"Wenlong? Pei Hu?" Xia Meili called twice, her voice echoing faintly before it was swallowed by the oppressive silence of Mu Yang High School's corridors. The darkness felt alive, a hungry thing that devoured sound and light alike. No answer came, not even the faintest shuffle of footsteps. She stood at the junction where the paths split—one leading to the old well, the other to the row of doors marked 302, 303, and 304. The air was colder here, carrying a damp, earthy smell from the well and something sharper, almost medicinal, from the rooms. Her earlier confidence wavered. Wenlong's scream had been angry, not terrified, but the absence of both him and Pei Hu in this maze-like underground was unnerving. They can't have just vanished, she thought, gripping her phone tighter.
She didn't want to return to Wang Hailong and Dou Menglu, their flirtatious banter in the Pen Spirit room grating on her nerves, but exploring alone felt worse. The corridor stretched endlessly, the flickering lights casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to move when she wasn't looking directly at them. Xia Meili hesitated, her pulse quickening. Something's wrong. She pushed open the nearest door—304—and stepped inside, the click of the latch behind her sounding too final. The room was startlingly clean, a stark contrast to the grime of the corridors. A single bed, neatly made, a desk with a pristine tablecloth, no dust or clutter anywhere. It looked like a model rental, too perfect, the kind of place that felt lived-in yet untouched.
The cleanliness only heightened her unease. In a Haunted House, normalcy was a trap, a lure to drop your guard before the real scare hit. Xia Meili pressed her back to the wall, moving slowly, eyes scanning every corner. She checked behind the doorframe, under the desk, even inside the small wardrobe—nothing. Her phone's flashlight swept the room, its beam making the shadows dance, but no actors lunged, no props triggered. The silence was oppressive, broken only by her own breathing. If I were the boss, I wouldn't waste a room this clean, she thought, her mind racing through horror movie tropes. The scare's hidden, waiting for me to relax.
She moved to the bedroom next, noting the missing door—a classic blind spot for jump scares. Heart pounding, she activated her phone's video recorder, extending it around the frame to capture the room safely. The grainy footage showed a simple space: a bed, a nightstand, curtains drawn tight. No figures, no movement. She pulled the phone back, reviewing the video frame by frame. Still nothing. Under the bed, she realized, cursing her oversight. Dropping to a crouch, she aimed the flashlight beneath the frame. Dust, a stray sock, but no mannequin, no actor, no trap. Xia Meili exhaled, tension easing slightly. Maybe I've watched too many movies. The boss wouldn't waste the best spot.
The bathroom was last, its door ajar, the mirror opposite catching her reflection as she approached. Hai Ming Apartments' toilets were oddly designed; the mirror faced the entrance directly, forcing anyone passing or entering to confront themselves. Xia Meili's reflection stared back, her face pale under the harsh light, eyes wide with suspicion. Something felt off. The girl in the mirror looked… wrong, her expression a fraction too still, her eyes not quite tracking with Xia Meili's movements. Is it the lighting? she wondered, stepping closer, the phone's beam trembling in her hand. The mirror's surface seemed to ripple faintly, or maybe it was her nerves. The room was too clean, too quiet, the detergent scent masking something older, darker. Xia Meili's instincts screamed that the real horror wasn't in the bedroom or under the bed—it was here, in the mirror, waiting for her to blink first.
Xia Meili lingered at the bathroom door, phone flashlight aimed squarely at the mirror. The beam bounced back bright and clean—no smudges, no hidden panels, no actor crouched behind one-way glass waiting to lunge. Just cold, ordinary reflection. She let out a slow breath, tension easing from her shoulders. Definitely a real mirror. Classic fake-out. Gripping the wall for balance, she stepped fully inside. The toilet was tiny—barely enough room to turn around—and the air carried that same faint detergent scent from the bedroom, clean to the point of sterility. Either the staff had forgotten to rig this room, or the real scare was reserved for Wenlong and Pei Hu after they'd wandered off. She relaxed a fractionally. Pei Hu's cowardice is contagious, she scolded herself. It's just a Haunted House.
She moved closer until her toes touched the sink's base. The mirror showed her own pale, determined face staring back—nothing out of place. Up close, the earlier strangeness vanished; it was just glass, just her own nervous imagination playing tricks. We've been psyching ourselves out for nothing. The thought steadied her heartbeat. Wenlong and Pei Hu weren't here; the ringtone had definitely come from next door—Room 303. She pressed her ear to the shared wall, straining to catch the muffled electronic jingle again.
A single droplet of water detached from the ceiling and struck the porcelain sink with a soft plink.
Xia Meili barely registered it; her focus was on the wall. Another droplet followed, landing on the tip of her shoe. Then a third—this one colder, heavier—slid down the bridge of her nose and clung to her lip. She frowned, finally looking up. The ceiling was low, cracked plaster painted institutional white… except for the dark, wet patch spreading directly above her head like an ink stain.
From that stain, a woman's face emerged—upside-down, hair hanging in drenched black ropes, skin mottled purple and blue, eyes wide and bloodshot, lips parted in a silent scream. Water—no, something thicker, darker—dripped steadily from her sodden hair. One strand brushed Xia Meili's cheek, cold as grave soil.
No wonder I couldn't find anything… it was hiding up there.
A viscous crimson drop splattered across Xia Meili's forehead. She touched it, fingers coming away red. The world tilted. Her knees buckled; the phone clattered to the tiles, flashlight spinning crazily. She collapsed in slow motion, shoulder striking the floor, vision swimming as the upside-down woman's face filled her narrowing sight—still smiling, still dripping, still watching.
…
Chen Ge stepped out of the sealed classroom, wiping dust from his hands, and froze.
The girl mannequin he had gently propped against the corridor wall was gone. Only faint scuff marks in the dust remained where her feet had been.
His pulse spiked. The black phone's warning flashed in his mind: once lingering spirits left their designated scenario zone they could go berserk. He dropped to one knee, checking the wooden boards sealing the main entrance—still nailed tight, undisturbed. Relief flickered; no one had escaped to the surface. But the mannequin had moved on her own, and that meant the rules were already bending.
He didn't bother grabbing the mallet. Time was slipping. Shoving his hands into the pockets of the blood-stained doctor's coat, he broke into a run toward the source of the scream—a woman's voice, raw and piercing, coming from the girls' dormitory block.
That was the Pen Spirit room, he realised mid-stride. But the Pen Spirit isn't aggressive enough to cause a scream like that.
He rounded the corner at full speed and nearly collided with a figure sprinting toward him. Dou Menglu—hot pants, one heel missing, makeup streaked with tears and terror—barrelled straight into his chest, clutching his coat like a lifeline.
"They—they're gone!" she sobbed, barely coherent. "Inside the well—something pulled Wenlong down—and the head—it followed us—it's coming!"
Chen Ge steadied her with both hands, voice low and calm despite the chaos. "Slow down. Where are the others?"
She pointed a shaking finger back the way she'd come, toward the junction, toward the well and Room 303. "Hailong's still in the classroom… I think. Meili went to find the boys and… and…"
Her words dissolved into hiccupping sobs. Chen Ge's eyes narrowed. Four visitors unaccounted for, one mannequin missing its head and now mobile, and something strong enough to drag a grown man into a well. The scenario was spiralling faster than he'd anticipated.
"Stay right here," he ordered, pressing her gently against the wall. "Do not move."
Then he ran, coat flapping behind him like a blood-stained banner, toward whatever fresh nightmare Mu Yang High School had decided to birth on its very first day.