I've been in the moving business for three years, and I've never encountered anything this eerie.
It was 11:40 PM that night. I was squatting in the truck bed scrolling through my phone when a WeChat message popped up—the client had canceled last minute. I cursed under my breath and sent a screenshot to Old Zhao, who was smoking by the roadside.
Old Zhao flicked the ash off his cigarette without looking up. "Alright, call it a night. Back to the company," he yelled.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, hopped out of the truck bed, and walked around to the passenger side. Old Zhao had already stubbed out his cigarette and started the engine. The dashboard lit up, and the radio played a late-night storytelling program, the voice crackling and faint.
Old Zhao shifted gears, the truck lurched forward, and we pulled out of the neighborhood.
I leaned back in the seat with my eyes closed, mentally calculating how much money we'd lost from this canceled job. Old Zhao was usually a steady driver, but this time he turned the wheel sharply, the truck swerved, and my shoulder slammed into the door.
"Taking a different route?" I asked.
"Shortcut. Get back faster to sleep," Old Zhao said, his eyes fixed ahead.
I grunted in response, not giving it much thought.
We drove for about ten minutes when things started to feel off. Our company was in Daxing; from Wangjing, the normal route via the Fifth Ring Road would take at least forty minutes. But Old Zhao had turned onto a narrow road I'd never seen before—no streetlights on either side, just a stretch of dusty dirt road and low walls under our headlights.
"Where the hell are we?" I sat up straight.
"Shortcut," Old Zhao repeated.
I wanted to say something, but seeing he wasn't in the mood to chat, I held my tongue. Old Zhao was over a decade older than me, had been in the moving business for nearly twenty years, and was the most senior driver at the company. I'd been his partner for over half a year—he was quiet, efficient, and never took advantage of me. I respected him.
The truck continued forward, the empty cargo hold echoing behind us, the metal walls humming with each bump. I checked my phone—signal was getting weaker, down to just one bar. WeChat messages wouldn't send.
That's when I heard it.
*Thud.*
A soft sound, like someone tapping the metal wall of the cargo hold.
I glanced at Old Zhao—his face had changed color.
"You heard that too?" I asked.
Old Zhao didn't answer. He pressed down on the gas, and the truck accelerated.
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
This time it wasn't just one knock—it came in three steady beats, like someone slapping the side of the truck with the palm of their hand. Each hit wasn't loud, but through the metal partition of the cab, it was crystal clear.
A chill crawled up my spine.
"Old Zhao..." I whispered, "Is someone in the cargo hold?"
Old Zhao's Adam's apple bobbed. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. He didn't reply, keeping his eyes glued to the road as the truck picked up more speed.
*Thud.*
This one was harder—hard enough to shake the entire vehicle. I turned instinctively, peering through the rearview mirror into the cargo hold.
The hold was empty.
But the sound continued.
*Thud. Thud.*
I stared at the mirror—the cargo hold was too dark to see clearly. Only the faint glow from the headlights filtered through the gaps, casting blurry shadows on the metal walls.
*Thud.*
Another knock. And this time, I saw it.
In the deepest corner of the hold, something moved.
I blinked hard, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness. The truck was speeding, the image in the mirror shaking with the bumps. But I saw it clearly.
Standing against the far wall of the cargo hold was a shadowy figure.
It wasn't an object—it was a person. Or at least, shaped like one.
Blood rushed to my head.
"Old Zhao!" I yelled.
Old Zhao slammed on the brakes.
The inertia threw me forward, the seatbelt digging into my chest, almost knocking the wind out of me. The tires screeched against the pavement. The truck shuddered violently, and a dull thud came from the cargo hold—like the shadow had slammed into the front wall.
The truck stopped.
Neither of us moved. The cab was so quiet I could hear both our heartbeats.
After a few seconds, Old Zhao spoke first, his voice dry: "Let's check it out."
"Are you sure?"
"Get out."
Old Zhao unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out. I gritted my teeth and followed.
