I never believed in ghosts until the day I moved into that old house where someone had died, all to save eight hundred yuan a month on rent. On the first night there, I was cooking instant noodles in the kitchen when the faucet suddenly turned on by itself, water gushing out like someone had twisted the knob. I froze for two seconds, then shouted at the empty kitchen: "You paying the water bill?" The water stopped instantly, as if someone had slammed it shut. I stood there with my instant noodles, chills running down my back, but still talking tough: "That's more like it."
Less than a month later, I moved out. Not because of the faucet thing, but because I found a job in a restaurant kitchen that included room and board—no need to keep renting that crappy place. My friend Old Zhou had introduced me, saying Hongbin Restaurant needed a kitchen helper. The work wasn't hard, just prep and washing dishes, four thousand five hundred yuan a month with room and board. I'd just quit my last restaurant job and only had about two thousand yuan left, so I agreed without thinking twice.
Hongbin Restaurant was a local institution, open for over twenty years, specializing in regional dishes. The place wasn't big—two floors, ten-something tables on the first floor, a few private rooms on the second. The kitchen was behind the restaurant, accessible through a narrow corridor. It was a decent-sized kitchen, fully equipped with stoves, steamers, freezers—but everything was a little worn. The wall tiles had seen better days, with grease stuck in the cracks that wouldn't wash off. One of the overhead fluorescent lights kept flickering, making a faint buzzing sound you'd barely notice if you weren't listening.
I showed up on Monday at ten-thirty in the morning. There weren't many customers yet, and two front-of-house waitresses were leaning against the register playing on their phones. They glanced at me and jerked their heads toward the back, meaning the kitchen was that way. I walked down the corridor and pushed open the sliding kitchen door, hit with a smell that mixed dish soap and cooking oil.
There were two people in the kitchen. One was a woman in her forties, squatting on the floor picking vegetables, her apron dotted with leaves. She nodded at me when I came in. The other was standing in front of the stove with his back to me, wiping grease off the edge with a white towel. He was wiping carefully, the towel folded into a square, inch by inch along the stove's edge, slow and focused, like polishing something valuable.
"Hi, I'm the new helper. My name's Song Zhiyan." I introduced myself.
The man wiping the stove stopped and turned around. He was in his early forties, with a long thin face, high cheekbones, small but sharp eyes. He wore a faded chef's coat, buttoned all the way to the top, looking neat and tidy. He looked at me, twitched his lips in what passed for a smile: "Call me Brother Lu. This is Sister Wang, she does cold dishes." The woman picking vegetables nodded at me again, this time adding: "You're just in time. Take this basin of vegetables over and wash them."
Brother Lu was the head chef. Later, Sister Wang told me he'd worked at this restaurant for fifteen years—his cooking skills were unmatched, but he was quiet, kept to himself, rarely chatted about anything other than cooking. He had his own way of doing things, what Sister Wang called "the old master's traditions," and told me not to make a big deal out of anything.
I noticed on my first day that Brother Lu had a lot of rules.
You couldn't just leave a kitchen knife anywhere—the blade had to face inward, never toward anyone. After washing the wok, you couldn't set it upside down; it had to sit right-side up, bottom down. Raw and cooked food had to be strictly separated in the fridge, and a plate that held raw meat could never hold cooked food directly. I could understand all that—kitchens were about hygiene and safety. But some rules I just didn't get.
Like what happens when a kitchen knife falls on the floor.
That happened on my third day at work. It was a little after four in the afternoon, right after the lunch rush, and I was cutting green pepper strips for the evening. The knife was Brother Lu's—an old-style Chinese kitchen knife, the handle worn smooth and shiny, the blade with a thin layer of oil, clearly used for many years. I accidentally bumped the handle while cutting, and the knife slid off the cutting board with a clang.
I instinctively bent down to pick it up.
Before my hand touched the handle, a rough, powerful hand grabbed my wrist hard enough to make my bones hurt. I jumped and looked up—Brother Lu was standing right next to me, expressionless but with serious eyes, like I'd done something unforgivable. He pulled me up by the wrist, then squatted down himself and picked up the knife.
As he picked it up, I heard him mutter something under his breath. It was too quiet, too muffled—I didn't catch it at the time. Looking back now, I think he said "excuse me."
