Dreamwalking

Seeing the illuminated button for the fourteenth floor light up once again, I drew in a sharp breath. Could it be that the thing hadn’t left, hadn’t gone to the ninth floor, but was now heading for the fourteenth? As the elevator slowly ascended, my nerves stretched taut, I could no longer restrain myself. Summoning my courage, I spoke out: “Who are you? Are you hiding behind me? What do you want?”

But there was not the slightest response; whatever it was, it paid me no heed. The silence inside the elevator was deathly. When at last the doors opened on the fourteenth floor, my instinct was to dash out—I had no desire to be trapped and killed inside the elevator by something unclean.

Yet as I took my first step, Jin Ze’s words suddenly echoed in my mind: There are no ghosts in this world; ghosts exist only as the evil within human hearts. No matter how bizarre the case, it always comes down to human deeds.

If I considered this harrowing elevator experience from Jin Ze’s perspective, then surely it must be the work of someone with intent. In theory, only by pressing the buttons inside can they light up, but what if someone was controlling the elevator from the dispatch room? In that case, what I’d experienced could very well happen.

Why would this person do such a thing? The answer leapt to mind—time. Perhaps they were using this to delay me.

Once I understood that, my thoughts suddenly cleared. From the fourth floor to the ninth, then from the ninth to the fourteenth—each time, a gap of five floors. In that interval, someone could easily take the stairs and arrive at the eighteenth floor before me.

In other words, the person trying to delay me might have entered the building at the same time as I did, but wanted to reach room 1807 ahead of me.

As for who this person was, and why they did it, I couldn’t say for certain, but I could guess—it boiled down to two possibilities. Either this was the murderer who impersonated Zhang Wentong and called me, shadowing and monitoring me, waiting for me to take the elevator so they could reach 1807 first and lie in wait. Or it was someone else entirely, not the murderer nor in league with them, but interested in something valuable inside 1807, hoping to claim it before I arrived.

With these deductions, I immediately took out my phone and searched online. I discovered it was indeed possible to control the elevator from the dispatch room and make the buttons light up. I breathed a sigh of relief, but soon grew even more anxious—this person was far too calculating. What would await me in 1807?

At that moment, the elevator chimed and the doors opened: the eighteenth floor. Heart pounding, I stepped out. The corridor was deserted in the dead of night. I followed the room numbers until I reached the door of 1807. In this upscale complex, the doors were the high-end security type. I pressed the doorbell, waited half a minute, but there was no response. I tried the door handle lightly, and to my surprise, the door swung open—it hadn’t even been locked.

Inside, all was pitch black, not a single light. I dared not enter rashly, so I switched on my phone’s flashlight and shone it inside. Still, nothing seemed amiss; the place appeared empty. I called out softly twice, but no one answered. I stepped inside and, feeling along the wall, found the switch and turned on the lights.

With the room illuminated, though it was an unfamiliar place, I felt an immediate sense of safety.

I stood at the doorway and took in my surroundings. The place was a mess—several drawers left open at random, a chair toppled to the floor, as if someone had just ransacked the place.

This only strengthened my suspicions: someone else had indeed arrived here ahead of me, searching for something.

But where was the person who’d imitated Zhang Wentong to lure me here—the murderer? Wasn’t he supposed to be waiting for me? Why was there no sign of him?

I quickly realized that perhaps he’d gone in pursuit of the person who had searched the place.

I felt less panicked now. Since the apartment was empty, I decided to look around for any useful clues. I turned on my phone’s video function, intending to record the scene and show it to Jin Ze later.

But when I panned the camera over the sofa, I glimpsed something that made my blood run cold.

Lying carelessly atop the sofa was a burial shroud, stained with blood—it seemed to be the very one Jin Ze had asked Miao Miao to take back for testing earlier. How had it ended up here?

I glanced beside the shroud and my whole body jolted, as if struck by lightning.

Damn—it wasn’t just the burial shroud. Next to it lay a set of clothes in disarray: a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, as if someone had just taken them off.

It’s normal enough to leave clothes on the sofa at home, but what terrified me was that I recognized these clothes—they were just like a set I owned and had worn only days ago.

I rushed to the sofa, picked up the clothes, and was dumbfounded. There may be many identical garments in the world, but one knows their own things by their familiar scent. I was certain these were mine.

My eyes swept over the coffee table in front of the sofa. A pack of Red Tower Mountain cigarettes sat there—exactly the brand I always smoked.

Now I was completely at a loss. My clothes, my cigarettes—how could they be here?

Suddenly, my heart clenched violently, and a single word sprang to mind: frame.

If the police were to arrive now and find my clothes here, with me present in the apartment, they would surely conclude this was another of my hideouts.

Even if, after the fact, various pieces of evidence might clear me, Jin Ze and the others would trust me less. After all, the murderer could go on framing me indefinitely, while the police’s trust would gradually wear thin.

A gut feeling told me I shouldn’t stay here long. Who knew what else from my daily life might be hidden in the bedrooms or other rooms? This place might truly have been fashioned into a scene of my own life.

I immediately turned to leave, but just then, a sharp crack rang out—the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. I didn’t know if the bulb had blown or if the circuit breaker had tripped.

Trusting my instincts, I made for the door. Suddenly, there was a flash—the television and a DV player in the living room powered on. I knew the TV couldn’t have turned itself on; someone must have used a remote. Which meant someone was hiding somewhere in the apartment, switching on the TV and playing a DVD.

My body froze, tensed like a drawn bow. I didn’t know where they were, but I knew someone was there, concealed somewhere nearby. I dared not move, fearing they might harm me—if they had a gun, I could be dead in an instant.

I spoke up at once: “Who are you? We can talk this out. What do you want?”

There was no reply, but the images on the TV caught my eye: there I was, on the screen—a recording of me.

It was footage from my own home, shot that very afternoon while I slept. The camera stayed fixed on me as I slept soundly, completely unaware I was being filmed. The thought filled me with dread—who was this pervert, hiding in my home and watching me?

As I was reeling from the shock, the me in the video suddenly sat bolt upright, the movement so abrupt it resembled a corpse coming to life. The sight startled me out of my wits.

After sitting up, I climbed out of bed in a daze and left the room, the camera following every move—clearly, the person filming me was trailing close behind.

Soon, I saw myself open my front door and step outside, not even bothering to lock it. I had no memory of this—I’d thought I’d been asleep the whole time. Now I realized I truly did sleepwalk.

But the person secretly filming me didn’t follow me outside. The footage stayed fixed on my doorway, as if waiting for me to return.

I was so stunned by the video that I forgot to run, standing there dumbstruck, eyes glued to the TV, desperate to see when I’d return, and in what state.

Before long, I did return—perhaps ten minutes later—appearing suddenly at my own front door. The only difference from when I’d left was that I now carried a bag: a black plastic bag.

The moment I saw that bag, I felt as if struck by a thunderbolt—I recognized it at once. It was the very bag that had held Liu Yang’s heart and liver…