Chapter Thirteen: The Dark Figure

The lightbulb in the room was old, casting a dim gloom over everything. The kang was quite large, with two cabinets beside it and a big picture frame. Suddenly...

"Don't move, haha... your... secret... say... I won't hurt you, hee hee..." Dazhuang was wrapped in a tattered green shirt, the sleeve torn at the elbow, and wore long, black pants that hid his toes.

His speech was slurred, scattered, his demeanor erratic and deranged. His fingers ceaselessly traced invisible lines in the air, his eyes unfocused, wandering, darting black pupils glancing furtively around.

Soon, he shifted again, leaning his body against the wall. His hands stretched behind him, his two legs pressed together as he plopped down, eyes wide open, staring ahead with a twisted grimace.

Then suddenly, his body slumped to the side. He curled his legs, clutched his chest, and rolled his eyes back.

"Hahaha..." He grinned, clambered back up, and pointed ahead, clutching his belly as he howled with laughter. He squatted again, muttering incoherently. Anyone seeing him like this would be gripped by fear.

He was neither simple nor dull—he was mad.

A strange, unsettling atmosphere filled the room at once. Zhang Qinglin's eyes flickered; he stood frozen, watching the raving Dazhuang on the kang as if witnessing a nightmarish play, both performed and directed by the madman himself.

"Grandma, does he do this often?" Zhang Qinglin asked.

The old woman replied slowly, "Yes, he does..."

Zhang Qinglin watched as the old woman, her back hunched, stood beside the kang at the waist-high old cabinet, using trembling chopsticks to pick a few peanuts from her bowl and place them aside.

She explained that Dazhuang didn't like peanuts, so she always picked them out for him first.

"Grandma, who is this?" Cheng Che, standing beside the cabinet, pointed at a solitary portrait in the large frame.

It was a black-and-white photo of a young man with thick brows and big eyes, his white teeth showing in a half-smile, half-frown. He wore a sleeveless shirt and gripped a wooden stick, his upper body posed awkwardly. The bottom of the photo was unevenly cut, which Cheng Che found especially odd.

The old woman slowly raised her head, squinting at the photo. "Oh, that's Dazhuang's second uncle." She took her bowl and shuffled to the kang, steadying herself before sitting down and beckoning, "Dazhuang, come eat..."

Zhang Qinglin glanced over, moving closer to the large frame. He saw the young man Cheng Che had pointed out, strong and solid, as well as a few photos of young women—likely the old woman in her youth.

He noticed then that, besides these, there were four or five other photos in the frame: three or four of endless mountain ranges, and one depicting a round object with patterns, its details blurred, the design resembling a floral motif or perhaps a qilin.

The motif seemed eerily familiar—no, he had just seen it.

Yes! The vague pattern in the photo was the very one Dazhuang had been drawing when they entered. Zhang Qinglin jerked his head toward Dazhuang...

"Hey, Zhang... Zhang?" Cheng Che called out, nudging him when he got no response.

Zhang Qinglin blinked, turning to Cheng Che in a low voice, "What is it?"

Cheng Che’s dark eyes glared at him, his lips pursed so tightly he nearly startled Zhang Qinglin.

Cheng Che jerked his chin toward the door, beckoning him outside. Zhang Qinglin nodded.

The two of them slipped quietly out...

“Hey, Zhang, didn’t you think those photos were weird?” They now sat across from each other at the stone table in the courtyard.

Night had fallen. The bulb in the courtyard wavered, casting weak, flickering light.

Zhang Qinglin glanced toward the fence and then back, saying, "You noticed the questionable photos too?"

"Yeah, the mountain photos—they look just like the ones in the notebook we found today. That can't be a coincidence." Excitement shone on Cheng Che’s face, as if he’d stumbled upon a major secret.

"And you probably think Dazhuang’s second uncle’s photo is suspicious too. I noticed it. It’s not just the photo—Dazhuang himself is strange. He seems to know something..." Zhang Qinglin’s gaze flicked toward the house, leaning in to speak in a hushed tone.

"Come on, Dazhuang? That fool—what could he possibly know?" Cheng Che scoffed, propping his right arm on the stone table, his body slanting, left hand gesturing back toward the house.

Just then, from the wild vegetable patch in the yard came a rustling—“scritch, scritch, scritch”—the sound of something treading on leaves and earth.

Cheng Che stared at the wild patch behind Zhang Qinglin.

"There’s... something behind you..." His voice rose, hand trembling as he pointed behind Zhang Qinglin.

A strange look passed over Zhang Qinglin’s face. Cheng Che, who had never feared anything since childhood, notorious for his mischief, suddenly looked as if he were possessed.

Cheng Che’s arm hung midair, shaking, unable to speak, his neck stiff, his face twisting mechanically as his mouth drooped to one side.

Zhang Qinglin shook his head, rising to support Cheng Che.

Suddenly, a long shadow stretched from his own arm. Before he could turn to see who it belonged to, a harsh voice rang out:

"If there’s a path up the mountain, why come sneaking through this little gate? Get out of here!"

The furious shout exploded beside Zhang Qinglin.

There was the old woman, her face twisted with rage, brandishing a broom at the wild vegetable patch.

With a sharp crack, the broom landed among the leaves, followed by frantic, scrambling sounds as something fled in the darkness.

The old woman turned around. In an instant, the ferocity left her face, replaced once more by her former kindness as she gazed at Cheng Che and Zhang Qinglin.