When the vehicles on the road grow sparse at night, the broad street reveals some of its hidden truths—scars unseen beneath the day's layers of noise and distraction.
Though I'm a third-rate detective, I respect the profession enough to go all out for every case. The simplest way to verify the girl's story is to visit Wudeng Road and seek the "Netherworld Show" mentioned in the ad.
I opened my computer and searched: Wudeng Road in Jiangcheng does exist. Among the city's old-timers, it's known by a darker name—"Luosi Jieding" ("Stacked Corpses to the Roof"). During the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression, this was Jiangcheng's largest massacre site, where bodies were piled until they matched the height of the rooftops. Locals say streetlights can't stay lit here: installed one day, they fail the next—either sabotaged or dead for no apparent reason. Bulbs test fine when removed, but their tungsten filaments are mysteriously broken. Flashlights also die in the alleys at night; no electric device works. Motorcycles and e-bikes must be pushed by hand.
Residents rarely venture out after dark. Meeting someone on "Luosi Jieding" at night?—it might not be human.
"A company based here? The 'Netherworld Show' lives up to its name," I thought. As a logic-driven atheist, after an afternoon of research, I was surer than ever this was a clumsy prank.
"Let's test this tonight." I changed into casual clothes, stuffed the ad and my anti-wolf stun gun into my pocket, and biked to the district.
Wudeng Road lies in the old city. By the time I arrived, dusk had fallen, and a drizzle misted the air.
"Great timing," I muttered. A stun gun was risky in the rain—one slip, and I'd shock myself. Embarrassing if I ran into a thug.
I wandered maze-like alleys between weathered buildings. Locals ignored me or fled when I asked about Wudeng Road. Clueless, I circled until after 10 p.m., still lost.
The rain thickened, merging sky and earth in gray. I needed shelter, but the only shops sold paper houses, spirit horses, wreaths, and shrouds—funeral goods. At 11 p.m., the shroud store owner extinguished electric lights, lit white candles, handed me an umbrella typically used for grave visits, and shooed me out.
"Odd bunch," I said, standing in the downpour. The alley lay pitch-black, no flicker of light.
"Wudeng Road?" I shivered. After 20 minutes of aimless walking, I fumbled for my phone to call the police—then saw an old woman across the street waving urgently.
Why is she alone in this storm? Where's her family? Her clothes clung, soaked; she looked frail, more forlorn than me.
I hurried over, holding my umbrella. "Granny, are you—" A lightning flash revealed her face: bloodless, lined like crumpled parchment.
"I lost something. Help me find it," she trembled, voice weak as a final breath.
I steeled myself. "What did you lose?"
Her cloudy eyes shifted. "My grandson—he's in this alley." She pointed to the dark path and lurched forward, almost possessed.
A living boy? I thought of Wudeng Road's rumors. Her hunched back sent a chill down my spine.
"Nonsense. Ghosts are just fear of the unknown," I reasoned. My body's fight-or-flight response was triggered by the eerie setting, nothing more. The locals' reactions, the rumors, this woman—they all seemed to stage a horror show. Maybe a reality TV crew was filming, exploiting superstitions for ratings.
Calmer now, I followed her into the alley, umbrella shielding us both.
After what felt like hours, lost and hopeless, she stopped abruptly.
"Sweet grandson, don't wander again…"
"Found him?" I asked, startled. Her gaze fell to a tattered, soaked doll on cold stone steps.
She's delusional! I'd chased a madwoman through the rain for an hour.
"Shh, doll, don't be cross. Grandma's sorry for throwing you. I dirtied your dress and your face—must hurt, yes? Let me brush you clean, wash your cheeks. We'll never part again."
She cradled the doll like a newborn and wandered off, humming a lullaby. I sighed, pitying her—an old woman clinging to a tattered doll as her only companion.
I chased after her, pressing the umbrella into her hands. "Take this. Go home safely." She stared, dazed, then vanished into the storm.
Soaked to the bone, I sought shelter on the steps where the doll lay. A three-story building loomed, its entrance shaded by a rusted awning.
"All for 70 yuan," I grumbled, squatting to light a cigarette. The lighter flared—revealing a house number: "No. 44 Wudeng Road."
The flame died. I checked the ad again: Basement 4, Room 444, 44 Wudeng Road.
What a coincidence. Hope surged. The address was real.
"Things just got interesting." I gripped the stun gun's switch. As I turned to the staircase, my shirt snagged.
"Who's there?!"
I spun, taser crackling. The old woman stood behind me, doll in arm—how had she crept up? I, a top-tier combat skills graduate from the police academy, hadn't heard a step.
"Boy, darkness isn't for wandering," she chided, shielding the doll's "eyes" with her body. A handkerchief slipped from her sleeve.
She crooned a nursery rhyme and coaxed the doll, disappearing into the rainy night.
I retrieved the handkerchief—pure white, like a suicide noose. On it, a classical poem:
"When the house is extremely poor, it's hard to discard the painting.
Internal affairs originally come from the imperial capital.
If there is a son who receives kindness, there must be a place.
In the netherworld, there's no way and my heart is in a daze."
Reading it twice, I froze: a hidden-head poem, where the first character of each line formed a secret message—"There are ghosts in this house."
Was she mad, or warning me? Her cryptic clues now made sense.
Do ghosts really exist? I hesitated, then stepped into the stairwell. For a detective, the thrill lies not in answers, but in unraveling the unknown.
My eyes adjusted to the dark. Hand on the gritty wall, I descended toward the basement.
No. 44 Wudeng Road, Basement Level 4, Room 444…