At My Home

To sever a person's head and sew it onto another corpse's body—what kind of cold-blooded monster could commit such a brutal act? I could only feel my mind go blank, ringing with shock, as if the entire world had collapsed around me.

Fang Lin was not a girl with complicated social ties. Who could possibly target her with such a twisted method? And what could be the purpose behind this grotesque exchange of heads and bodies?

Instantly, the image of that stranger from last night leapt into my thoughts—the one who had added me on QQ, the one who claimed Fang Lin was a man, the one whose username was “The Voyeur.” Whether or not this Voyeur was the killer, he was at least an accomplice; he certainly knew the truth.

I wanted to share my suspicions with the square-jawed policeman before me, but when I saw the chill in his eyes, I fell silent. I could tell he suspected me, and the more I said, the more I risked exposing myself to further suspicion. I had already told him about the Voyeur; to repeat myself would only seem suspicious, as though I were trying to cover something up.

At that moment, the square-jawed officer’s phone rang, and he stepped outside to take the call. When he returned a short while later, to my surprise, the first thing he said was that I was free to leave.

I guessed they must have checked surveillance footage and confirmed my alibi for the time of Fang Lin’s murder, and so they let me go.

As I was leaving, the officer handed me his card and told me to contact him at once if anything came up.

His name was He Ping. To my astonishment, he wasn’t just a regular beat cop—he was a detective. Usually, local patrol officers handle cases at first. The fact that a detective was involved from the start meant Fang Lin’s case was far from simple.

When I got home, I wandered about in a haze, wanting nothing more than to collapse onto my bed and sleep. But the image of Fang Lin’s head sewn onto a man’s body haunted me, making sleep impossible.

In the end, I opened my laptop, determined to look again at the Voyeur’s profile, hoping for some clue—anything to avenge Fang Lin.

I was disappointed. The man was meticulous—his QQ account was newly registered, with no useful information except a single status message: “I love your secrets.”

“I love your secrets.” Such a simple line, yet open to so many interpretations—did he love a person, or did he love a secret? I had no idea who he was, nor could I even guess.

Frustrated, I closed his profile. As I was about to power down, his avatar suddenly flashed—he was sending me a message!

Holding my breath, I opened the chat window. He wrote: "Chen Mu, do you believe me now? Your girlfriend was a man."

I had no words. I was shaking with rage. So this was what he meant by “a man”? Who would joke about human life like this?

With trembling fingers, I replied: “Who are you, what do you want? I know the truth now—my girlfriend was a woman. Did you kill her?”

He responded quickly, but didn’t answer me directly. “I’ll make you believe it. This is only the beginning.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Only the beginning”? Did he mean to keep killing?

At that moment, my phone rang—a number I didn’t recognize. To my surprise, it was Detective He Ping.

He asked where I was. I told him I was at home. He instructed me not to go anywhere, to stay exactly where I was—he’d be right there.

I was confused, but he repeated himself with urgency: “You’re in your room, right? Stay put, don’t move!”

I couldn’t help myself—I asked why. After a brief silence, he spoke quickly, and what he said left me completely stunned, my skin crawling with goosebumps.

He explained that after I’d told them about the Voyeur at the station, the police had been monitoring the QQ account in real time. They’d just detected a login—and the IP address was my home!

I had two computers: a desktop in the study, and the laptop by my side. If the Voyeur logged in from my house, he must be in the study right now!

My heart pounded in my chest—the possible killer was in my home, just a wall away. What should I do?

To be honest, I was terrified. This was obviously a bloodthirsty psycho. I wanted to do as He Ping said and hide in my room until he arrived.

But then something didn’t feel right. Why would the Voyeur hide here, using my computer?

He must have a plan. If it were me, I’d guess he wanted to frame me.

By the time He Ping arrived, the killer would be gone. The only fingerprints on the keyboard would be mine, and I’d be finished.

Then I remembered another detail: when chatting, the Voyeur always paused for five or six seconds before each reply. That was just enough time to walk from my room to the study.

This meant he was deliberately creating circumstances to make it look like I could be both myself and the Voyeur at the same time. If that were true, no matter how I explained, they’d think I had dissociative identity disorder.

I knew that these days, in the rush to close cases, police sometimes made mistakes and wrongfully accused people. If all the evidence pointed to me, they might just arrest me and call it solved.

I couldn’t let the Voyeur escape!

So I forced myself to act, mustering my courage, and rushed to the study.

The computer was on, but QQ was logged out.

I scanned the room—no one was there. There were no boxes or cabinets big enough to hide a person. He wasn’t there.

I hadn’t heard the door open, and the Voyeur had messaged me only moments before. He must have left the study, but not the apartment—perhaps hiding somewhere in the living room, watching my every move.

I left the study and searched the living room. It wasn’t large, but the sofa and some cabinets could hide someone. I checked everywhere—nothing.

How could someone just disappear? It was unfathomable. Suddenly, a wild thought struck me: what if the Voyeur wasn’t human at all?

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

I thought it must be He Ping and went to open it, but I was cautious. I called out his name twice—no answer. I looked through the peephole—no one was there.

Puzzled, I opened the door anyway. There, outside, was a half-meter-tall box, left by someone who had just delivered it and left.

I didn’t dare bring the box inside. I waited at the door, and after a few minutes, He Ping arrived.

He was angry to find me outside. He asked why I hadn’t stayed in my room as instructed. I didn’t hide anything—I explained I didn’t want to be mistaken for someone with split personalities; I wanted to catch whoever was hiding in my home, though I hadn’t succeeded.

He Ping stared at me, making me uncomfortable, so I turned my head away. After a moment, he said, “Chen Mu, you’re much calmer than I expected.”

Inwardly, I was furious. Calm? My nerves were shot; I’d nearly wet myself from fear. The killer had murdered my girlfriend and was still lurking in my home—of course I had to find him. I might not be ruthless, but I wasn’t a coward.

He Ping didn’t say more. Together, we brought the box inside.

He Ping opened it, tearing off the cardboard to reveal a small refrigerated cabinet. Dread gripped me—surely nothing good could be inside, maybe even body parts.

He quickly opened the cabinet. To my surprise, it was empty—no remains inside.

But there was a note. On it was written: “Chen Mu, take the item on the bottom shelf of your refrigerator, put it in this cooler, and mail it under your name to the following address: XXXX.”