The next morning, Zhi Wei stepped into the elevator, hit the button for the ground floor, and leaned his head against the cool metal wall.
The numbers ticked down slowly—15, 14, 13...
His eyes were glazed over, like he couldn't even be bothered to focus on the digits.
When the doors opened on the lobby, the wall of sound hit him first.
The management office was swarmed. Nearly the entire crowd was from his own fifteenth floor—all of them yelling over each other at the property manager, the noise sharp and chaotic like a fish market at dawn.
"I don't care what you say! This building is haunted! You need to give us answers!" a middle-aged woman with a cloud of tight curls slammed her palm on the counter. Rhinestone nails caught the light and flared like little daggers.
Zhi Wei froze.
The 1502 incident had spread?
He hadn't told a soul.
He walked closer, just in time to catch a voice he recognized—
"I'm telling you, that thing wasn't human!"
It was the old man from 1505.
Spit flying, arms flailing, he was practically vibrating with drama. "Middle of the damn night, I saw it! Some little thing in red, crawling down the hallway—singing! 'Jingle, jingle, little star!' Creepiest shit I've ever heard."
Zhi Wei nearly burst out laughing.
That same night, the old man had sworn he didn't hear a thing.
And now? He was playing the star witness, layering on the horror like it was a campfire tale.
Zhi Wei stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the man's theatrics escalate.
"It had claws—this long!" The old guy spread his brittle fingers. "And eyes—solid black, no whites at all!"
A hush fell over the group.
Someone gasped. A young mother clutched her baby and burst into tears.
The property manager dabbed sweat off his brow, trying to keep calm. "Please, everyone, let's stay rational. Maybe Uncle Chan had a hallucination, or—"
"Bullshit!" the old man—Uncle Chan—snapped. Then, just as he happened to spot Zhi Wei standing at the edge of the crowd, he pointed a trembling finger. "Ask Mr. Lee! He heard the singing too!"
The property manager—Zhi Wei's old classmate, the reason he got 15% off the apartment—shot him a desperate look.
Help me out here.
"Alright, alright," Zhi Wei raised both hands, slipping into his polished Top Producer smile. "Everyone chill. I was half-asleep that night, probably imagined the whole thing."
Uncle Chan squinted at him. "You told me you—"
"And," Zhi Wei cut in smoothly, "you told me you didn't hear anything that night. Remember?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Uncle Chan flushed an ugly purple, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish—but nothing came out.
"At least bring in a Taoist priest or something!" someone shouted.
"No problem!" the manager jumped on it like a lifeline. "We'll bring one in right away. In fact, we have a renowned ajarn right here in the building. Eighth floor—Ajarn Ken.
I'll go talk to him."
A few muttered grumbles, and the crowd started to break up.
As the old man stalked off, he shot Zhi Wei a look sharp enough to draw blood.
The manager clapped him on the shoulder, lowering his voice. "Owe you one. Drinks tonight, my treat."
Zhi Wei nodded. "There's really a ajarn living on eight?"
"Yeah, he's local—but spent years practicing in Thailand. Pretty well-known around here."
A real Ajarn?
Zhi Wei would've scoffed at this stuff just days ago.
But now?
He found himself hoping the guy was the real deal—and could get rid of whatever the hell had crawled out of 1502.
————
That evening, Zhi Wei sat down with the property manager for drinks. He recounted the whole strange situation in detail, and the manager looked genuinely shocked.
The manager also mentioned that he had already contacted Ajarn Ken and that the mystic would come up to 1502 tomorrow to check things out.
After a brief goodbye, Zhi Wei made his way back to unit 1503.
Ajarn Ken wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, and Zhi Wei had no idea what might happen tonight.
But as the hours ticked by, nothing happened.
His tense nerves slowly eased, and eventually, exhaustion took over. He drifted into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
Click. Click.
The sound of metal tapping sliced through the dream.
Zhi Wei jolted awake.
The doorknob.
Someone—something—was twisting it back and forth.
Click-click-CLACK—
Faster now, harder still, as if whatever was outside couldn't wait to get in.
His fingers clawed at the sheets. His heart hammered so violently he feared his ribs might crack. He squeezed his eyes shut, muscles locked.
Creeeak—
The door slowly creaked open.
Footsteps.
Light, but each step hit his nerves with the precision of a needle.
Thud, thud, thud—
Bare feet on the floor.
Closer. Closer.
The mattress dipped.
—It was sitting on his bed.
Zhi Wei's breath almost stopped. His muscles were locked tight, aching with tension, yet not a single finger moved.
Namo Amitabha, Namo Amitabha, Namo Amitabha—
He chanted desperately in his mind, teeth clenched, afraid to make a sound.
Suddenly—
A cold touch pressed against his cheek.
It felt like a finger, slowly dragging along his skin, carrying the smell of damp decay.
Screw it.
He tore the talisman from inside the pillowcase, eyes shut tight, and slammed it down beside him with every ounce of blind panic—
"Yaaaahhh—!!"
The shrill scream nearly pierced his eardrums, the mattress bouncing violently as if something had been violently tossed off.
Silence.
When Zhi Wei finally opened his eyes, the room stood empty. The door gaped wide, hallway light painting the floor cadaverous.
He looked down.
The talisman in his hand—once vibrant yellow—now smoldered at the edges, its surface charred black.