. It was the only place she could think of where she might find answers. She spent hours flipping through books, searching for anything that might explain the symbols, the woman, the dread she felt clawing at her chest.

She found it in a thick, leather-bound tome tucked away in the back. The pages were brittle, and the ink had begun to fade. But one word stood out.

"Cursed."

The story was old, a legend really, about a woman who had died tragically many years ago. No one knew her name, but the legend had passed down through the generations. It said she had been wronged—betrayed by those she trusted most. Left to die alone. Her spirit, twisted by rage, remained, haunting those who dared cross her path.

And it hit Yinhaie like a punch to the gut. The more she read, the more she realized the woman's spirit wasn't just haunting her. It was tied to her. The dream. The message. The face in the window.

She was the one who had summoned the ghost, without even realizing it. The curse had followed her, for reasons she couldn't yet understand.

The library's lights flickered as she closed the book, the weight of the words pressing down on her. There was no escape. No way to undo what had been done.

She rushed back home, her breath quick and sharp, the night air cold and biting. She didn't want to go back to the apartment, but where else could she go? She couldn't call anyone. Her friends were unreachable. The door to the apartment creaked open like a warning as she stepped inside.

And then she saw it.

The woman was standing in the hallway, her pale face more distinct now, her eyes wide and empty, staring straight at Yinhaie. The ghost was still, as though waiting for her to make the first move. Yinhaie froze, her legs refusing to obey. There was no escape now.

The woman spoke.

But not with words. It wasn't a voice, not a sound. It was something deeper. A command, something that cut through the silence and straight into Yinhaie's chest. Her body moved of its own accord, taking a step toward the figure, then another, and then another. Her feet carried her forward as though there was no other option.

She wanted to scream, but she couldn't.

Her hand reached out. The air felt ice-cold as her fingers brushed against the woman's arm. The contact was sharp, biting, as though her hand was sinking into the woman's very soul. The ghost's eyes widened, her mouth moving, forming words Yinhaie couldn't understand.

And then, without warning, the ghost lunged. The coldness in the air intensified, the world around Yinhaie warping as the woman's hands found her throat.

The last thing Yinhaie saw was the woman's face, twisted in anguish, as if her pain and hatred were now too much to bear. She felt her life drain, her body go numb.

And then, nothing.

But it wasn't nothing. Because somewhere, deep inside, Yinhaie knew the woman's face would never leave her. Even in death, she would carry her.