The wind chime flew through the air, its "ding-dong" sound ringing endlessly as golden light blazed brighter.
The two yin officers, with their tall official caps and formal attire, had burst in triumphantly, imagining themselves dragging me away. But the sudden appearance of the chime threw them into panic.
"Run!"
One yin officer reacted swiftly, turning tail and sprinting. But it was too late—the chime slammed into the back of his skull. In that instant, golden light flared, and I glimpsed the armored warrior again, emerging from the glow with a pair of iron rods. He swung them down, knocking the officer's cap flying as the man tumbled head-over-heels out the door.
The second yin officer, with a horse-like face, yelled, "Sir, stay your hand—we're—"
"Grrr!"
The warrior in the light roared, ignoring the officer's plea. He swung his rods again, slamming them into the man's horse face with such force that the officer's features contorted, his skull nearly caving in. The sight was grotesque, but I didn't linger.
With the yin officers momentarily stunned, I fled. The red dragon (used sanitary pad) had long since lost its burn, but my body felt light and frail, drained by the yang energy. I ran wildly, knowing the yin officers would pursue—they wouldn't let me go easily.
I'd hoped dawn would break soon, but the streets remained pitch-black. No matter how far I ran, the sky stayed dark. Exhaustion crept in, but I pushed on, driven by the instinct that this alley might be my salvation.
Ahead, a faint light glimmered. Squinting, I recognized the dilapidated building: Poor Ghost Alley. Once a refugee camp during wartime, it was now a seedy strip of nightclubs. Strangers wandered the streets, oblivious to me and the yin officers on my heels.
A sense of relief washed over me—this alley felt familiar, almost like a sanctuary. My steps quickened, as if pulled by an unseen force. Soon, I stopped before an old building with a crooked sign: "Hotel," spelled out in red LED strips.
The building drew me like a magnet. As I hesitated, an old man sat on a small stool by the road, his face as black as coal, eyes white and pupilless. He wore a dirty old Zhongshan suit, his hair greasy under the streetlamp.
"Odd," I thought. "Who stays out here at night?"
A teen in a duckbill cap slunk over, whispering, "Uncle, got any… you know?"
The old man lifted his head, his eye sockets rolling unnaturally. "What?"
"Girls!" the teen said, leering.
The old man's lips curled. "There's a female dog in the backyard."
The teen's face twisted. "You're such a creep!"
"Scram!" the old man snapped.
The teen left, muttering curses. The old man turned to me, his gaze locking onto mine.
I froze—he could see me.
After a long stare, he grinned. "Not a wasted night. Here's someone interesting." He motioned me over, his smell—rank and oily—making me recoil.
"Got family?" he asked.
I nodded, confused.
"Good. With family, you won't be their 'guest' forever. Down there? Nasty place. They'll make you suffer—swords, boiling oil, whatever. But stay here, and no one takes you."
The yin officers were closing in. Desperate, I blurted, "Fine, I'll stay!"
"Deal!" He shoved me into the courtyard. "Room 201, left up the stairs."
Relieved, I bolted inside. The old man called after me, "No charge. Tomorrow, your family negotiates. If they refuse… you work off the debt."
A hotel that doesn't charge, demands family negotiations, or else slavery? My blood ran cold. I scanned the courtyard—five trees: willow, mulberry, locust, poplar, and neem. The roof sloped upward, not down.
Nine Yin Palace formation, I realized. This was no ordinary inn. It was a place where the dead lingered, and the living made deals with devils.
I stepped into the building. The hallway was dim, lit by green-tinged oil lamps that reeked of sulfur. The walls were black with soot. I climbed the mossy stairs, found Room 201, and pushed open the door.
The room stank of rotting rats. As I fumbled for a lamp, a head popped through a nearby door—small, shriveled, with green hair. It grinned, its features splitting into a monkey-like face.
I screamed, slamming the door shut.
Inside, the room was darker. I felt around and sat on the bed, only to hear a "splat." Jumping up, I turned on the lamp.
On the bed lay a ghost, its head half-crushed. My butt had squashed it flat. The ghost's hand, pale and twisted, reached to reassemble its skull.
"Ah!!!" I yelped, bolting for the door—but it was locked.
"Hey, cutie," a sultry voice purred behind me.
I froze. A white female ghost stood there, her hair cascading to the floor, her face cracked like porcelain, rot seeping from the fissures.
"Don't run," she cooed, floating closer. "You're cute. Stay with me."
I understood now. Paper figures were prized in the afterlife—playthings for restless spirits. This ghost wanted me as her "toy."
Before I could react, she grabbed my wrist, her grip iron-tight. "Come on, handsome. Don't be shy."
"Wait!" I yelled. "The innkeeper said no one disturbs guests—"
A knock interrupted me.
"Quiet!" the old man barked. "Sleep or leave!"
The female ghost hissed, "Old man, leave us alone!"
The old man entered, his eyes narrowing. "You're not the only one here. That boy's got something… dangerous. Touch him, and you'll regret it."
The ghost glared. "He's mine!"
"Enough," the old man said. "He's not yours. And if you cross me, you'll wish you hadn't."
The ghost vanished. The old man turned to me. "Sleep. Tomorrow, your family comes. Now… let me help you sleep."
Before I could protest, he slapped a yellow talisman on my forehead. Dizziness hit, and I collapsed, unconscious.