The night wind hit me—my back was soaked with sweat, and the chill made me shiver. On either side of the narrow road were ruins from demolished buildings—broken bricks, rubble, not a single soul in sight. Fine dust particles swirled in the headlight beams, and the air smelled damp and musty.
Old Zhao and I walked to the back of the truck. He pulled out his keys, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the lock. After several tries, the key finally slid in. *Click.* The lock opened. He gripped the handle and glanced back at me.
"Stand back."
I stepped back two paces. Old Zhao yanked the cargo door open.
The hold was completely empty.
Our moving truck was a 4.2-meter box truck—there was nowhere to hide. Moving blankets were neatly folded in the corner, a few ropes and pulleys hung on the walls. Nothing else.
"Fucking hell," I muttered.
Old Zhao said nothing. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it inside. The beam swept from left to right. I followed its path to the middle of the floor.
The flashlight stopped there.
There were footprints on the cargo floor.
Two footprints, side by side, toes pointing toward the front wall. They weren't big—size 40 maybe. The edges were damp, glistening under the flashlight beam.
I squatted down for a closer look. The sole pattern was from an old-style cloth shoe—circular ridges like tree rings.
The rest of the floor was dry. The blankets were dry, the ropes were dry. Only those two footprints were wet.
Like someone had stood there wearing soaking wet shoes, then vanished into thin air.
Old Zhao stared at the footprints for a long time. His expression was hard to read—not just fear. He slowly squatted down, touched the floor next to the prints, then brought his hand to his nose and sniffed.
"Water," he said.
I took two steps deeper into the hold, to where I'd seen the shadow in the rearview mirror. If I wasn't mistaken, when Old Zhao hit the brakes, that shadow had slammed into the front wall. I looked down at the lower part of the front metal wall as the flashlight beam swept over it.
There was a damp patch on the metal—blurry, like something wet had collided with it.
My throat tightened.
"Old Zhao, what the hell is going on?"
Old Zhao stood up, closed the cargo door, and relocked it. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, stuck one in his mouth, and flicked his lighter three times before it caught. After taking a drag, he stared at the closed door and said something I didn't understand: "It's fine. Let's go back."
"That's it?" I was getting anxious. "The footprints are still in there!"
"Get in the truck."
With those two words, Old Zhao turned and walked back to the cab without looking at me.
I stood there by the cargo hold, the wind howling, making my back feel cold. I glanced at the closed door again, half-expecting to see eyes peering through the crack. I shook off the thought and hurried back to the passenger seat.
Old Zhao restarted the truck, reversed, and turned around. The tires crunched over gravel. Once we hit the main road, streetlights appeared, and buildings lined both sides. My heart finally started to settle.
But I noticed something—Old Zhao didn't take the usual route back. He drove north in a big detour, as if avoiding something.
We got back to the company around 1 AM. Ours was the only truck left in the parking lot. The night watchman had long since gone to sleep, the iron gate left ajar. Old Zhao parked the truck at the back of the lot, turned off the engine, and sat there for a while before getting out.
I was packing up to leave when Old Zhao suddenly called me.
"Chen."
"Hmm?"
"About tonight..." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "Don't tell anyone at the company."
"Why?"
"No one would believe you. They'd think you're crazy." Old Zhao tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his foot. "Just pretend it never happened."
I looked into his eyes, trying to read something there. But he avoided my gaze and turned toward his electric bike.
"I'll come clean the cargo hold tomorrow morning," he said, then rode off.
I stood under the parking lot's streetlight, charging my phone and calling a ride. While waiting, I replayed the night's events in my head—the sounds, the shadow, those wet footprints. Every detail was too vivid to be a hallucination.
When I got home, I took a shower and lay in bed, tossing and turning until around 3 AM, when I finally drifted off. The next morning, my alarm jolted me awake.
I showed up at the company with dark circles under my eyes. The first thing I saw was Old Zhao's electric bike parked in its usual spot. I thought he'd come early to clean the cargo hold.
But he wasn't there.
I asked the dispatcher, Lao Li: "Where's Zhao?"
Lao Li was staring at his paperwork, not looking up. "Don't know. He didn't tell me anything today."