"Brother Lu, what's wrong?" I asked.
He rinsed the knife under the faucet, wiped it clean with a towel, and put it back on the cutting board with the blade facing inward. "If a kitchen knife falls on the floor, you can't pick it up yourself," he said, his tone flat, like stating the most obvious thing in the world. "Someone else has to pick it up, and they have to say 'excuse me' first."
I froze: "That's... some kind of tradition?"
"Old rule," Brother Lu said, no further explanation, turning back to the stove to keep working.
I stood there staring at his back, feeling confused. I'd heard plenty of kitchen rules before, but never one about not picking up a fallen knife yourself. But he was the head chef, I was the new helper—whatever he said, I did, no point in fighting over something this small. I memorized the rule, told myself I'd be more careful next time.
Sister Wang was mixing cold dishes nearby. Probably noticing my discomfort, she waited until Brother Lu was out of earshot before leaning over and whispering: "Don't take it personally. Old Lu's just like that. All these kitchen rules were passed down from the old masters, and he's followed them for years—can't change now."
"Any reason why you can't pick up a fallen knife yourself?" I asked.
Sister Wang shook her head: "I don't really know either. He told me the same thing when I first started. And the cutting board—"
She was cut off mid-sentence when Brother Lu called from the stove: "Sister Wang, are the cold dishes ready? Front desk's asking." Sister Wang answered and hurried out with the finished cold dishes, leaving the second half of her sentence unsaid.
I didn't think much about that unfinished sentence at the time.
Evening business was better than lunch—from six o'clock until after nine, the stoves barely went out. Brother Lu cooked alone, moving quickly and steadily, tossing woks with perfect timing. I handed him seasonings and plates, running nonstop. By the time the last table paid and left, it was almost ten o'clock.
Sister Wang started cleaning the cold dish station, I gathered used plates and bowls to soak in the sink, and Brother Lu cleaned the wok. When everyone was done with their tasks, Sister Wang changed clothes and left first. Brother Lu wiped his hands and told me: "Mop the floor, wash the cutting board and leave it to dry. You're on morning shift again tomorrow."
"Okay, Brother Lu, you go ahead. I'll finish up."
He nodded, put on his coat, and left. I was alone in the kitchen.
I mopped the floor first, then took the used cutting board to the sink to wash. It was one of those thick wooden chopping blocks, heavy as hell, with a slight depression in the middle from years of use, covered in knife marks. I scrubbed it with a steel wool pad and dish soap, rinsed it clean, and carried it back to the counter to dry.
The kitchen was quiet, only the buzzing of that fluorescent light overhead, clearer now than during the day. I set the clean cutting board down, then picked up Brother Lu's knife and looked at it. It was a good knife, heavy in the hand, the blade reflecting the pale light of the fluorescent tube. I thought about what happened earlier, found it funny—so many rules about a kitchen knife falling on the floor.
I put the knife on the cutting board and turned to shut off the water valve.
Halfway there, I came back.
I don't know what I was thinking. The kitchen was quiet, everything cleaned up, time to leave. But I looked at that knife and that empty cutting board, and a stupid thought popped into my head. Like walking past a button that says "Do Not Press"—you know you shouldn't touch it, but your fingers itch anyway.
You can't tap an empty cutting board three times.
Sister Wang finished her unfinished sentence later. I asked her. It was not long after Brother Lu picked up the knife, I went to get something from the cold dish station and casually asked: "Sister Wang, what's the rule about the cutting board?"
Without looking up, she said: "You can't tap an empty cutting board three times. Old Lu said that. Tapping three times attracts things."
"Attracts what things?"
"Don't know. Just don't do it."
I stood in front of the counter, looking at that spotlessly clean cutting board and the knife on top of it. I was alone in the kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Outside the window was the dark back alley, across from a brick wall with a few empty cardboard boxes stacked against it.
I picked up the knife, held the handle in my hand, the blade hovering three inches above the cutting board.
Just three taps, what could happen? I told myself. If there really were such things in this world, I would have encountered them last month in that crappy apartment. The faucet turned on and off by itself, and nothing came of it in the end, right?
