Crime Scene

A phantom blaze, a killer vanished into smoke—Chen Ge found his tongue weaving magic, a bard of the macabre. He distilled the news clippings into a potent brew, lacing them with his own shadowed guesses, crafting a tale that gripped his viewers like a Slytherin's charm. "That's the grim chronicle," he intoned, snuffing his cigarette in a swirl of ash. "Hunting muse for my Haunted House, I dared a night in this accursed den—only to stumble on a revelation: every soul here's tainted, and I wager the murderer from yesteryears hides among them!" He pivoted to the camera, eyes glinting like a lantern in a dungeon's depths.

"Intriguing—a real-life riddle," a viewer mused. "Who's got a sharp guess for the killer?"

I'm a Little Green Worm jeered, "Host, you spin dung like a pro, but we're not daft enough to bite!"

"Jiujiang's Fu An Apartments—I just scoured the web. Host's not fibbing," another countered.

He San rallied, "I trust him."

But Green Worm dug in. "Even if the case holds, how's he there? He said it burned—yet peek at that room! Walls gleam, painted fresh, furniture's worn but whole. This a cursed husk? Pull the other one!"

"No lies here," Chen Ge shot back, voice steady as a wand's flick. "Proof, you say? Simple." He dragged the rickety makeup counter aside, its legs scraping like a banshee's wail, and unsheathed his penknife. With a deft scrape, he flayed a corner of paint, revealing brick beneath—scorched black as a dragon's breath. "Names shift, rooms polish up, but some scars don't fade. Here's your proof—this was the fire's cradle."

Death to All Men piped, "I'm hooked—why the mallet and blade for a hostel stay? Warding off spooks?"

"Host's gouging walls for kicks—silence for the landlord's woes," another quipped.

"How much for this dive? No telly even!"

Chen Ge sighed at the chat's drift. "Oi, quit the tangents! Show some grit—I'm risking my neck for this stream!"

Death to All Men tossed a dollar. "One buck for respect."

Trolls nettled him, yet clung like ghouls—he'd take it. "Right, back to it. Six oddities crossed my path here. First, a woman—unhinged, maybe. Greeted me with a grin sharp as a goblin's blade. Rattled me, but she's a ghost since—no more to tell…"

He cataloged the tenants, voice low and deliberate, then wove his suspicions. "Motive screams loudest from the landlord—shifty as a niffler with gold. But that limp slows him. The tattooed lout on the first floor and the plump second-floor git? Prime movers. Don't count out the woman or frail Wang Qi, though."

Death to All Men scoffed, "So, zilch solid. My bet's the wheelchair codger—fire's heir, biggest winner."

"Not mad," Chen Ge mused. "He's frail now, but four years ago? Unknown. Arson needs no brawn—wheelchair or not, he's in play."

"Could he fake it?" another prodded. "The least likely's often the viper."

"I lean to the first-floor lass," a third chimed. "That smile—communication, eh? Host, recall its curve, the gape? I'll dissect it, psyche-wise."

"Can't…" Chen Ge muttered, brow twitching.

The chat buzzed hotter, his stream swelling like a potion over flame. Hopeless lot—need clues to stir them proper, he brooded. "Tried scouting pre-stream," he said aloud. "First and second floors got a facelift, but the third? Left raw from four years past. Soon, I'll climb up—sniff out something meaty."

"Kept as is?" a viewer shivered. "That's… twisted."

"Ghosts lingering—case unsolved?" another whispered.

"Night-prowling a haunted wreck? Host's barking!"

"Runs a Haunted House, don't he?" one crowed. "We stormed his lair for payback after that vid—got trounced. Two bold sods ventured in: one bawled like a babe, the other dropped cold."

"What hit 'em? The rest of you?"

"Mad to follow after that?"

"Fair…"

"LOL!" He San chirped.

The chat veered wild, a broomstick off-course, but Chen Ge let it ride. Pocketing his penknife, he hefted the phone in one hand, mallet in the other, and crept to the door. Wiser now, he sank low, peering beneath—no shadow loomed. He eased it open, the hinges groaning like a troll's lament, then locked it behind him. Plucking a hair, he wedged it in the keyhole—a frail ward; if breached, it'd shift.

Prep done, he slunk to the stairwell, steps feather-light to dodge the voice-activated glare. His phone's beam danced ahead, a will-o'-wisp in the murk. Ascending, the walls darkened—stained by time or worse—and a sour tang fouled the air, unplaceable, clawing his throat.

Third floor loomed. He flicked on the flashlight, its stark light slicing the black. Leaning against the wall—its peeling skin cold as a dungeon's stone—he sharpened his focus. Last time, a shadow had flitted past—human-shaped, swift as a specter. Ghost or flesh, caution's my shield. The beam unveiled scars of yore: claw-like gouges raked the walls, relics of chaos. His grip on the mallet tightened, knuckles whitening.

Ping An's bones were queer—one stairwell, skewered to the right, stretching the leftward corridor into an endless gullet. Shuffling down it, a shiver kissed his spine—exposed, despite the wall's guard. If the fire birthed here, this'd be ash—so the killer skipped this floor then.

Doors flanked him, warped by flame, gaping into singed husks. Debris crunched underfoot—splinters and soot. He darted into the nearest room, its threshold a charred maw, swallowing him whole.