Middle finger

Staring at the blood-stained burial shroud that had fallen to the floor, I was struck dumb, unable to even breathe for fear, standing foolishly in place. Several seconds passed before I regained my composure; I hurriedly picked up the shroud and realized it was the very one worn by the person in the video who looked so much like me.

My mind exploded with panic. That morning, I had insisted I didn’t own such a shroud, yet here it was in my wardrobe. What on earth was going on? Could it be that I simply couldn’t remember, that I had truly worn it while sleepwalking?

Even if that were true, something even more disturbing caught my attention: the shroud was stained with blood. In the video, it had looked pristine. I examined the bloodstains again—there was a large patch of fresh blood, stretching from the chest to the abdomen. It hadn’t dried yet, which meant it had been smeared on recently.

My heart clenched in fear. Had I sleepwalked again, wearing the shroud, and done something terrible?

As I pondered, a sudden knocking sounded at the door, loud and insistent. The old saying goes that ghosts knock at the door in the dead of night; though I didn’t believe in ghosts, anyone knocking at my door at this hour must have a guilty conscience.

A new suspicion flickered in my mind. Dr. Zhang Wentong had said that sleepwalkers wake abruptly when startled. So perhaps the blood-stained shroud wasn’t mine after all—it could have been worn by the killer, who hid it in my wardrobe to frame me.

The person knocking could very well be the perpetrator, returning to torment me.

Gripping the shroud and my phone, I crept silently toward the door, making no sound, and peered through the peephole.

I froze. Through the peephole, I saw Jin Ze knocking.

Shock jolted me awake. My theory was correct—someone was framing me. They hid the bloodied shroud here and summoned the police. I knew Jin Ze never truly trusted me; if I opened the door now, clutching the shroud, I’d never be able to clear my name. But if I didn’t open the door and instead tried to hide the shroud, Jin Ze might search and find it, and then I’d be even more damned.

I was trapped, the killer had set a perfect dilemma for me.

Just then, my phone rang loudly—no vibration, just the unmistakable melody of Eason Chan’s "Long Time No See." Jin Ze would surely hear it and know I was standing behind the door, watching him.

I wasn’t foolish; clearly, whoever wanted to frame me was orchestrating this, forcing me to reveal myself.

At that moment, I even suspected the killer was lurking nearby, watching me. How else could the timing be so perfect, knowing I was hiding at the door?

I glanced at my phone, wanting to see the caller’s number, hoping it might be someone I knew.

When I saw the name displayed, I was utterly stunned, icy dread spreading from my feet to my scalp.

The name was Zhang Wentong—the very psychiatrist who had recently evaluated me.

Why was he calling now? I remembered his strange smile and cryptic words; suddenly, I wondered if something was wrong with him.

What terrified me even more was that I had never saved Zhang Wentong’s number on my phone, yet it appeared there. Someone must have secretly added it while I was asleep. The killer had infiltrated my life so deeply, it felt as though I was being manipulated—utterly appalling.

I stared at Zhang Wentong’s incoming call, hesitating over whether to answer, wondering if he was the mastermind.

Meanwhile, Jin Ze kept knocking, clearly aware I was behind the door. Afraid he might force his way in, I had no choice but to gamble that Jin Ze would see through the deception. In a moment of desperation, I flung the door open.

Jin Ze appeared before me, immediately asking, “Chen Mu, what are you doing hiding behind the door for so long?”

Then he noticed the blood-stained shroud in my hand, his gaze sharpening with suspicion as he placed his hand at his waist, ready to draw his sidearm.

Terrified he might act rashly, I quickly said, “Jin Ze, don’t misunderstand! Someone put this shroud here—I just found it. The moment I picked it up, you knocked. It’s too much of a coincidence. Someone is trying to frame me!”

Jin Ze shot me a dubious glance and asked, “What was with the phone ringing? Why didn’t you answer?”

I replied at once, “It was Dr. Zhang from the psychiatric hospital. I suspect he’s involved with the killer—he called just to expose me!”

Just as I finished, Jin Ze’s deep eyes flashed with an odd expression—strange, difficult to describe, as if mocking, as if resigned.

Then Jin Ze asked, “Chen Mu, do you know why I came to see you so late?”

I shook my head, then nodded, saying, “I told you—someone’s framing me, so they must have lured you here. Check who brought you—if they’re not the killer, they’re at least an accomplice!”

Jin Ze spoke each word deliberately: “Zhang Wentong is dead. I came to take you to the scene.”

Zhang Wentong is dead!

Hearing this, I nearly lost my mind—another death, and this time it was the psychiatrist who had examined me not long ago!

How could this be? He had just called me!

While I was stunned, my phone suddenly vibrated again. Glancing down, I gasped—the call was from Zhang Wentong!

The phone buzzed frantically in my hand, the urgent ringtone suffocating me. I wanted to throw it away—I had no desire to answer a call from the dead.

I looked at Jin Ze, who was equally surprised, but quickly said, “It’s fine. I saw Zhang Wentong’s body myself. Someone must have taken his phone and is calling you. Answer it—put it on speaker.”

At his urging, I steeled myself, activated the speaker, and answered.

I dared not speak, but the caller said, “Hello, is this Chen Mu?”

Honestly, hearing that voice made my heart leap into my throat—it was unmistakably Zhang Wentong.

I didn’t respond, but he continued, “Chen Mu, say something.”

I could only murmur a reply, and he quickly said, “Chen Mu, do you want to return to who you once were? Ha ha ha…”

Then Zhang Wentong laughed on the other end, a chilling sound that made my skin crawl, before abruptly hanging up.

“Do you want to return to who you once were?” I was familiar with this phrase; Zhang Wentong had used it during my evaluation. Was he still testing me?

I glanced again at Jin Ze, who frowned and said, “Let’s head out.”

We left—not to the psychiatric hospital, but to a high-end residential complex. Jin Ze explained it was Zhang Wentong’s home; he had been found dead there.

To be honest, I still didn’t believe Zhang Wentong was dead; the dead couldn’t possibly call.

But when we arrived, I saw his home cordoned off, He Ping and several officers standing guard, with Miao Miao, the forensic doctor with her ample figure, investigating the scene.

On the floor lay a body—Zhang Wentong.

There was no blood on him, but his lips were swollen and crimson; closer inspection revealed they were sewn shut with black thread, as if to say, “The dead are the best keepers of secrets.”

Even stranger, though Zhang Wentong lay flat, his right arm was raised, the middle finger extended upright—an unmistakable gesture of contempt.