*Tap.*
First tap on the cutting board—crisp sound, echoing once in the empty kitchen.
*Tap.*
Second tap, exactly like the first—just the sound of metal on wood, nothing special.
*Tap.*
Third tap, I did it a little lighter, because I was at least a little scared. After tapping, I stood there looking around—nothing happened. The fluorescent light still buzzed, the fridge compressor hummed, and from far away in the back alley came a cat's meow.
I sighed with relief and put the knife back on the cutting board. See, nothing—
The overhead fluorescent light suddenly flickered. Not the slight flicker of unstable voltage, but a complete, abrupt off-then-on, like someone quickly flipped a switch. The whole kitchen went completely dark for an instant, then lit back up. It happened so fast I couldn't even be sure I wasn't imagining it.
I stood in front of the counter, my heart suddenly beating fast. The fluorescent light returned to normal, its pale light falling on the cutting board—the knife lay there quietly. The fridge still hummed. The cat meowed again from the back alley, closer this time, like it was sitting right under the window.
I took a deep breath, told myself it was just unstable voltage. Old buildings, old wiring—flickering was normal. Last month in the rental apartment, turning on the water heater made all the lights dim, way worse than this. I washed the knife and put it back in the knife rack, turned off the lights, locked the kitchen door, and walked back through the corridor to the dormitory.
The dormitory was on the second floor behind the restaurant, a small single room with a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a window looking out at the back alley. After showering, I lay down, still thinking about that flickering light. Tossing and turning, I couldn't sleep, so I picked up my phone and searched for "can't pick up fallen kitchen knife" and "can't tap cutting board three times." The results were all over the place—some said they were old chef traditions, some said folk taboos, others related to the Kitchen God. The gist was mostly the same: if a kitchen knife falls on the floor, it means the knife has claimed the ground, and picking it up yourself means claiming that bad luck—someone else has to pick it up, saying "excuse me" to borrow the bad luck away. As for tapping the cutting board three times, some said it was calling ghosts to eat, some said attracting wandering spirits—different explanations, but the core message was the same: don't do it.
I tossed my phone aside and closed my eyes. It's fine—just unstable voltage. Tapping a cutting board three times can attract things? Then kitchens chop meat and vegetables who knows how many times a day—they'd have attracted things long ago. Brother Lu's rules are just old superstitions, scary-sounding but nothing more.
The next day I was on morning shift, arriving at the kitchen at six-thirty. Sister Wang hadn't come yet, but Brother Lu was already at the stove, adjusting the burner flame. I greeted him and started washing vegetables for lunch. While washing, I stole a few glances at him—everything normal, no different from yesterday.
Then I noticed something on his neck.
It was a flesh-colored band-aid, stuck on the right side of his neck, near his ear. Brother Lu's chef coat was still buttoned all the way to the top, but a corner of the band-aid peeked out from under the collar edge. He never wore things like that normally—I couldn't help but look a few more times, my hands slowing down.
"Brother Lu, what happened to your neck?" I asked casually while washing vegetables.
Brother Lu was pouring oil into the wok. Hearing my question, he paused for a second, then said: "Nothing."
He didn't explain further. I couldn't very well keep asking, so I lowered my head and kept washing vegetables. An hour later, Sister Wang came in, and the first thing she saw was the band-aid on Brother Lu's neck—she was more direct than me: "Old Lu, what's with your neck? Why the band-aid?"
"Nothing, just scraped it," Brother Lu said without turning around.
Sister Wang looked at me, and I shook my head slightly, meaning don't ask. She got the message, said nothing more, tied on her apron, and went into the cold dish station.
I watched Brother Lu all morning. His movements were as sharp as ever, his cooking fire control precise—tossing the wok when needed, thickening sauce when needed—no sign of anything wrong. But that band-aid stayed on his neck, like an unremarkable mark. I felt vaguely uncomfortable, but told myself I was overthinking. Just a scrape on the neck—who hasn't bumped themselves now and then? What does that have to do with me tapping that cutting board three times? Nothing, not a thing.
After the lunch rush, Brother Lu sat on a small stool at the back of the kitchen smoking. I walked past him to throw out trash, and caught a glimpse of him peeling off the band-aid and putting on a new one. In that one or two seconds, I saw what was under the band-aid.
