Murder by Midnight

Chen Ge's hand flew to his mouth, clamping tight to stifle a gasp that clawed to escape. The sight of the body—entombed in cement like a grotesque relic—sent a jolt through him. His fingers fumbled for his phone, tapping a frantic message to He San: "Call the coppers—NOW!" The stairwell lay shrouded in pitch, a door veiling the horror from his oblivious viewers. No time to clue them in—his world shrank to the crack between door and frame, eyes locked wide, too rattled to blink.

The corpse's walled up—that's what they're clawing out, he thought, dread pooling like ink in his gut. He didn't dare twitch. Perched in this flimsy hideaway, he was a breath from doom—mere steps from the tenants, who'd spot him if they glanced back or barged in. Vulnerable as a mouse in a serpent's den, he held statue-still.

"Digging a bloody sandcastle, are ya? Put some grit in it!" the landlord snarled, hobbling toward the body. He flung the gunny sack wide on the floor, its coarse weave gaping like a hungry maw, and crouched to chip at the cement. His hands moved with a thief's caution—soft, silent, wary of rousing the sleeping tenants below. The others joined, prying at the wall, dust blooming in gritty clouds. Sweat glistened on their brows—nerves or toil, who could tell?—drenching their black garb. First-timers at this grisly craft, their unease hung thick, slowing their hands to a crawl.

Ten agonizing minutes dragged by—each scrape a nail in Chen Ge's nerves—before they wrenched the body free, its stiff form slumping into the sack with a dull thud. The landlord straightened, wiping grime from his hands. "Fatty, you stay—scrub this mess. We'll haul her up the hill, bury her deep."

"No way—I'm with you!" the fat man blurted, voice cracking. The night's toll had hollowed him—pale, trembling, he couldn't stomach the dark alone.

"Grow a spine, you sod!" the landlord snapped, then turned to the woman. "Juan Er, babysit him then. We'll link up topside." He hefted the sack with the tattooed man, their boots thumping down the stairs—uneven, a lopsided rhythm from his limp.

As they passed Chen Ge's refuge, the landlord froze. "Why's there cotton strewn about?" His voice sliced the silence, sharp as a curse.

Chen Ge's heart slammed into his throat, choking him. The dolls—shredded them, didn't I? Cotton wisps and paper scraps had spilled when he'd torn them open, unnoticed in the gloom. Too late to scoop them now—his oversight gleamed like a beacon in the oil lamp's flicker, damning him where he hid.

"Probably just filth—we'll sweep it later. This load's a beast; let's tackle the big fish first," the tattooed man growled, urgency sharpening his tone. The landlord grunted assent, and their footsteps resumed—a lurching cadence down the corridor, fading into the stairwell's depths with the gunny sack's grim burden.

"Fatty, quit gawking—move your arse!" the woman snapped. She and the rotund man set to work, gathering the strewn trash and scrubbing blood smears from the tools, their hands trembling in the oil lamp's flicker. Minutes bled by—five, then ten—before they, too, shuffled off, dragging a bulging sack down the stairs, its contents rattling like a ghoul's hoard.

The echoes dwindled, swallowed by silence. Only when the third floor lay still as a crypt did Chen Ge dare unclench his lungs, exhaling a shaky breath. Bloody hell—that scared the piss outta me. He edged closer to the crack, peering out. Darkness reigned, thick and unbroken—no flicker, no footfall. They'd gone.

He lingered three more minutes, ears straining for a creak, a whisper—nothing. Convinced, he slipped from his hidey-hole, tiptoeing into the void. No torch—he'd not risk a glow betraying him. A hand grazed the wall, its damp chill guiding him through the murk. Their chatter spells it—they're no saints, but that walled-up lass? Not their doing.

More like cursed sods, he reckoned. Snatched the old man's haunt, only to inherit a corpse in the plaster. Most'd scream for the law, but with their own sins—hit-and-runs, squatters' greed—they couldn't. Stuck aiding the real killer, burying his tracks. No wonder the landlord harped on staying put after dusk.

Eyes sharpening to the gloom, Chen Ge hastened—sod the backpack, he'd bolt straight to the first floor. Out, now! But as he hit the landing—Fck!*—the front door loomed, locked tight as a Gringotts vault. Trapped. They locked it, mid-grave-digging? Fear slithered up his spine, cold and coiling. First-floor windows netted shut, third's boarded—second's my only shot.

Every second in this tomb stoked his nerves raw. Mallet gripped like a lifeline, he crept back to the second floor. The corridor yawned before him—black as a basilisk's gullet, silent as death's own breath. Too quiet. His room neighbored the landlord's, lurking at the passage's end. Each step was a gamble, dread whispering that a door might fling wide, spilling horrors. Breath caged, he glided down, a shadow among shadows.

No ambushes—small mercy. Knot the bedspread—long enough to drop me to the ground. Fumbling for his key, he flicked his phone's torch, a frail beam piercing the dark. The keyhole gleamed—his ticket out. But as the key hovered, his hand iced over, trembling to a halt.

Where's the hair I jammed in the keyhole?

Chen Ge's skin prickled, every hair rising like quills on a spooked porcupine. Fear crashed over him—a tidal wave of ice, locking his limbs rigid as if petrified by a basilisk's stare. Someone's been in my room—they know I'm gone! His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, a shard of frost lodged in his chest, stabbing with every gasp.

When? After they pried out the body? When they spotted the cotton? The when didn't matter—only the what now did. He stumbled back from the door, its blank face taunting him like a sealed crypt. Reason clawed through the panic: Can't go in—trap's set, they're lurking to pounce! His heart, forged tough by haunt-running, steadied him—pulse slowing, mind sharpening in the frigid haze.

Escape screamed as his only lifeline. Silent as a wraith, he retreated, boots whispering over the floorboards. Second-floor windows—my sole way out. No other path existed in this cursed cage. He slunk to the corridor's rightmost end—farthest from his room, a shadowed nook where the gloom clung thick as spiderwebs. These tenants—vipers, deadlier than I reckoned. Survival's a coin toss now. Teeth gritted, he hefted the mallet—his crude wand against the dark—and swung it hard at the lock of the rightmost door.

The eerie hush of Ping An Apartments shattered like glass under a troll's club. Chen Ge hammered the lock with manic fury—bang, bang, BANG!—each strike a thunderclap in the stillness. The clamor summoned the devils he'd prayed to dodge. Room 208's door—his rented lair—burst wide. The tattooed brute and the landlord spilled out, faces twisted into snarls of feral rage, iron hammer and cleaver flashing like grim relics of slaughter. They charged, a storm of malice barreling down the corridor.

Open, damn you! The lock buckled—snap!—under his onslaught. Chen Ge rammed the door with a desperate kick, wood groaning as it flew inward, revealing a musty abyss beyond.