Chapter 11: Borrowing an Umbrella

After falling asleep, Tan Xueci suffered through another nightmare of sleep paralysis. By the time he arrived at the set, he was pale and exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red from staying up. He sat wilted in the corner of the dressing room.

“Holy crap,” Lu Xi jumped, asking with concern, “Can you even hold up like this? Is the medication not working?”

Tan Xueci shook his head, lacking even the strength to speak. He, too, felt that his encounters with ghosts were becoming far too frequent.

In the past, most ghosts couldn’t actually touch him—like the woman in white by the elevator; she would stand and scare him for a while before leaving. But lately, every spirit he encountered was thick with killing intent, especially that ghost infant, which had actually grabbed his calf.

Many schizophrenia patients experience hallucinations, auditory delusions, and persecution complexes—but feeling the physical sensation of being strangled or grabbed? This type of somatic hallucination was far more severe than simple visual ones.

When did it start?

When he first saw the ghost infant, it lunged at him but didn’t actually make contact. When he returned to the attic, it left after being unable to break down the door. The first time he was truly “touched” by a supernatural entity was the paper funeral effigy sent by the He family to fetch the bride.

Schizophrenia can worsen under intense external stress. Perhaps being abandoned by his family was the blow that caused his condition to spiral.

Thinking he had figured it out again, Tan Xueci didn’t dwell on it further. It was useless anyway. He never expected to live a long life; living another two or three years would be enough. He didn’t want to die right now, but he didn’t want to live a long, lonely life either.

Perhaps, as his father said, he was a jinx. Everyone who encountered him met with misfortune. That was why, in all his years, not a single person truly liked him.

Nanny Zhang would wash his little lamb plushie until it was spotless, but she would also kneel in the family’s Buddhist hall and pray for him to die sooner so the Mistress wouldn’t be sad anymore.

Lu Xi took him out for malatang—the first time in his life someone had specifically taken him out for a meal—but Lu Xi was constantly trying to sell him off, though he wasn’t sure why it hadn’t happened yet.

Tan Xueci wasn’t that stupid; he knew what kind of “big business” Lu Xi was talking about. He didn’t want to sleep with those bosses, but he was afraid that if he didn’t go, Brother Lu would stop looking after him.

Xueci rubbed his red eyes and walked toward the filming area after his makeup was done. He happened to see the director talking to Zhai Fang.

“Teacher Zhai,” the director said with a face full of difficulty, “I really can’t film you looking like this.”

Tan Xueci looked up and was stunned. Zhai Fang had been fine yesterday, almost handsome, but today his eyelids were swollen, showing faint lines of blood. His chin was lumpy and uneven, as if the filler inside had shifted. His entire face was puffy—he looked worse than Xueci, who had actually seen a ghost.

The camera adds weight, so actors usually have to be much thinner than average people to look good on screen. Zhai Fang looked swollen to the naked eye; on camera, he’d look like a steamed bun, and netizens would surely mock him.

Zhai Fang was dying of irritation. He felt he and Tan Xueci were astrologically incompatible. Why did his face collapse the moment Tan Xueci arrived on set? He turned and caught Xueci’s gaze, snapping, “What are you looking at?!”

The people nearby bowed their heads, pretending not to hear. Zhai Fang had powerful backing and didn’t even bother to hide his hatred for Tan Xueci; no one on the crew dared to intervene.

“Teacher Zhai,” the director coaxed, “how about you go back and rest? We can film your parts later.”

If they filmed now, Zhai Fang would surely be criticized by the public, and he’d likely take his anger out on the director.

Zhai Fang knew his current state was unacceptable. He didn’t say anything more but didn’t return to the hotel either, because the male lead was on set today.

The biggest star in the production was the male lead, Wen Yaochuan. A former Best Actor winner and a genuine A-list celebrity, his presence in this melodramatic web drama was likely due to the director’s desperate prayers. Zhai Fang had wanted to latch onto Wen Yaochuan for a long time; he planned to stay and make himself visible.

“Teacher Wen, Teacher Wen…”

As Wen Yaochuan walked over, the director and other actors stood up to greet him. Tan Xueci joined in, miming social etiquette and softly calling out, “Teacher Wen.”

His voice was low, but Wen Yaochuan heard him. He turned, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Is Little Tan feeling better?”

Wen Yaochuan played a “rebellious and handsome” lead. He wore obsidian studs, and his black hair was styled with intentional messiness. At twenty-seven, he was the oldest actor among the main cast. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist—a mature physique—but he had lost nearly twenty pounds for this role, so he didn’t look out of place in a school uniform.

Tan Xueci nodded dazed.

Wen Yaochuan smiled at him as if it were just a casual inquiry and went off to film.

They filmed until 6:00 PM. The director had a banquet to attend and wouldn’t be back until 10:00 PM. Wen Yaochuan, having no “diva” attitude, said to the main cast: “Since we’re all here, how about I treat you to dinner? There’s a good hotpot place near the school.”