I walked toward the parking lot, glancing at our truck as I passed. The cargo door was closed and locked. I pulled out my spare key, opened it, and peeked inside. The floor was spotless—those wet footprints were gone. The damp patch on the front wall had vanished too. The air smelled of dish soap.
Old Zhao had been here.
But where was he?
I called his phone. It rang seven or eight times—no answer. I called three more times. Still nothing. Old Zhao might be quiet, but he was reliable. He never ignored calls. I grew worried, asked Lao Li for Old Zhao's address, and said I'd go check on him.
Old Zhao lived in an old neighborhood in Huangcun, Daxing—a 1990s-era work-unit dormitory building, six floors, no elevator. I climbed to the fifth floor and knocked on his door.
After a long pause, the door opened.
Old Zhao stood there, and he scared me. His face was ashen, eyes bloodshot, lips cracked and peeling—like he hadn't slept all night. He wore a crumpled T-shirt with a stretched-out collar, looking utterly defeated.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was hoarse. He stepped back half a step to let me in.
"I couldn't reach you on the phone. I was worried something happened." I stood in the entryway, scanning his place. It wasn't big—two bedrooms, one living room. Decently tidy. On the coffee table were a few empty beer cans, and the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.
"Nothing. Just didn't sleep well." Old Zhao sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette.
I sat across from him, about to speak, when I caught sight of the bathroom door—slightly ajar, light spilling out. Through the crack, I could see a pair of shoes on the bathroom floor.
They were black cloth shoes—the old Beijing-style round-toe kind, black fabric upper, layered cloth soles.
The shoes were soaking wet, leaving dark rings of water on the white tiles.
My head buzzed. The sole pattern—circular ridges like tree rings.
Exactly like the footprints I'd seen on the cargo floor last night.
"Old Zhao," I pointed toward the bathroom, my voice cracking, "Where did those shoes come from?"
Old Zhao didn't answer. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, the smoke obscuring his face. After a long silence, he said something that made my scalp prickle.
"When I woke up this morning, they were in the bathtub."
I stood up and walked to the bathroom, pushing the door all the way open. It was an old white ceramic bathtub, still holding a layer of water at the bottom. The black cloth shoes sat neatly on the tiles beside it, toes pointing outward—like someone had stepped out of the tub and left them there.
No, not left there.
Normal people leave shoes outside the tub. That's fine. But these shoes were positioned too perfectly—toes pointing toward the bathroom door, perfectly aligned, exactly the distance apart a person would stand.
Like someone had been wearing them, standing by the tub, facing the mirror. Then they vanished, leaving only the shoes behind.
I squatted down and touched the shoe. The black fabric was cold and slimy, water seeping out when I pressed it. I flipped the sole over—the layered cloth pattern was clear, matching the footprints in the cargo hold exactly.
"Are these yours?" I asked Old Zhao.
"No," Old Zhao answered from the living room, his voice muffled.
"You live alone?"
"Yeah."
I set the shoe down and returned to the living room. Old Zhao was still on the sofa, the cigarette almost burning down to the filter. He hadn't flicked the ash, just stared blankly at a spot on the coffee table.
"Old Zhao," I sat in front of him, "You have to tell me the truth. What really happened last night?"
Old Zhao was silent for a long time. The clock in the living room ticked away. Outside, a child cried somewhere downstairs. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and looked up at me.
"How long have you been doing this job?" he asked suddenly.
"Three years."
"Three years..." Old Zhao repeated, a bitter laugh escaping him. "I've been doing this for nineteen years. There are rules in this business, kid. You wouldn't understand after only three years."
"What rules?"
"Empty trucks don't return home." Old Zhao spit out the four words.
I didn't understand. "What does that mean?"
"When a moving truck doesn't have a load on its last trip of the day—when it's empty—it can't go straight back to the company." Old Zhao's voice was flat, like stating an obvious fact. "You have to drive it around three times first. Only then can you return. If you don't, something will follow you back."
I was stunned. I'd never heard this before—no one at the company had ever mentioned it.
