Chapter 13: Two Lives Claimed by One Corpse

I stumbled, bewildered, into an unfamiliar world, a place that filled me with both terror and a strange thrill. The Eye of the Nether Dragon pulsed from time to time with an unspeakable hunger—an ache for yin energy, the essence of ghosts. When this craving went unmet for too long, it became almost unbearable.

For ages, the hospital had failed to produce a single new ghost, which led me to believe that such spirits must be exceedingly rare in this world. Yet, on a sunlit winter’s day, my understanding was upended once again.

—

It was Saturday. After days of wind and snow, the weather had finally cleared, and the snowmelt had washed away all traces of winter’s grip. The sun hung in the sky, and for once, a gentle warmth permeated the air. People were everywhere—basking in the light, strolling through parks and along the streets.

At the Grand Song and Dance Theater of Linjiang, the crowd ebbed and flowed in anticipation of a morning concert by Fu Yiman, a young pianist of rising fame. Linjiang, the third-largest city in Beichuan Province with a population of five million, boasted no shortage of music lovers. Fu Yiman’s recent spate of international awards, coupled with her striking beauty, had made her a darling of the media. Her concerts in major cities were always packed to capacity.

I considered myself something of a music enthusiast. Back when my parents were alive, I dabbled in piano, guitar, and violin. But after their accident, I devoted myself wholly to medicine, abandoning all former interests.

Now, Wang Meiyu and I stood before a towering poster of Fu Yiman.

“She’s really beautiful,” Wang Meiyu murmured, stealing a glance at me.

“She is, but not as beautiful as you,” I replied with a smile. A seasoned flirt knows never to blunder when faced with such a question.

“Oh, stop it…” Wang Meiyu tried to hide her smile, but it crept irrepressibly to her lips.

At nine, admission began. The two tickets in Wang Meiyu’s hand were for the third row—VIP seats that were never sold to the public, reserved instead for sponsors or close associates.

“Aren’t you curious where I got the tickets?” Wang Meiyu finally asked, unable to contain herself when I didn’t inquire.

“Where did you get them?” I asked, feigning casual interest. Her innocence always showed plainly on her face.

She crooked her finger, beckoning me to lean in.

“Yiman is my best friend. We grew up together until she left for school abroad at sixteen. We’ve always kept in touch,” she whispered in my ear, pride evident in her voice.

Her breath brushed my ear, sending a subtle shiver down my spine. I turned, my gaze drawn to her cherry-red lips, glossed and glistening—were they as sweet as they looked?

“What is it?” she asked, her cheeks flushed under my stare.

Damn.

I drew a deep breath. In that instant, the gnawing desire I’d been suppressing for so long surged up again. It seemed I’d gone too long in ascetic solitude, after a life once filled with nightly pleasures. My body and mind both rebelled at such deprivation.

Maybe after the concert, we could…?

“It’s nothing, just surprised,” I managed, quelling my unruly thoughts. Wang Meiyu was an innocent girl. No matter how jaded I might be, I knew which women I could trifle with and which I couldn’t.

At that moment, the lights in the concert hall went out, plunging us into darkness.

—

On the edge of the stage, several greenish lights flickered, ghostly and cold. Perhaps it was my imagination, but they seemed as chilling as will-o’-the-wisps.

Then, gentle piano notes drifted through the hall, warm as a breeze, ruffling hair and sleeves alike.

Such mastery! I thought, impressed. Even a simple phrase transported the listener instantly.

As the music swelled, the lights gradually brightened, finally converging in a single spotlight on the performer at the climax.

From our third-row seats, we could see her clearly—Fu Yiman, clad in a black-and-white evening dress, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her features delicate as a porcelain doll. Her slender fingers danced across the keys, nimble and alive.

Truthfully, I’d lied to Wang Meiyu—Fu Yiman’s beauty surpassed hers. But women rarely care for the truth, only for flattery.

When the opening piece concluded, thunderous applause filled the hall. Fu Yiman rose, bowed with grace, and, during her words of thanks, waved in Wang Meiyu’s direction.

This woman must be a handful in bed, I thought, the notion startling me with its suddenness.

But in that very instant, I saw Fu Yiman’s lovely face contort, just for a heartbeat. My heart skipped, but when I looked again, nothing seemed amiss—it must have been a trick of my imagination.