Three red marks.
From his earlobe down toward his collarbone—three, parallel, evenly spaced. Each one thin, like something had been tied or scratched there. Not like a scrape—scrapes don't make three such even parallel lines.
Brother Lu noticed me looking, quickly put on the new band-aid, pulled at his collar, stood up, and went back into the kitchen.
The afternoon shift I worked with my mind elsewhere. While washing vegetables, I zoned out and washed the wrong basin, throwing a bunch of picked cilantro into the trash. Sister Wang cursed at me a couple times, I apologized, and fished the cilantro out of the trash to rewash. Brother Lu worked at the stove all afternoon, didn't say a word to me, and I didn't dare talk to him either.
After work I went back to the dormitory, lay on the bed, and tossed and turning thinking. Three red marks—parallel, evenly spaced. Like finger marks. But the position of the band-aid on Brother Lu's neck, the direction and spacing of those three red marks—if they really were finger marks, those three fingers would have to be choking his neck from the front, thumb below, index, middle, and ring fingers above, squeezing hard—wait, no, that should be four finger marks. Three red marks, that meant three fingers.
Normal people have five fingers. What kind of thing has only three?
I jumped at my own thought, sitting up in bed and slapping my face hard. Don't scare yourself, Song Zhiyan. Those red marks on Brother Lu's neck could be an allergy, or chafed by a clothing tag, or accidentally scratched by something—just three marks, a coincidence. What does that have to do with tapping the cutting board three times? No logical connection between those two things at all. If I start connecting them, I'm just making myself miserable for no reason.
But I still couldn't sleep. Tossing until after two in the morning, I picked up my phone and searched again for "tapping cutting board three times." This time I found a very old post on some paranormal forum that no one used anymore. The post content was simple, just a few sentences: "You can't tap an empty kitchen cutting board three times—that's calling someone to eat. What comes depends on your luck. Tap three times, and it will come to taste three bites. First bite, taste your cooking skill. Second bite, taste your courage. Third bite—" The post cut off there, either unfinished or deleted.
I turned off my phone and stared at the ceiling. The buzzing of the fluorescent light drifted up faintly from downstairs, the fridge in the kitchen still humming. These sounds were especially clear in the dead of night, like the whole building was making some kind of low breathing sound.
Third bite taste what? I didn't know. Anyway, tomorrow when I go to work I'll find out everything.
On the third day, Brother Lu didn't come.
I arrived at the kitchen punctually at six-thirty. Pushing open the door, the stove area was empty, the wok hanging clean on the rack, water stains on the floor from mopping the night before. Brother Lu was always the first one there—six o'clock sharp, turning on the stove and adjusting the burners, and by the time I arrived, the fire was always going. But today the stove was cold, no smell of cooking oil in the kitchen, just a faint scent of dish soap.
I thought Brother Lu might have something come up and be late, so I started washing vegetables first. At seven, Sister Wang came in, and the first thing she said was: "Where's Old Lu?"
"Don't know. He wasn't here when I arrived," I said.
Sister Wang frowned, took out her phone, and called. The phone rang for a long time, no answer. She called again—still no answer. Sister Wang turned and called toward the front desk: "Did Old Lu take a day off today?"
The front desk waitress called back: "Boss said Brother Lu's on sick leave today. Lunch orders are already backed up—have the helper cover for now."
Sick leave. My kitchen knife froze mid-air, then I kept cutting vegetables. Getting sick is normal—who hasn't had a headache or fever now and then? Nothing to do with the red marks on his neck, nothing to do with those three taps on the cutting board. Brother Lu's just sick, that's all, he'll be back tomorrow with a new band-aid on his neck, cooking and scolding people like always.
Sister Wang said nothing, tied on her apron, and started working. Lunch business was okay—the boss temporarily brought in a chef from a branch restaurant to cover, and they barely got through it. I worked while checking my phone, sent Brother Lu a message asking how he was—message sent into the void, no reply.
On the fourth day, the boss came to the kitchen to announce something.
"Old Lu's in the hospital. Condition's not great—needs to be observed for a while." The boss was a fat guy in his forties surnamed Zhou, usually smiling, but today his smile was clearly forced. "These days the branch will send someone to cover. You all keep doing what you're supposed to, don't panic. Also—"
He looked at me.
