Staring at me

I had always believed that the strange things appearing in my home had been quietly placed there by someone else—like the head in the refrigerator, or the organs on the table. But when I saw myself on video, carrying a plastic bag, the gravity of the situation struck me. These things had been brought in by me, while I was sleepwalking!

Then a terrifying thought occurred: Could Liu Yang’s head also have been brought back by me? I didn’t dare pursue that line of thought any further. If I really had carried these things in myself, then I was finished. My sleepwalking was dangerously severe. Even I could no longer believe I had nothing to do with these murders—how else could I have brought back those organs unknowingly?

In the video, I casually tossed the plastic bag onto the table, then returned to my bedroom and lay down, going back to sleep as if nothing had happened. At this point, I deliberately glanced at the ceiling to check if there was a hole there—if someone had made it while I was out, it would explain why I hadn’t been awakened. I also wanted to see if the eye was peering down at me from the ceiling, to determine if there was one person or perhaps two—or even more. But the person filming seemed intent on hiding this detail; the ceiling never appeared in the footage, so I had no choice but to give up.

The video ended abruptly, clearly just to show me that I had brought back the organs myself. Suddenly, I remembered the note stuck to my door, which must have been written by the person filming me. They had referred to the organs as "dinner." The thought made me want to vomit—had I eaten human liver while sleepwalking?

No matter what, I knew this video must never fall into the hands of Jin Ze and the police. Otherwise, I could never clear my name. Until I figured out how I had come by those organs, I had to hide the video.

I forgot all about escape and rushed to the TV, crouched down, and pressed the DVD eject button. A disc slid out swiftly. Just as I was about to take it, I felt a sudden weight on my right shoulder, as if something had tapped me. I looked down instinctively and nearly wet myself from fright—there really was a hand on my shoulder, pale and slender.

My body reacted on instinct, and I whipped my head around, but behind me the room was empty and dim, no one in sight. At that moment, I heard hurried footsteps—the person who had touched me was running away. I spun around just in time to see a shadow flicker past, followed by a heavy door slam. They’d fled.

I rose to chase after them, hand reaching for the doorknob when suddenly, a furious pounding began on the door—loud and urgent, as if someone was trying to break in. I was stunned—hadn’t the person just run out? Why were they now knocking?

Puzzled, a realization dawned. My earlier guess was right: there were two people. One was the killer who had used Zhang Wentong’s phone to call me, the other had been manipulating the elevator to scare me and stall for time. The first thought the second had searched the place and left, so he’d gone to give chase, while the second had been hiding inside the whole time and only left after tapping my shoulder. Now, the killer, having failed to catch him, had returned.

At that thought, my heart seized. I couldn’t let this ruthless killer see me. Quietly, I backed away and soon slipped into the bedroom, crawling under the large bed. The bedspread was long enough to hide me unless someone lay on the floor to look.

As soon as I hid, I heard the front door creak open—the person was inside. Their footsteps were light, as if trying not to be heard. Maybe they knew I was here and didn’t want me to notice, or perhaps they thought the other intruder was still around and had come back to find him.

I was so scared I barely breathed, lying absolutely still. The house was eerily quiet, and though the intruder moved as quietly as possible, I could still hear him shifting chairs and opening cupboards. My nerves wound tighter with every sound; even if he wasn’t searching for me, he’d eventually find me.

My mind raced for an escape plan. First, I silenced my phone and quickly texted Jin Ze, sharing my location. No matter what, staying alive—even if it meant being under suspicion—was better than dying here.

The person entered my room. I watched as he opened the wardrobe. The sight inside made me shudder. Though I couldn’t see the whole thing, I glimpsed dozens of knives: machetes, cleavers, rotary cutters, saws—even a hammer. The cold glint of these tools chilled me; these must be the killer’s weapons. If the police found them, they could easily pin them on me.

I barely stopped myself from swallowing nervously. The figure lingered at the wardrobe for nearly a minute. Though I could only see his lower half, I sensed he was admiring the knives, which made me more certain he was the killer.

Suddenly, he turned and walked toward the bed—my heart leapt into my throat. Had he discovered me? His shoes appeared at the edge of the bed, right beside me. I braced myself to fight if he found me, ready to grab his legs, topple him, and run.

But he just stood there without moving, not bending down to look. Why? Had he noticed something on the bed? Or was he just trying to scare me, break my nerves entirely?

As I wondered, I froze in shock—those shoes were familiar. In my panic, I hadn’t noticed before. They were a pair of black Red Dragonfly dress shoes—on the left, the dragonfly logo had worn away, and the right heel was heavily scuffed. I have an excellent memory and, in tense moments, often fixate on details. I’d noticed this in the morning when He Ping questioned me. I never expected it would matter now.

These were He Ping’s shoes. Which meant the person standing by the bed was He Ping!

Shock overwhelmed me. Could He Ping be the killer? Back at Zhang Wentong’s house, He Ping had tampered with Zhang’s hand signs. I’d even pretended to interrogate him. Now I realized how reckless that had been—if He Ping really was the killer, he would have wanted to silence me.

But the logic didn’t quite add up. Jin Ze had deduced the killer deliberately twisted Zhang Wentong’s hand signs. If He Ping was the killer, why sabotage himself? Still, one thing was clear: He Ping was far from simple. He had been the one to discover Zhang Wentong’s body, claiming Zhang had called him over with a clue. Now he showed up here. Something was off. He Ping was hiding secrets.

The more I thought, the more terrified I became. I absolutely couldn’t let him find me; otherwise, he would certainly kill me. The image of Zhang Wentong’s corpse flashed in my mind—his mouth sewn shut with black thread, a warning that the dead keep secrets best.

I held my breath, trembling but trying to stay calm, though sweat poured down my forehead. Just as I thought I would suffocate from the tension, He Ping abruptly turned and left, his footsteps hurried. I was baffled.

A moment later, I heard the door slam outside. He Ping seemed to have left. Perhaps he’d been called away by urgent business—maybe he knew Jin Ze was on his way, and really didn’t know I was under the bed.

I breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t immediately crawl out. I decided to stay hidden until Jin Ze arrived.

But as soon as I exhaled, a chill swept down my spine—a paralyzing coldness settled over me, a primal instinct warning that someone else was under the bed, another pair of eyes watching me.

I turned, almost involuntarily, to peer into the darkest corner under the bed, illuminated by the overhead light He Ping had left on. I saw it clearly.

There, in the corner beneath the bed, sat a human head. Its eyes were wide open, staring straight at me.