The concert lasted a full two hours—solos, ensembles, even a top-tier orchestra accompanying her. The audience was utterly entranced, applause rising like waves.

Perhaps I was overly sensitive, but now and then, Fu Yiman’s playing seemed off—a distortion in the music, certain notes echoing more like wails than melodies. Each time this happened, my awareness of the world dimmed, as if I were cut off, while Fu Yiman, bathed in the spotlight, seemed to lose all color, becoming spectral and eerie.

Yet my eyes detected nothing unusual, and the Eye of the Nether Dragon remained unresponsive, so I dismissed it as my own misperception.

As the concert ended to a storm of applause and people began to file out, a staff member approached and led Wang Meiyu and me backstage.

Fu Yiman was removing her makeup. On seeing Wang Meiyu, she leapt up, pushing aside her makeup artist, and the two women squealed and embraced, their excitement obvious to all.

“Meiyu, aren’t you going to introduce this gentleman?” Fu Yiman glanced at me, grinning.

Wang Meiyu blushed. “This is my colleague, Qin Feng. He’s a doctor in our emergency department.”

“Doctor Qin, I’m Fu Yiman. You’d better treat our Meiyu well,” Fu Yiman said with a dazzling smile, extending her hand.

I smiled back, taking her hand—a pianist’s hand, soft and smooth as silk.

“Yiman, hurry up! Qin Feng and I are taking you out for a feast,” Wang Meiyu said.

“I’d much rather have your mom’s sweet and sour fish and her braised beef,” Fu Yiman replied.

“Tonight, then. I’ll call my mom. No way she’d have time at noon, but she’ll be overjoyed to see you. Every time you visit, I feel like I must have been adopted,” Wang Meiyu laughed.

The two women fell into animated conversation, and I was promptly forgotten. I wandered into the corridor, lighting a cigarette to pass the time.

From my brief encounter, I quickly concluded that Fu Yiman was lively and spirited—hardly the type to be haunted.

—

Perhaps my earlier unease during the concert was nothing—just the Eye of the Nether Dragon, starved of yin energy, leaving me a little on edge.

Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the air outside, followed by the terrified shouts of a crowd.

“Someone jumped! Someone jumped!” a staff member burst in, face ashen.

At once, I rushed outside, Wang Meiyu at my heels—an automatic response honed from countless emergencies in the ER.

A ring of onlookers surrounded the theater’s entrance. Pushing through, shouting, “We’re doctors!” we reached the scene.

The sight made me shudder. There, lying in a pool of blood, was a woman. Behind me, Wang Meiyu stared, eyes wide in horror, hands clamped over her mouth.

She was young and pregnant. On the way down, her head must have struck something—half her skull was gone, brain matter scattered. Most horrifying of all, the fetus had been flung halfway out of her belly, the rest still inside, as if it had clawed its way free.

Judging by the fetus’s size, it must have been about thirty weeks—viable, had a cesarean been performed.

Circling the body, my expression grew grim. I “saw” wisps of black vapor rising from the corpse, and the aura was even thicker around the dead fetus, whose bloodied forehead bore a distinct ghostly mark.

The Eye of the Nether Dragon reacted at once, greedily absorbing the swirling yin energy. I even sensed a flicker of pleasure from it.

Just then, ambulances and police cars arrived.

I caught sight of Fu Yiman emerging, pale and shaken, clinging to Wang Meiyu.

“Go inside and sit down—I’ll go up and take a look,” I told them, then took the elevator to the top floor.

The theater had eight floors; the rooftop was shaped like a blooming lotus.

The entrance to the rooftop was guarded by a rusted iron door. As I pulled it open, I noticed deep gouges on the far side, visible only from the corner of my eye.

I paused, crouching to inspect them.

“Even a lion would have trouble leaving marks this deep on iron,” I muttered, squinting from different angles.

There was blood, too.

The stains had been there a while—oxidized and nearly indistinguishable from the rust.

I stood and moved toward the railing, where I saw a muddle of fresh footprints.

“Two sets—one male, one female. Could someone have pushed her?” I wondered. Had I been wrong? Was it not a ghostly possession that drove the pregnant woman to leap, but a man who had pushed her?

I checked the height—about a meter and a half. The woman, pregnant and no taller than that, would have struggled to climb over on her own.

Just then, every hair on my body stood on end—a sudden gust whipped toward the back of my head.