"Xiao Song, you were the last one on closing shift with Old Lu, right?"
My heart skipped a beat. I nodded.
"Did Old Lu say anything to you? Like about feeling unwell?"
"No," I said. "He just told me to wash the cutting board and leave it to dry, then left. Seemed normal when he left."
The boss nodded, said nothing more, and turned to leave. Sister Wang stood at the cold dish station door, her knife hovering in mid-air, not moving for a long time. She looked at me, something unreadable in her eyes, then lowered her head and kept cutting vegetables.
Hospitalized. Condition not great. Those two words circled in my head like two glass balls constantly colliding, making my brain buzz. I finished cutting the vegetables at hand, told Sister Wang I was going out for a smoke, then came out the back door and squatted in the alley lighting a cigarette.
The back alley was narrow, across from the brick wall of the neighboring building, with some dead vines crawling up it. Overhead was a strip of sky between the two buildings, gray and dull, no sun visible. I took two puffs, crushed the cigarette butt under my foot, took out my phone, and made a call.
I called Brother Lu's number.
It rang a few times, and someone answered. But it wasn't Brother Lu's voice—it was a woman's, sounded like Brother Lu's wife. "Hello? Who's this?"
"Hi sister-in-law, this is Song Zhiyan from Brother Lu's restaurant." I tried to make my voice sound casual. "Heard Brother Lu's in the hospital—just calling to ask how he's doing, is it okay to visit?"
The other end was silent for a moment, then she said: "He's okay, just... the wound on his neck is pretty serious. Doctor says he needs to stay for observation a few days."
Neck wound.
"What's wrong with his neck?" I asked, my voice tensing without me realizing.
"I don't really know either. When he came home, there were three marks on his neck. At first I thought it was a scrape, didn't pay attention. Next day it swelled up, color got darker—purple, black." Brother Lu's wife sounded tired. "Third day he couldn't move his neck, so I took him to the hospital. Doctor said it's blood congestion, but..." She paused, lowering her voice like afraid a nurse nearby might hear, "But the doctor said the shape of those three bruises looks just like finger prints. Three fingers."
My hand holding the phone started sweating.
"Doctor said it looked like someone choked his neck from the front," Brother Lu's wife continued, "using three fingers, a lot of force, right by the blood vessels and windpipe. But Old Lu said he didn't fight anyone these days, didn't get anything hit on his neck. He wouldn't even unbutton his pajama collar while sleeping. I asked him if something happened in the kitchen, he wouldn't say anything."
"Sister-in-law, can I go see Brother Lu at the hospital?" I asked.
"Doctor says no visitors right now—let him rest," Brother Lu's wife said. "Come by when he's better. Thanks for asking."
The call ended. I squatted in the back alley, lit another cigarette, my fingers trembling a little. Three-fingered bruises, choking from the front. Same position as those three red marks I saw under the band-aid two days ago, but way worse. From faint red marks to purple-black bruises, from being able to move his neck to not being able to—this was getting worse too fast, unnaturally fast.
I finished the second cigarette, stood up, pushed open the back door, and went back into the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Sister Wang was cleaning the cold dish station counter. I walked over to my usual cutting station and looked at that spotlessly clean wooden cutting board. It was covered in knife marks, a little water pooling in the depression in the middle, reflecting the pale light of the overhead fluorescent lamp. Brother Lu's kitchen knife was still in the rack, blade facing inward, that thin layer of oil on the blade looking especially quiet under the light.
I stared at that knife for a long time.
That night I was the one who tapped three times. Tap, tap, tap. Three knife sounds, echoing three times in the empty kitchen. Then the light flickered. Then three red marks appeared on Brother Lu's neck. Then on the fourth day he was in the hospital with three-fingered bruises on his neck.
No scientific causal connection between those three things. Tapping a knife on a cutting board can't cause bruises on anyone's neck, much less make a healthy man in his forties end up in the hospital in three days. That's common sense—something anyone with a basic education understands.
But I just couldn't let it go.
I walked over to the knife rack and took down that kitchen knife. It was heavy in my palm, cold enough to sting. I set it on the cutting board, blade facing inward, handle outward. Then I stepped back, leaned both hands on the edge of the counter, hung my head, closed my eyes.