No one refused the Best Actor. They all agreed. Wen Yaochuan had a few things to finish up, so they agreed to meet at the restaurant at 7:30 PM.

Lu Xi had other artists to manage. Thinking a group dinner among actors would be safe, he let Tan Xueci go alone while he went to a variety show recording with another client.

Zhai Fang drove the others, intentionally leaving Tan Xueci behind. The other actors flattered Zhai Fang, while only Meng Zhi turned back with hesitation to look at Xueci. She was new to the industry and couldn’t quite stomach the cruelty of fawning over Zhai Fang while cold-shouldering Xueci, but she was just a minor actress herself.

As she hesitated, she saw Tan Xueci wave at her—a gesture urging her to leave. From her angle, she couldn’t see his face clearly, only his cold-white chin under the flickering set lights, possessing a strange, graceful chill.

“Where’s Meng Zhi?” Zhai Fang called out. “Little Teacher Meng?”

Meng Zhi’s eyes widened, and she walked away, looking back with every step.

The hotpot restaurant was a ten-minute walk or one bus stop away. Tan Xueci walked. Halfway there, he received a message from Zhai Fang.

Zhai Fang: 3rd floor, Room 4. We ordered a bottle of wine and it hasn’t arrived. Bring it up when you get here.

Tan Xueci’s small face slumped. His slightly long black hair hung down, obscuring his beautiful yet gloomy eyes, making him look like he was shrouded in a damp, cold mist.

Zhai Fang loved bossing him around. Xueci wondered if Zhai Fang remembered their first meeting. It was when he had just started “dating” He Sui. He Sui had taken him to a nightclub, where Zhai Fang and his benefactor, Mr. Xu, were present. Because Mr. Xu had stared at Xueci for a few seconds, Zhai Fang had spent the entire night ordering him to fetch drinks.

The restaurant was crowded. As Tan Xueci pulled back the door curtain, he saw steam rising from every table. Red pots, white pots, mostly split pots—and a pungent smell of something charred.

Maybe a pot burned, Xueci thought.

He went to the front desk. “Hello…”

The lights here were dim and reddish, making his eyes uncomfortable. He rubbed them.

The waitress had long, curly hair. When she turned around, her makeup was thick and her foundation deathly white, making her crimson lips stand out. She spoke softly, “What do you want?”

“Hello,” Tan Xueci said, his fingers curling instinctively. “The wine for Room 4 on the third floor hasn’t been sent up yet.”

“Room 4?” she repeated, then wobbled toward the back on high heels to fetch the wine.

Her gait was bizarre—staggering as if she couldn’t stand straight. Xueci glanced at her legs. Is she injured?

Then, his face froze.

The waitress wore a pencil skirt, revealing only her calves. Her legs were a bruised, mottled purple—the color of long-decayed flesh—covered in cadaveric spots. Her heels were facing forward, and her toes were facing backward. The red pointed heels were aimed directly at Tan Xueci.

Wobbling. Staggering.

Tan Xueci held his breath and bolted upstairs.

“Hey—” the waitress called out, but he didn’t stop. Watching him run, she muttered, “So scary… why go to that room?”

Tan Xueci found Room 4, but inside was a different group of guests. A split pot sat on the table, no food served yet. They all turned their heads slowly as he opened the door. The lights in here were even dimmer; everyone’s faces were obscured by a dark haze.

Someone’s here. How come… he doesn’t seem to be alone? Come eat.

There was one empty seat. They all turned their dark faces toward Tan Xueci, urging him incessantly.

Come on, come eat.

“S-sorry,” Tan Xueci stammered. Fearing the waitress was behind him, he didn’t even notice the room’s anomalies, assuming he had the wrong door. He apologized and slammed it shut. “Sorry!”

Heh heh… You can’t run.

Xueci stepped back and checked. It was Room 4. Had he gotten the floor wrong? He went to the stairs to check the sign. It was definitely the third floor.

The doors to all the private rooms on the floor had opened at some point. The sound of bubbling hotpot came from every room, but otherwise, it was silent. The air smelled of burnt paper ash.

Tan Xueci’s hands shook as he took out his phone to message Wen Yaochuan and the others. No reply. He hurried downstairs to see if their cars were outside.

At the first floor, someone tapped his shoulder. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He turned to see an old man leaning on a cane, his eyes cloudy. “Child, what are you doing here?”

“I…” Tan Xueci said timidly, “I’m having dinner with friends, but I can’t find them.”

The old man was silent for a moment. “Don’t look for them.”

“But…”

“Don’t look for them!” the old man’s voice sharpened. “Go back!”

Xueci was stunned. The old man shook his head as he walked away. “Don’t eat their food. On the way back, no matter who calls you or what they try to give you, don’t take it. Go back. If you stay any longer… you won’t be able to leave.”

Cold sweat soaked Xueci’s back. Whether he was having an episode or not, it was safer to get back to the set. He thanked the man and hurried out. It had begun to pour. Fortunately, there was a bus stop nearby to take shelter.