"Who made this rule? Is it company policy?" I asked.
"Not company policy." Old Zhao shook his head. "It's passed down from the old drivers. When I first started, my teacher taught me this. He said whether you believe it or not, just do it. Don't ask why."
"So last night..."
"Last night I took a shortcut." Old Zhao cut me off, his voice heavy with something unspoken. "The last job canceled, and I thought, why bother? Wasting half an hour of gas for nothing. I don't always do the loop—never had problems all these years. Who knew..."
He didn't finish, but I knew what he meant.
"That shadow and those shoes," I swallowed hard, "You think it followed us back?"
Old Zhao looked at me, and I saw a fear in his eyes I'd never seen before. He'd worked moving jobs for nearly twenty years, endured every kind of hardship, never once backed down. But now, sitting on his own sofa, he looked like an ordinary man, terrified out of his wits.
"I don't know what it is," Old Zhao said, "But I know it's in my house now."
A chill ran down my spine. I glanced involuntarily toward the bathroom.
I stayed at Old Zhao's until almost noon. I told him to throw the shoes away—he said he'd tried. When he found them that morning, he'd wrapped them in two layers of garbage bags and tossed them in the dumpster downstairs. When he came back, they were in the bathtub again. He threw them out a second time, deliberately in a dumpster at the next neighborhood. Still, when he returned, they were back in the same spot—toes pointing outward, perfectly aligned.
By the time he finished, the hair on my arms was standing up.
"What about the moving truck?" I asked. "You cleaned the cargo hold—any more problems?"
Old Zhao said he'd scrubbed it three times with dish soap, no anomalies yet. But his eyes darted away as he spoke—I knew he wasn't telling me everything.
I told him to call me if anything happened, then left. As I walked out of the building, the sun felt warm on my back, but I couldn't shake the cold feeling creeping up my spine.
For the next three days, things seemed to return to normal. I went to work as usual, partnered with other drivers, did two or three moving jobs a day. Old Zhao took sick leave, saying he had a cold—Dispatcher Li didn't ask questions.
But I couldn't shake the unease. Every night when I got home, I called Old Zhao to check on him. The first two days he answered, sounding better—said nothing strange had happened at home, that he'd burned the shoes. After burning them, they hadn't reappeared. He thought maybe he'd gotten rid of it. I felt relieved hearing his lighter tone.
Then on the fourth day, Old Zhao's phone went dead.
I called all day—morning to night, no answer. After work, I went to his place again. No one answered the door. I stood there for ten minutes, pressing my ear to the wood—silence.
I went downstairs and found the property manager. I lied, saying Old Zhao was my relative, hadn't been heard from in days, was worried about him. The manager knew Old Zhao and agreed something was wrong. He called a locksmith.
When the door opened, the apartment was dark—curtains drawn tight. I found the light switch and flipped it on. Taking two steps inside, I smelled a strong damp, musty odor—like the place hadn't been aired in ages.
No one in the living room.
No one in the bedrooms.
No one in the kitchen.
The bathroom door was closed, light shining through the crack.
I walked over, grasped the handle, and pushed. The door opened a crack, then stopped—something was blocking it from the inside.
I pushed harder, and the door swung open.
Old Zhao was sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the bathtub, legs stretched out straight, head tilted to one side.
He was wearing clothes I'd never seen before—a black traditional-style jacket with frog buttons, matching pants, and those black cloth shoes on his feet.
The shoes were wet, leaving dark stains on the tiles. But the rest of his clothes were dry.
I called his name—no response. I knelt down, touched his neck. He still had a pulse, warm, breathing shallowly, like he was asleep. But no matter how hard I shook him or called out, he wouldn't wake up.
I called an ambulance. The doctors checked him over—all vital signs normal, but unconscious for unknown reasons. They loaded him onto a stretcher and took him away. I followed the ambulance to the hospital.
While waiting in the hallway, I tried to find Old Zhao's family contacts on his phone. It had no lock screen. Opening it, I saw the last call was from me four days ago.
Scrolling down, I found a smart doorbell app.