The kitchen was quiet. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The fridge hummed. No cat meowing in the back alley.
I repeated silently in my head: If it's real, if it's really because I tapped those three times, then come for me. Don't mess with other people. Brother Lu didn't do anything—it was me. Come for me.
After repeating that, I opened my eyes—kitchen still the same kitchen, fluorescent light making everything pale and white. Nothing happened. No flickering light, no strange sounds—nothing.
I gave a bitter laugh. What are you doing, Song Zhiyan? Repenting to a cutting board—are you fucking crazy?
I straightened up, ready to go back to work. As I turned, my peripheral vision caught the cutting board on the counter.
The water that had pooled in the depression in the middle of the cutting board was gone somehow.
I froze in place, staring at that cutting board for several seconds. Before I bowed my head and closed my eyes, there was clearly a small puddle of water in the middle of the cutting board, splashed there while washing vegetables. Now that spot was dry, like something had wiped it up or... absorbed it.
Sister Wang peeked out from the cold dish station: "Xiao Song, what are you staring at? Come help me take this basin of vegetables to the freezer."
"Coming," I said.
I flipped the cutting board over and set it face-down on the counter, then turned and walked into the cold dish station.
That night after work, I didn't go straight back to the dormitory. I waited until everyone else left, then stayed in the kitchen alone, sitting on the small stool by the stove, staring at that cutting board I'd flipped face-down. The kitchen lights were on, the fluorescent lamp still buzzing—that sound in the dead of night like some kind of insect flapping its wings, faint but constant, enough to make your scalp crawl after listening too long.
I took out my phone and scrolled to someone I hadn't talked to in a long time—my grandma.
My grandma was eighty-two this year. When she was young, she did "fortune-telling" out in the countryside—when someone had bad luck or ran into something strange, they'd ask her to come take a look. I never actually saw her do it, because she'd retired from that many years ago—for as long as I can remember, she's just been a normal old lady, growing vegetables and raising chickens, nothing to do with all that mystical stuff. But my mom told me that when grandma was young, she had some real abilities—people came to her from miles around.
I hesitated a bit, but still dialed.
The phone rang for a long time—long enough that I thought no one would answer, was about to hang up—when it connected.
"Hello? Zhiyan? Calling so late, what's up?" Grandma's voice sounded pretty alert, TV noise in the background—probably watching the evening news.
"Grandma, I want to ask you something." I tried to make my tone sound just curious. "Have you ever heard that you can't tap an empty kitchen cutting board three times?"
The other end went quiet. The TV sound suddenly cut out—probably grandma turned it off.
"Why are you asking that?" Grandma's voice changed—no longer that casual tone from before, now serious.
"Just... a coworker mentioned it, thought it was interesting, wanted to ask if you know where that rule comes from." I lied.
Grandma was silent for a long time. Only faint static on the line, and the sound of my own heartbeat.
"You did it?" Grandma suddenly asked.
My heart tightened, my fingers unconsciously squeezing the phone. How did she know? I didn't say anything, and she asked those three words, tone so certain like she'd already seen me tapping that cutting board.
"I..."
"You did it." Grandma used a statement this time, not a question. "How many times?"
I took a deep breath, knew I couldn't hide it: "Three times."
A long sigh came from the other end, like squeezed out from deep in her chest. Grandma didn't speak—I heard her stand up and walk, then the sound of a door closing—probably went into the bedroom and shut the door.
"Zhiyan, listen to me." Grandma's voice was low. "Where are you right now?"
"At the restaurant, in the kitchen."
"Anyone else with you?"
"No, just me."
"Then you go back to the dormitory right now—don't stay in the kitchen. When you get back, turn on all the lights in the dormitory, as many as you can, don't turn them off until daylight." Grandma spoke quickly, tone leaving no room for argument. "Tell me—after tapping that cutting board these past few days, has anything strange happened around you?"
I stood up holding the phone, walking out while telling her everything about Brother Lu. The rule about not picking up a fallen knife yourself, me tapping the cutting board three times, the three red marks on Brother Lu's neck, then him ending up in the hospital with three-fingered bruises. I tried to be concise, but told every detail, including the light flickering and the water disappearing from the cutting board.
