Chapter 9: Whispers of the Night

With a loud bang, the door was shut.
Yanchuan touched his nose, pretending to be just passing by.
It turned out that this house was also home to a couple.
Adding to the sound of a parent scolding a child that he heard earlier at noon…it felt like three generations living under one roof?
Soon, it was evening, and the sky darkened unusually early, with the moonlight dimming.
Yanchuan glanced outside the door; he could see an empty corridor with a faint red glow.
No one was in the corridor, and the door to the empty room across the hall stood wide open, revealing a pitch-black room. Above him were high floors, and below were layers of dark, gaping rooms.
Once night fell, the entire building suddenly quieted, eerily silent—there wasn’t even a hint of sound, it was utterly desolate.
It felt as though if he jumped from there, he would hit the ground without a sound.
Yanchuan firmly closed the door and didn’t forget to take a clothes rack from the wardrobe to jam against the lock.
The sturdiness of the old-fashioned door lock wasn’t reliable, but he couldn’t manage to drag any heavy furniture to block the entrance.
However, in supernatural scenarios, even such physical barriers wouldn’t stop spirits; it was merely for psychological comfort.
Yanchuan decided it was best to rest early, ignoring any sounds he might hear.
Night was always the hardest to endure; his brows knitted deeply.
He lay on the cold bed, wrapping himself in a thin summer blanket.
The room’s lights had been turned off, leaving only a wall lamp flickering with dim light.
Yanchuan closed his eyes.
The night air was a bit chilly, and given his poor health, he felt cold even wrapped tightly in the blanket.
His frail body curled up in the corner of the bed, with only a small part of his face exposed, looking pale and vulnerable.
“Tick-tock, tick-tock.”
He didn’t know how long he had been dozing off when the ticking sound woke him up.
It sounded almost next to his ear, liquid splashing onto the floor. Accompanied by a dull thud, something heavy seemed to be dropped.
What was that sound?
Yanchuan tried to move his fingers experimentally but found himself completely immobile, lying rigidly on the bed, unable even to lift his eyelids.
He opened his mouth, expecting to vocalize something, but only silent breath escaped him.
Was it sleep paralysis?
Yanchuan was unclear, but he couldn’t move at all, and the sound seemed to draw closer.
The mechanical noise resonated in his ears, causing a buzzing sensation, while his vision blurred.
His heart raced as he struggled to open his eyes, but all he managed was a faint, muffled sound, akin to a kitten’s whimper, only audible when someone drew near.
That sound… it resembled the approach of someone wielding a bloodied weapon, dripping with fresh blood, heavy gouges striking the ground.
The blanket that should have kept him warm now felt like a restraint, tangling around him in the corner of the bed, making movement impossible.
Cold… his brows furrowed deeper as the temperature in the room plummeted suddenly, like an ice cellar.
Yanchuan’s hands and feet grew cold, his lips devoid of color pressing tightly together, and his heartbeat quickened unnaturally.
Had he caught the attention of the ghost NPC from the survival variety show?
What had he done to attract such attention?
He lost track of time as the ticking sound faded away, only to be replaced by something suddenly sinking at the head of the bed.
Yanchuan felt a notably icy object touch his cheek.
It felt like a hand, fingers long and slender. But it was too cold—once it made contact, he began to shiver uncontrollably.
This unhuman hand repeatedly caressed his soft cheek with enough pressure to redden his pale skin. Soon, his previously pale face flushed a deep red, yet he couldn’t squirm away.
In the dim yellow light, his delicate skin resembled fine, cold jade. What was once flawless now bore traces of fingers, accentuating his paleness with an unexpected hint of something else.
Curled up on the bed, his thin cover couldn’t conceal his frail figure, the prominent butterfly bones on his back still visible. He looked fragile and pitiful.
Yet, his features were strikingly alluring, with thick, dark lashes and the corners of his eyes dusted with moisture. He resembled a gardenia blooming in the night, fragrant but too precious to allow lingering scents.
Pushed to the brink, he could only emit a soft whimper from his throat, unable even to show his claws for a feeble display of resistance.
It evoked a sense of pity… while simultaneously inciting the desire to torment him further.
In the darkness, unseen hands wiped away the tears clinging to his lashes.
Then, they licked the salty residue off their fingertips.
Yanchuan anxiously waited for a while but felt no further actions beyond the face caress.
His consciousness blurred, and a question arose in his mind.
Did spirits usually touch faces before acting?
What did this mean—was he being evaluated for vulnerability?