Old Zhao had a video doorbell installed, which recorded footage when someone approached. I opened the app and checked recent recordings.
The first three days were normal—Old Zhao coming and going, delivery guys, neighbors. But starting yesterday, something appeared in the recordings.
At 3:14 AM yesterday, the doorbell was triggered.
The footage showed the hallway outside Old Zhao's door, the motion-sensor light casting a dim yellow glow. At first, nothing. Then after about five seconds, a figure appeared from the elevator direction.
The figure walked slowly, stiffly, like it was struggling to move in that body. It walked straight toward Old Zhao's door and stopped.
It faced the door, standing completely still for about ten seconds. The doorbell's wide-angle lens captured its entire body—it wore black traditional clothes, black cloth shoes on its feet.
The shoes were wet, leaving faint water marks on the hallway tiles.
Then it raised its hand and pressed the doorbell.
In the footage, Old Zhao's door opened from the inside.
The recording ended there.
I stared at the phone screen for a long time, my fingers cold, sweat soaking through my back. I watched the video three times, confirming what I saw—the thing that pressed the doorbell had the same build as Old Zhao, wearing the exact same clothes he was wearing when he was found unconscious.
But its face was blurry in the yellow light, like seen through a layer of fog. Only dark hollows where the eyes and mouth should be. As it stood there pressing the doorbell, the corner of its mouth seemed to twitch upward in a faint smile.
I put Old Zhao's phone away and sat on the plastic chair in the hospital hallway, my mind racing. I remembered Old Zhao saying, "It's in my house now."
I thought of those wet shoes in the bathtub.
I thought of the shadow in the cargo hold that night, the *thud* sounds against the walls, those wet footprints on the floor.
What had Old Zhao done before he passed out? He burned the shoes. He thought burning them would make it go away, but after he fell unconscious, the shoes were back on his feet.
I pulled out my own phone and checked the moving company's WeChat group. It was lively—dispatcher assigning tomorrow's jobs, drivers chatting, someone sharing funny moving videos.
I scrolled back a long way and found a photo from a few months ago.
It was summer, the company had a team-building barbecue in the parking lot. Someone had snapped a photo of Old Zhao grilling skewers—he was squatting by the grill, sweating, holding up a bunch of lamb skewers, smiling innocently. In the corner of the photo were several moving trucks, including the one Old Zhao and I drove together.
I zoomed in on the truck.
The company logo and phone number were printed on the side, white paint, perfectly ordinary. But next to the truck, a faint gray outline was visible—shaped like a tall, thin person.
At the time, I didn't think much of it, assuming it was a trick of the light or lens flare. But now, looking at it again, I turned up the phone brightness and zoomed in on that gray shape. It stood beside the truck, on the side where Old Zhao usually stood, body slightly tilted, as if watching Old Zhao.
I didn't know when this photo was taken, or when that shadow first appeared on the truck. Old Zhao said he didn't always do the loop—never had problems before. But maybe it had been there all along, just waiting for an opportunity.
That opportunity came when Old Zhao didn't take the loop that night.
As I was lost in thought, my phone suddenly rang—it was the hospital's landline. I answered, the nurse sounding urgent: Old Zhao had woken up.
I jumped up and ran to the ward. When I pushed the door open, Old Zhao was awake, lying in bed with his eyes open. Two nurses stood by the bed—one taking his blood pressure, the other adjusting his IV.
"Old Zhao!" I rushed to the bed, relieved. "You scared the hell out of me."
Old Zhao turned to look at me. His expression was calm, his eyes clearer than when he was unconscious, his lips regaining color.
"Chen," he called me.
"How are you feeling? You were unconscious for..."
"I know," Old Zhao cut me off, his voice steady. "It's gone."
I was confused. "What do you mean?"
"It left my body." Old Zhao stared at the ceiling, speaking like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. "I soaked in that bathtub all night, and it put me on. But I put it back on, so it left."
I didn't understand, but the nurse finished taking his blood pressure and signaled for me to step outside. I followed her into the hallway. She said Old Zhao's vitals were normal, his consciousness clear, but he might need a psychological evaluation.
