He saw the face.

I stared at the video footage on my computer, trembling. The simultaneous appearance of those shoes and the eye above my head overwhelmed me; the shock was so intense that I couldn’t recover for a long time. It was genuinely terrifying. What was it about me that attracted such obsessive surveillance? They watched me even as I slept. Did he not need sleep? Or perhaps, aside from committing crimes, he used every other moment to rest—or maybe it was a group, taking turns to keep an eye on me?

Yet the sleepwalking version of myself in the video seemed far less frightened than I was. He sat upright on the bed, staring fixedly at the shoes beneath the curtain. After about half a minute, the me in the video got up from the bed and tiptoed to the curtain, slowly reaching out to pull it aside.

My expression wasn’t particularly fearful; curiosity seemed to prevail. As I drew the curtain closer to the shoes, my movements slowed—nervous, surely, since I was about to confront whoever was hiding in my home. Truthfully, watching the video outside made me far more anxious than the me in the video pulling the curtain; my heart threatened to leap out of my throat.

Suddenly, the video-me yanked the curtain open. To my astonishment, there was no one behind it—just a pair of shoes, the toes peeking out, as if someone were lurking behind. They were black embroidered shoes, women’s shoes. I reasoned the voyeur couldn’t be a woman, so perhaps the shoes were meant to frighten me.

When I first went to bed, those embroidered shoes weren’t there, so the only explanation was that when I addressed the camera and blocked it, he entered my room and placed the shoes behind the curtain. Whether he left afterward or remained hidden, I couldn’t tell—if he was still there, he’d be either in the wardrobe or under the bed.

I peered at both the wardrobe and under the bed in the video, but the angle revealed nothing. The eye on the ceiling, however, remained.

Then, astonishingly, the sleepwalking me closed the curtain again, returned to the bed, and collapsed into a deep, lifeless sleep—as if I’d never awoken. Clearly, my sleepwalking was quite severe; I had no memory of any of this.

The footage barely changed after that. If not for the passage of time, I might have thought the video had frozen—my sleeping form barely moved. Just as I assumed nothing else would happen, I realized something: at this moment, the embroidered shoes weren't beside the curtain, and the curtain was open. There had to be more to come!

I held my breath, watching intently. At four in the morning, the embroidered shoes under the curtain suddenly moved.

Yes, those unworn embroidered shoes began to move on their own!

I couldn’t restrain myself, letting out a cry. What the hell was happening? Shoes moving by themselves?

My scalp tingled, a chill ran down my spine. If not for my curiosity about what would happen next, I’d have shut off the video in terror. Meanwhile, the me in the video slept soundly, oblivious as a dead pig.

I forced myself to keep watching. The toes of the shoes twisted and wobbled behind the curtain, swaying and rubbing against the floor—like the steps of a demon.

As the shoes moved, the curtain rustled, as if someone was behind it, wearing those embroidered shoes.

A sudden fear struck me—could someone have climbed in from outside? Maybe she was putting on the shoes now? Though my home was on the fourth floor, someone could climb from a neighbor’s window or use ropes from above or below to reach the windowsill and enter.

Just as I was thinking this, the shoes emerged—and I saw it clearly: they were no longer empty; feet filled them!

Those feet stepped out, followed by a pale leg, and then a white figure burst from behind the curtain.

It was a living person, but she stood with her back to me. She wore a long, white dress, her raven hair cascading over her shoulders, and those eerie embroidered shoes. The sight of her in the video was chilling beyond words.

The silhouette seemed familiar, but I dared not think further—I simply watched blankly.

She faced away from the camera, slowly backing toward the bed. Soon, she reached the bedside, unhindered by anything, as if she had eyes on the back of her head beneath her long hair.

She stood at the head of the bed, unmoving, staring at me—watching, watching...

Even outside the video, I felt as if I was there, the sensation of being watched so terrifying that my spine froze and cold sweat drenched my palms.

Who knows how long she stared? Suddenly, she twisted her head around.

Her face appeared abruptly and unexpectedly in the camera’s view, and when I saw it, I lost control—my legs buckled, and I collapsed to the floor.

Fang Lin. The woman in white, who stared at me in the dead of night, was Fang Lin!

Wasn’t Fang Lin dead? How did she suddenly appear in my home, watching me?