I walked out of the kitchen, through the corridor, pushed open the back door, and went into the dormitory building. The hallway had no lights—only my phone screen illuminating the stairs under my feet.
Grandma was silent for a long time after hearing everything.
"Your head chef," she finally spoke, her voice calm—calm in a way that made me more anxious, "three finger marks on his neck, right? Not four, not five—three."
"Right, three."
"When you tapped the cutting board, how many times?"
"Three."
"Then it took the first taste," Grandma said.
I stopped at the stairwell corner, my back against the cold wall. The buzzing of the fluorescent lamp still echoed in my ears, getting louder, like coming from inside the wall.
"What tasted it?" I asked, my voice so dry it didn't sound like my own.
Grandma didn't answer directly: "Your head chef—how's his cooking normally?"
"Very good, fifteen-year veteran."
"First taste is cooking skill," Grandma said. "Good cooking, it might take a liking. Bad cooking, it turns around and leaves, nothing happens. Your head chef's cooking was too good—got noticed."
The back of my head pressed against the wall, cold cement seeping through my hair, making my brain a little clearer. I heard something in the hallway, very light, like fabric rubbing against a wall with a rustling sound. I jerked my head to look—hallway was empty, nothing there.
"Grandma," I lowered my voice, "what exactly is in that kitchen?"
"Every old kitchen has something," Grandma said, her tone flat like telling a very old story. "Stoves have stove gods, doors have door gods—but some things are neither gods nor ghosts, can't say what they are. Old chefs all knew how to get along with these things—offer what needs offering, avoid what needs avoiding, follow every single rule you're supposed to follow. Can't pick up a fallen knife yourself, can't tap an empty cutting board three times—these rules aren't to scare people, they're lessons the old ancestors paid for."
"Then what does tapping a cutting board three times actually attract?"
"Three knife sounds—calling it to eat," Grandma said. "Old tradition, New Year's Eve you tap the cutting board three times, meaning invite the stove god to eat. But tapping it empty on normal days—what comes isn't the stove god. What comes is different for every kitchen, but they're all hungry—starving for many years kind of hungry. You tap three times, it thinks you're calling it to eat. But what are you letting it eat? There's nothing on that cutting board."
So it bit Brother Lu's neck.
That thought suddenly popped into my head, like someone had whispered it in my ear. My knuckles holding the phone were white, fingertips ice cold.
"Grandma, so what do we do now?"
"You go back to the dormitory now, turn on all the lights, don't come out until daylight," Grandma said. "Tomorrow I'll come find you."
"You're coming?"
"I'll take the first bus over tomorrow morning," Grandma said, tone leaving no room for refusal. "Until then—don't go into that kitchen, you hear me?"
"But I still have to work—"
"Don't work," Grandma cut me off, her voice harsh for an eighty-something old lady. "You tapped three times—it already took the first taste. You know what the second taste is?"
I thought of that unfinished post on the paranormal forum. First taste, your cooking skill. Second taste, your courage.
"Taste courage," I said.
"Right," Grandma said. "It will know you're scared. The more scared you are, the more it comes. So what you need to do now is act like you're not scared at all—go back to the dormitory, turn on the lights, sleep. It hasn't noticed you yet—it didn't taste you first. But if you keep staying in that kitchen, sooner or later it will look your way. Understand?"
"Understood."
The call ended. I stood in the hallway leaning against the wall, listening to my heartbeat getting louder and louder. From the kitchen downstairs came a faint sound, like someone had gently tapped the cutting board once.
*Tap.*
Just once.
I ran up the stairs three steps at a time, rushed into the dormitory, double-locked the door, and turned on every light in the room. Ceiling light, bedside lamp, phone flashlight—everything that could be on was on. The dormitory was bright as day, every corner illuminated, no shadows, no dark places.
I sat on the bed leaning against the wall, staring at the door. The cat in the back alley started meowing again, one after another, like a baby crying. Wind outside rustled the cardboard boxes stacked in the back alley. The sound of the fluorescent lamp drifted up from the kitchen downstairs, through the floor, through the walls—like the whole building was vibrating faintly at that frequency.