We called the cops.
They showed up fast—faster than I'd ever seen them move. Homicide's a big deal, after all. They rolled in with a whole team: forensic analysts, crime scene investigators, even a couple of detectives in crisp suits who looked like they hadn't slept in a week.
They brought tools we'd never even seen before—jackhammers, pry bars, industrial-strength flashlights that cut through the dark like knives. They tore the wardrobe apart piece by piece, then chipped away at the wall, brick by brick, until the truth was laid bare for all of us to see.
We stood there, frozen, watching the whole thing unfold. Watching them uncover the owner of that shape in the wall.
It was a woman. God knows how long she'd been there—years, probably. Her body had turned to bone, dry and brittle, but a clump of matted, straw-like hair still clung to her skull, enough to tell us her gender. When they lifted her out of the wall, wrapped in a sheet that had long since turned yellow with age, a stench hit us so foul, so sickly sweet, that I thought I was gonna pass out right there.
I can't even describe it. It was the smell of rot, of decay, of something that had been trapped in the dark for far too long. It clung to our skin, our clothes, our hair, like it never wanted to let go.
And then I saw her clothes.
A black dress. Faded, tattered, but still recognizable. And on her feet—scuffed, but unmistakable—red high heels.
The same ones the girl had been wearing. The same girl who'd knocked on our door twice. The same girl who'd pointed at the master bedroom.
I didn't even have time to scream. My stomach flipped inside out, and I bolted for the bathroom, Meng Yifan right on my heels. Xie Peng and Li Xingyang followed, their faces green. We took turns in the only toilet in the house, heaving our guts up until there was nothing left to throw up but bile.
It wasn't just the smell, or the sight of that skeleton in the wall. It was the realization. That girl we'd seen—she wasn't a prankster, or a hallucination. She'd been dead for years, trapped behind that wall, and we'd talked to her. We'd seen her. We'd argued with her.
Mr. Hu lost his mind when he saw the body. He went red in the face, screaming so loud the neighbors came running. He called us every name in the book—crooks, murderers, heartless bastards who'd sold him a death trap. He ranted and raved, spitting venom, and even the cops couldn't calm him down.
And honestly? I couldn't blame him. But we were innocent. We'd had no idea what was behind that wall. No idea the house was a crime scene. As real estate agents, our job was to connect buyers and sellers—not to play detective. We had a duty to disclose any known issues, sure—but how the hell were we supposed to know about a corpse hidden behind a custom wardrobe?
The cops couldn't take statements with Mr. Hu screaming his head off, so they herded us into squad cars and drove us back to the station. We spent the rest of the day there, answering questions, signing forms, staring at the walls while detectives scribbled notes and forensic teams processed the house.
By the time we were done, it was dark outside. The police had ruled us out as suspects—along with Mr. Hu. We had nothing to do with the murder, nothing to do with the body. But that didn't stop Mr. Hu from demanding blood.
He wanted two things: a full refund on the house, and twenty grand in damages—for the renovations, for the stress, for the nightmares he and his wife had been having.
The refund was a no-brainer. The seller had lied about the house being "clean," so legally, Mr. Hu was entitled to his money back. We'd even have to give him back his agent's fee. But twenty grand? That was a fortune. Meng Yifan refused to pay a cent of it. It wasn't our fault the house was haunted by a dead woman.
The murder investigation was one thing—this was a civil dispute. The cops handed it off to the local police station, and we found ourselves right back in an interrogation room, this time with a bored-looking officer who just wanted to go home.
They mediated for hours. Mr. Hu yelled. Meng Yifan argued. I sat there, exhausted, my head throbbing, wondering how the hell my life had turned into a horror movie. By the time we left the station, the sun had long since set, and there was still no resolution.
The seller was already in custody, being grilled by detectives. If he was linked to the murder—and let's be real, he probably was—getting Mr. Hu his money back would be a whole new nightmare.
Mr. Hu and his wife were waiting for us outside the station, their faces like thunder. "You slimy bastards!" his wife shrieked, waving a fist. "We're suing you! You'll be out of business by next week!"
They drove off in a cloud of dust, yelling threats out the window. Meng Yifan just stood there, smoking one cigarette after another, his face so dark I thought he was gonna explode.
The refund wasn't the problem. Even a few grand in damages wouldn't have broken us. But a lawsuit? That was a death sentence for a small business like ours. Rumors spread fast in the real estate world. If word got out we'd sold a house with a corpse in the wall, no one would ever trust us again. We'd lose every client, every listing. We might even have to shut down the store.
"My grandpa always said our family was cursed when it came to business," Meng Yifan muttered, kicking a rock across the pavement. "I never believed him. Now? Now I'd bet my life on it. This lawsuit's gonna sink us."
I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I just patted him on the back and told him we'd take it one day at a time.
We were both dead tired. We skipped the store, went our separate ways, and collapsed into our beds as soon as we got home. I stripped off my clothes, which still reeked of rot, and took a scalding hot shower, scrubbing my skin raw until I couldn't smell the stench anymore.
Sleep came fast. My own bed had never felt so good, so safe. No more knocking. No more sleepwalking. No more ghostly girls in black dresses. That house was behind me. The murder, the lawsuit, the horror—it was all over.
Or so I thought.
I woke up to a sound.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Slow. Steady. Insistent.
I jolted upright in bed, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst through my ribs. For a split second, I was back in that master bedroom, back in that cursed house. Then I blinked, and saw my own ceiling, my own posters, my own nightstand.
I was home.
So why was someone knocking on my door?
I grabbed my phone, my hands shaking, and checked the time.
12:00 AM.
Midnight. Exactly the same time she'd knocked before.
The knocking continued, louder now, more urgent. Like she knew I was awake. Like she wasn't gonna stop until I opened the door.
I froze, my blood turning to ice. I didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe. What the hell was happening? I was home. I was miles away from that house. So why was she here?
I swung my legs over the bed, my bare feet touching the cold floor, and crept out of my bedroom, my phone clutched in my hand like a weapon. The knocking was louder in the living room, echoing through the quiet house. I didn't dare get close to the door. I just stood there, in the shadows, and yelled, my voice cracking.
"Who's there?!"
The knocking stopped.
For a long, terrible moment, there was silence.
Then a voice floated through the door, soft and cold and familiar. A voice that sent chills down my spine, that made my blood run cold.
A voice I'd heard twice before.
"I'm looking for Li Xiumei," it said.
The voice paused, like it was waiting for me to answer.
"Is Li Xiumei home?"