Chapter 47: Terror, Approaching Relentlessly

Cheryl drew another cigarette from his pocket.

Smoking was not a requirement of the script, but Cheryl had long realized that this action would not deduct from the life-credit he had earned. It was akin to a minor misstep in dialogue—it was permissible to diverge slightly from the script. Only significant deviations would affect the precious life-credit.

At this critical juncture, Cheryl found that smoking was the only way to calm his mind. He occasionally pressed his hand against his chest, reassuring himself of the presence of the scroll he had hidden inside.

Hank and Allen, sitting opposite him, were both rigid, poised for whatever may come. At this moment, uttering unnecessary lines would serve no purpose. They were left with only one task: to wait. Sitting apart allowed them to keep watch over each other's backs, eliminating the risk of a surprise attack. They meticulously scanned every corner—the ceiling, the floor, the darkened hallway entrances, the kitchen doorway, and more. No angle was left unchecked.

Should any threat approach from any direction, they were confident they could immediately unleash their cursed objects.

Hank's severed finger, Allen's high-heeled shoes, Cheryl's painting… These three cursed items, when invoked together, would surely send even the most malevolent spirit retreating. The combined power of these curses would not simply be a matter of addition, but an amplification far beyond mere sums.

Thus, despite the tension, there was no overwhelming fear. The true terror lay in the thought of Hank, as the protagonist, being killed. The psychological weight of that fear, especially for Hank, was immense.

Yet, more than half an hour had passed, and still, all remained eerily calm. Though the dim lighting in the living room cast long shadows, and the atmosphere felt steeped in an unnatural gloom, there had been no signs of anything unusual.

"Staying silent like this... it's starting to feel a bit too much," Cheryl finally said, unable to hold back any longer. He felt that if he didn't speak, he might crack under the pressure.

Hank shared the sentiment and couldn't resist adding, "Yes… since we're here, we might as well talk."

As for Allen, he couldn't have cared less. Talking in such a moment would only distract him. He had only one shot at this, and he couldn't afford to miss. No matter what, he couldn't afford to further deplete his life-credit. This one attempt had to be his only focus—he could not afford any slip-ups. If this attempt failed, he would lose the ability to use the cursed objects and would have to rely entirely on Hank for protection. At that point, there would be no chance to redeem his life-credit. Thus, he remained silent.

Hank, of course, was oblivious to Allen's thoughts. He saw Allen's continued vigilance, his eyes scanning the surroundings without a hint of relaxation. Hank couldn't help but silently admire his mental fortitude. As for Cheryl, he gave little thought to Allen's silent demeanor. To him, Allen was just another rookie actor—one who might not survive past the second horror film. Furthermore, he still harbored some resentment over Allen having taken his high heels. He had no intention of engaging with him.

Cheryl took a deep drag from his cigarette and continued, "If it's true that the Ouyang family has been keeping zombies, then surely, the Ouyang family members should have the means to control them, right?"

This was a hope that Cheryl clung to. He believed there might be cursed objects left behind by the Ouyang family's deceased members within the villa. If they could locate them, the solution to this horror film might reveal itself. The problem was, they had nearly turned the entire villa upside down in their search. The only remaining unexplored area was the mysterious underground room. Could it be there?

"I've already told you, it's just a rumor," Hank replied with an expression of resignation. "I don't know any more than that."

Only then did Cheryl realize that Hank wasn't Liu Haiping. How could Hank know the details of the Ouyang family that Liu Haiping might? Ultimately, the actors had only a vague understanding of the characters they portrayed. This lack of knowledge severely limited their ability to gather useful information.

"However..." Cheryl spoke again, "If there truly are zombies, I fear they may have lived since the Qing Dynasty, surviving all the way to the present..."

When zombies were mentioned, most people would likely think of the undead in Hong Kong horror films—dressed in Qing Dynasty official attire, with talismans pasted to their foreheads, hopping along as they moved. However, Hank was merely indulging in idle talk. He certainly didn't believe that such comical and absurd zombies would be the threat in this horror film. No, it was unthinkable. If there were zombies, they would more likely resemble the terrifying, grotesque creatures from Resident Evil, not the hopping, theatrical undead from folklore.

But... despite repeatedly speaking of zombies, both Hank and Allen were filled with doubts. The so-called "secret passage" was merely a part of the script; Hank believed it was nothing more than a plot device to mislead them. What lay in the basement would surely be something far more sinister than mere zombies.

"Are we truly dealing with zombies?" Hank asked Cheryl, his voice tinged with skepticism. "After all, everything is just our speculation at this point."

As he spoke, Hank remained ever-vigilant, his eyes constantly sweeping the surroundings. Though he was calm, unlike Allen, whose life-credit was exhausted and thus left him constantly on edge, Hank, too, had earned his redemption through saving Allen. With the cursed objects of the bell and severed finger, his chances of survival seemed higher, yet he never allowed himself to relax. He could not forget that he had already died once.