There were only three people at the bus stop, all standing with heads bowed, silent, not even looking at their phones. Xueci stood there for a few minutes, but the eerie feeling persisted. The hotpot restaurant behind him was brightly lit now, showing no sign of anything unusual.

He felt a pang of regret. Should he have left? Should he go back? Or run through the rain?

As he stepped back, he accidentally bumped into someone. A large hand steadied his shoulder. The hand was terrifyingly cold—even through his clothes, he felt chilled to the bone.

Startled, he turned and apologized softly, “I’m sorry…”

Then he froze.

In the cold, sticky rain mist stood a very tall man. He had broad shoulders and long legs, dressed in a crisp, solemn black suit. He held a black umbrella, tilted down to obscure the upper half of his face. Even so, his features were clearly extraordinary. His skin was unnaturally pale, his lips a vivid crimson, corners tilted in a slight, ghostly smile.

“I-I’m sorry,” Tan Xueci whispered, swallowing. The man was nearly a head taller than him—at least 190cm. He looked like he could crush Xueci with a single finger.

Brother Lu always told him not to cause trouble. If you can’t beat them, don’t fight them. If they chase you, kneel and ask them to hit you less.

Under the cold mist, Tan Xueci lifted his small face helplessly, his lips pressed red. The man said nothing but extended the black umbrella toward him.

“Thank you,” Tan Xueci said, surprised by the “kindness,” but he shook his head. “I don’t need it.”

He remembered the old man’s warning: don’t take things from others at night. If someone gives you something, don’t take it. If you see something on the ground, don’t pick it up. Otherwise, the spirits will cling to you.

The man didn’t move. The hand holding the umbrella handle had pale, slender knuckles and clean nails; the veins on the back of his hand were prominent. It was a hand that could kill him.

Xueci remained in a stalemate with the man, not noticing that the other passengers at the bus stop had finally looked up—and then moved away in terror.

The man didn’t wait. He grabbed Tan Xueci’s hand and forced the umbrella handle into his palm.

Xueci couldn’t struggle free. Though he was 176cm, his hand felt soft and small in the man’s grip. With just a little pressure, his fingers began to turn red, like white porcelain stained with a faint blush.

He was forced to hold the icy handle. When he looked up again, the man was gone. Vanished.

A male ghost.

Tan Xueci’s heart went cold. He couldn’t count how many ghosts he’d met tonight. His mind was foggy, unable to think; he only knew that with an umbrella, he could walk back to the set. He immediately started walking.

After seven or eight minutes, the rain continued, but the neon lights of the city returned. Traffic flowed, and people hurried past. The sound of car horns filled the air.

Tan Xueci snapped awake, break out in a cold sweat of realization. He pulled his hoodie tight and ran back to the school.

Wen Yaochuan and the others were in the first-floor lobby of Wenqing Building. Seeing him through the rain, they hurried over.

“Sorry, Xiao Ci,” Wen Yaochuan said apologetically, “I can call you that, right? The location changed tonight. I sent you a message, did you not see it?”

Tan Xueci froze. He checked his phone and saw the message. But he was certain it hadn’t been there moments ago. He looked for Zhai Fang’s message about the wine, but it had vanished.

Maybe it was a ghost from the very beginning.

“I went to high school at Jiahe Private,” Wen Yaochuan explained. “I used to eat at Yulong Hotpot nearby all the time. But I haven’t been back in years; I didn’t know it had closed down.”

The assistant director joined in: “Yulong? I’ve been there. There was a fire, started in a room on the third floor. I heard seven or eight people died—the owner, staff, and customers. That’s why it closed.”

“I also heard,” the AD said mysteriously, “that at night, the shop ‘opens’ again. Someone will ask if you want hotpot. If you eat with them, you can never leave.”

Tan Xueci’s face was bloodless. He placed the umbrella on a nearby table, his hands shaking.

Zhai Fang, standing nearby, had had enough. Because Tan Xueci had gone missing, they hadn’t eaten anything. He was cold, hungry, and sick of ghost stories. He nodded to Wen Yaochuan and said, “Teacher Wen, I’ll go buy some food and bring some back for you and Little Meng.”

Zhai Fang had his own umbrella, but he intentionally bumped his shoulder into Tan Xueci, grabbed the black umbrella Xueci had brought, and walked out.

Wen Yaochuan, noticing Xueci’s pallor, asked hesitantly, “Xiao Ci, did you… see something?”

Before Tan Xueci could answer, a scream of pure terror erupted from outside.

Everyone startled and ran out to look.

Zhai Fang was standing in the rain. He turned back toward them, his face ghastly white. The umbrella in his hand had suddenly “rotted” the moment it touched the rain, splashing his face with chunks of thick, viscous black blood.

His chin filler hadn’t fully settled yet, leaving his face uneven, and now it was smeared with filthy, black blood.

He looked like a toad that had just hopped out of a black sludge pit.