Instantly, I recalled the strange embroidered shoes and Fang Lin’s inexplicable entrance. I dared not think further.

Damn it—though Jin Ze had told me more than once that ghosts were merely the evil in people’s hearts, in this moment I could no longer hold back. A ghost—if that wasn’t Fang Lin’s spirit in the video, what was it?

Just then, Fang Lin went to the wardrobe, looking inside—clearly aware of the hidden camera. She didn’t take it; instead, she gave the camera a bizarre smile, identical to the one the little girl had drawn for us in her sketch.

After smiling, Fang Lin turned, walked back to the window, opened the curtain, and looked outside—lights flickered, but the sky was gloomy.

Suddenly, she opened the window, climbed onto the sill, and slid down along it…

Fang Lin jumped? This was the fourth floor!

I couldn’t bear to think anymore. I yanked out the card reader and bolted from my home; in that moment, I couldn’t stay there another second.

When I reached the main road, my mind was a chaotic mess—I felt on the verge of madness. Had I really seen a ghost?

Now, I no longer believed anything Jin Ze had said. I didn’t even want to contact him, convinced that humans couldn’t possibly handle such filth.

Yet, I soon called Jin Ze anyway, because I had no one else to turn to; I absolutely didn’t want to involve my family.

When Jin Ze answered, I blurted out, “Damn it, Jin Ze, something terrible has happened—a ghost! There’s a ghost!”

Jin Ze seemed busy, but urgently asked, “Huh? What ghost? Calm down, tell me slowly.”

I immediately continued, “I filmed it with the camera—I caught the person hiding in my home. No, not a person—a ghost. It’s Fang Lin’s spirit, I saw her, really, and if I’m lying, I’m your grandson!”

Jin Ze seemed to realize the gravity of the situation and told me to wait where I was, promising he’d be there soon.

Sure enough, after I’d smoked nearly half a pack, Jin Ze arrived.

When I saw him, I recounted everything that had happened. Jin Ze insisted it was impossible—there were no ghosts, ghosts were just things used to scare people.

He said we should watch the video again at my place. Although I was still scared, having Jin Ze with me gave me courage, and I wanted him to see for himself, so we returned home together.

I replayed last night’s footage for Jin Ze. When he saw me suddenly get up from bed, lurking by the door, acting all sneaky, he immediately asked, “Chen Mu, what the hell are you up to?”

I shook my head, telling him I truly didn’t know.

He didn’t press further, but muttered, “Birds of a feather flock together—you and that voyeur are quite a pair.”

At first, I didn’t pay attention, but soon realized he was implying something—suspecting me, perhaps. So I retorted, “Bah, you’re the one who’d suit him. He seemed like a pervert, and I bet you fit his tastes perfectly.”

Jin Ze didn’t get angry, just kept watching. When he saw me blocking the camera, pursing my lips at it, he replayed the scene twice, as if trying to decipher what I was saying, but he clearly didn’t understand.

He continued watching, and since I’d already seen it, I skipped ahead to the moment Fang Lin appeared wearing the shoes.

When Fang Lin appeared in the room, back turned, Jin Ze’s brows furrowed.

After Fang Lin stared at me and gave the camera that eerie smile, his brows knit even tighter.

Once Fang Lin disappeared from the windowsill, Jin Ze’s beautiful almond eyes narrowed to a slit—still deep and intense, but I could see his shock.

It was the first time I’d seen Jin Ze so dumbfounded; I found it amusing and felt less afraid, unable to resist saying, “Well, still want to claim there are no ghosts? Stop bluffing—just admit you’re scared.”

Jin Ze ignored me, maintaining his composure. He rewound the video and played the sequence of Fang Lin’s appearance and disappearance again.

Then he stood up, walking from my window to the bed, mimicking Fang Lin’s movements, finally standing at the window and looking down.

As I wondered if Jin Ze had been scared witless—suddenly realizing there were ghosts and unable to process the truth—he picked up the phone.

He quickly spoke into it: “Team Leader Fang, immediately send someone to protect Fang Lin’s transgender corpse—do not let it go missing, there’s a critical clue. Also, have Miao Miao conduct another autopsy, examine that severed head, and extract DNA.”

After hanging up, Jin Ze turned to look at me.

Curious, I gazed at him, wondering what clue he’d found.

He simply said, “Chen Mu, you really are quite captivating. I know who she is now.”