If it was possible to die once, it could certainly happen again. A single lapse in concentration, and the same fate would repeat. Hank did not believe in luck; he did not expect another chance to come his way.

Meanwhile, upstairs...

"Strange, why has Wu Jun been gone so long?" Liu Ying's face twisted into a puzzled expression.

Suddenly, a thought flashed through her mind, causing her body to tremble uncontrollably.

Could it be... could it be...?

Had he already died?

As a newcomer to the acting world, Liu Ying had only skimmed through the rules she had been taught. She had not fully understood the specifics of film production. In the original script, the first floor was considered a danger zone at this time, so naturally, she, along with Wu Jun and Zhao Xiaoya, had gone upstairs. But now, she could not be sure. Had the plot shifted? Could it be that the ghost had moved upstairs as well?

The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Her face turned ashen.

She quickly grabbed Zhao Xiaoya's arm, urgently saying, "Xiaoya! Let's go downstairs and bring them some coffee, shall we? They might be planning to stay up all night. After all, in a situation like this, no one could possibly sleep peacefully."

Though Liu Ying had known Zhao Xiaoya for only a short time, she was struck by her beauty and gentle nature, which made Liu Ying feel an immediate fondness for her. Now, faced with a life-or-death moment, Liu Ying decided to drag her downstairs. Earlier, the seasoned actors had advised her not to go upstairs, but Liu Ying had been too afraid to listen. Now, she regretted that decision immensely.

"Alright," Zhao Xiaoya replied, her voice betraying a hint of fear, but her acting remained on point. "I'll call them up to join us for coffee."

Liu Ying immediately admired Zhao Xiaoya's thoughtful response. She had originally intended to find an excuse to go downstairs, but had forgotten that bringing three cups of coffee down was also part of the plan.

After leaving the room, they stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Not far ahead, a corner led to the restroom. They had no idea what had become of Wu Jun. In her mind, Liu Ying had already resigned herself to the thought that he was dead. Having watched enough horror films, she knew the trope well: many characters left the group for one reason or another, only to encounter a horrible death when they were alone. This was a classic "death flag," a well-worn cliché of horror films.

How could she dare to check on Wu Jun's condition? They weren't close, and whether he was alive or dead, Liu Ying simply couldn't afford to concern herself with it.

She moved cautiously, her steps delicate, her grip on Zhao Xiaoya's hand firm as a wave of fear washed over her. The distance to the stairs was not great, yet Liu Ying felt as though it stretched endlessly before her. The hallway was steeped in gloom, and the farther they ventured, the less she could see ahead. The darkness seemed to grow ever more oppressive, tightening her chest with each step. Every inch forward heightened her dread, as if a terrifying specter might materialize from the shadows at any moment. She couldn't help but recall that, had it not been for Allen's timely intervention during the second act, she would have already met the grim fate foretold in the script—her life snuffed out, like a fleeting breath!

At that very moment, Zhao Xiaoya suddenly halted.

"What... what's wrong? Xiaoya?" Liu Ying's heart skipped a beat, a tremor of unease creeping through her.

"There's a sound ahead. Did you hear it?" Zhao Xiaoya's words sent a chill coursing through Liu Ying's veins.

"Could... could it be a zombie?" Liu Ying's voice quivered in dread.

Unlike Hank and Allen, Liu Ying was almost entirely convinced by the notion of zombies. She immediately strained her ears, but heard nothing.

Zhao Xiaoya furrowed her brows tightly, her hand still gripping Liu Ying's without the slightest slackening. The dark corridor ahead seemed as perilous as a den of wild beasts—an impassable labyrinth of terror. The two of them, trapped in place, could neither advance nor retreat.

Zhao Xiaoya cleared her throat softly and spoke, "Perhaps... perhaps I misheard."

Yet Liu Ying, gripped by an irrational terror, could not bring herself to believe that it was merely a mistake. Was this not the classic horror trope? The so-called 'misheard sound' was always the surest indicator of something far worse lurking in the dark.

For them, retreating meant only returning to the room—or worse, venturing into the restroom to meet Wu Jun, whose fate remained uncertain. There was no escape. The only way forward was toward the stairs, leading down into the unknown. The mansion was far too sprawling, and if it were not for that, a few steps would hardly feel so torturously fraught with peril.

At that moment, terror gripped her heart, growing more unbearable by the second.

"Let's... let's run, Xiaoya!" she cried, her voice trembling.

"Alright... alright..." Zhao Xiaoya, too, felt her will falter as she began to take a step back.

Without another word, they turned and dashed back toward their room. Liu Ying flung the door open and rushed inside. But her haste caused her to stumble, and both of them fell to the floor in a heap. Liu Ying scrambled to her feet first and immediately saw what had caused her to trip.

At the doorway of the room, there lay Wu Jun's lifeless body, his head nearly torn off, his corpse an unholy display of death, sprawled grotesquely on the floor.