A Nighttime Talk at a Haunted Mansion

A Nighttime Talk at a Haunted Mansion

I knocked on that door, a rather large one, yes, it's fair to say it was once again I who knocked. Some say that old mansions always conceal something—ghosts, for instance, which in my mind are like a painting. One that you think you understand, yet, in reality, it's an abstract piece beyond comprehension. A woman lived in this mansion three years ago, a young woman. Though she later took her own life, I've always felt she's still there, peering out from one of the rooms. From the very first moment I stepped inside, I felt a chill down my spine and tried to walk in slowly.The room, covered in dust, exuded an unusual deathly stillness. On a chair lay an old book, its pages yellowed—whose it was, I couldn't tell. And somehow, I caressed that layer of dust easily, imagining the woman's continued presence, tight and real. Yet, everything seemed as futile as grabbing at a ghost's heels, utterly fruitless. After my casual observation upon entering, I didn’t pay much heed to the surroundings, leisurely wandering through the dead stillness of the room. There was a diary, placed squarely on the desk, its pages ruffled by the wind.Wait, the woman didn't want to die, so how could she have committed suicide? The dates were blurred and illegible, the ink smudged and discolored. From April 4th, looking at everything in the room, my body couldn't help but shudder. The woman must have suffered endless agony before her death—extreme, excruciating pain. I almost felt like tearing my scalp off, begging for the torment to end, that cursed voice. I looked at the diary, puzzled. Was the woman hallucinating? She was hiding in a corner on the second floor, I thought, as my hand touched that mosquito bite, feeling her terror, her pain.Drip, drop, drip, drop—the faint sound of footsteps seemed to come from the second floor. I was about to pick up the diary when I realized that, just like the other days, it seemed a hand had touched my shoulder. I looked back in echo, but saw nothing. I groped my way toward the old, rotting staircase, its wooden steps creaking. I used to visit this old house often, but, hmm...Listening to the creaking noise, it felt harder to bear. Moonlight shone through the skylight above, the chill of its touch evident as I felt it. The strange tapping footsteps from upstairs continued to prick my nerves. I should go have a look, an unusual impulse in my heart. Crossing the twelve steps of the ladder felt like walking through a dream, dust flying in my face, mingling with invisible cobwebs, the chandelier above unusually bright.A plump spider rested on its web, and I gently touched its silk; it ran away as if frightened. The second floor this time appeared as an undiscovered paradise, with several medieval portraits hanging in the uppermost corner. The woman in them was exceptionally beautiful, her hair, eyes, nose, lips—all seemed just perfect. Oddly, the edges of her frame were fastened with large, rusted staples. After so many years, the stale water left behind was like snow, lasting only a week.The previous volume might dwell on the larger environment, but all this was clearly not in black and white style. I chuckled bitterly, reaching out to touch that photograph. To my surprise, I cried out—the sensation I just felt was unmistakably that of skin. How could it be possible? It was my own touch, indeed, the texture of skin. Could this be made of human skin? My flashlight fell to the ground, the moonlight still cold, casting an eerie light on the portrait. Carefully, I prepared to pick up my flashlight—tap, tap, tap—the footsteps, this place hadn't been inhabited for many years.Ah, but why would it be a hallucination? Yet when I shone my flashlight, it was just a rat. Once more sweeping the flashlight over that painting, the subject had died in 1997. An ominous feeling came over me, a line of small text written beneath that album. I realized my hand was wet, as if I had just touched that stale water. Ungraciously, I leaned against the wall, then slowly stood up. A deathly silent corridor approached, carrying a pungent smell. It was said that the woman had committed suicide on the second floor of her home, and that when she died, her body still hung from the beam.As I carelessly opened that door, aside from the so-called rumors, there was nothing more. I smiled faintly; it seemed my brave ghost house plan was spoiled. I slowly walked out of the room, heading back downstairs, so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. One, two, three, four, five... Thirteen steps. Something seemed wrong; the staircase should only have twelve steps. I shone the flashlight behind me—twelve steps, no more, no less. So what was that extra footstep I heard? Just as I was about to quietly ponder,What was going on, I suddenly heard the tapping footsteps from upstairs again. Damn that rat, I cursed fiercely. When had that diary on the desk been opened? I was sure it was closed before. Touching the diary now, the smell of blood hit me. My God, wasn't that just stale water? Why did it seem like I just touched something on that wall? I quickly grabbed the flashlight and went upstairs, then froze. In the flickering light of the flashlight, when had that woman in the photograph taken on a weird smile?The woman's face in the picture showed a bizarre curve, fleeting as a flash. I rubbed my eyes and searched the wall with the flashlight again. There, a face slowly emerged from within the wall, the part I had just wiped with my finger still marked with my blood. Let me out, a voice with an alluring timbre pierced my eardrums. I realized more and more that the face was just like the portrait pinned to the wall with large staples. I ran downstairs in horror, but before I could take a step, a gust of wind sounded beside my ear. You always liked coming here to see me, didn't you? So today,Stay with me, a plea filled with terror. I stumbled on the first step of the staircase, desperately rushing toward the great door. Damn it, who closed the door? I shook the door violently, feeling a chill on my back, something gently patting me. Come, stay with me, the voice eerily hollow. Three years ago today, and now, three years later.