I didn't respond, just nodded.
When I returned to the ward, Old Zhao was sitting up, drinking water the nurse had given him. He saw me come in, put down the cup, and said: "Chen, do me a favor."
"Name it."
"Go to my place and get those shoes." His voice was soft but firm. "Those footprints in the truck weren't the end. You didn't believe me when I told you, but now you should. It's still out there—just left me. It'll find someone else next. Maybe..."
He didn't finish, but his gaze told me—maybe it would be me, his partner.
I nodded. "Got it."
It was completely dark when I left the hospital. I stood at the entrance smoking a cigarette, Old Zhao's words replaying in my head. Logic told me not to believe this, but after everything that had happened, I couldn't dismiss it as coincidence anymore.
I took a taxi to Old Zhao's neighborhood. Two floors of the stairwell's motion-sensor lights were broken—I had to use my phone flashlight to climb the stairs. When I reached the fifth floor, I took out Old Zhao's key and unlocked the door. The lock made a dull *click*.
The apartment was silent—empty since the ambulance took Old Zhao away. That damp, musty smell was still there, even stronger than when I came in the afternoon. I turned on the light, walked through the living room, and headed toward the bathroom.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar, just as I'd left it. I pushed it open—the light was on, the bathtub empty, the tiles dry.
The shoes were gone.
I searched the bathroom, then the living room, bedrooms, kitchen—turned the whole place upside down. No sign of those wet cloth shoes.
Finally, I stood in the entryway, thinking about that video from the doorbell—3:14 AM, the shadow pressing the doorbell, Old Zhao opening the door.
I imagined the scene: Old Zhao hearing the doorbell, walking to the entryway, looking through the peephole. What did he see? Did he see himself?
Or did he see something else entirely?
I left Old Zhao's place, locked the door, and left the key under the doormat. I walked down the stairs slowly—those two dark floors felt endless. I hugged the wall, inching down, my footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell.
When I reached the third floor, I heard a sound from above.
From the stairwell between the fourth and fifth floors came a dull thud.
*Thud.*
Like someone slapping the wall with their palm.
I froze, straining to listen. The stairwell was silent for a few seconds, then it came again.
*Thud.*
This time, it sounded like it was one floor closer.
I didn't wait for a third knock. I turned and ran down the stairs, bursting out of the building into the streetlamp light. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out of my throat. I glanced back at Old Zhao's building—the fifth-floor window was dark, the fourth too, only the third floor had a dim light on.
Behind the curtain, a tall, thin shadow seemed to stand there, perfectly still.
I couldn't tell if it was just the curtain pattern, and I didn't want to find out.
I hailed a taxi and went straight back to my rented room. When I got in, I turned on all the lights, closed the curtains, and sat on the bed for a long time before calming down. I sent Old Zhao a WeChat message: The shoes are gone. He replied with one word: "Hmm."
No surprise, no follow-up question—just "Hmm."
That "Hmm" felt wrong somehow, but I couldn't say why. I set my phone on the nightstand to charge, washed my face, and passed the bathroom mirror. Instinctively, I glanced at my reflection.
Only me in the mirror—pale face, bloodshot eyes. I stared for a few seconds, turned off the light, and climbed back into bed.
Just as I was drifting off to sleep, a detail suddenly popped into my head.
When Old Zhao was talking to the nurse in the hospital, he responded normally when she called his name. But when I sent him that WeChat message, he only replied with "Hmm."
Old Zhao wasn't much of a typist—he usually sent voice messages. When he did type, it was always long messages with plenty of punctuation. He'd never reply with just one word.
I remembered what he said in the hospital bed: "It left my body."
If it left Old Zhao's body, where did it go?
I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Suddenly, I realized something—I'd spent a long time at Old Zhao's place today, rummaging around for those shoes, sweating a lot. I hadn't changed clothes when I got home; I'd just climbed into bed.
I sat up, turned on the bedside lamp, and looked down at my feet.
The soles were dry—nothing unusual. I sighed in relief, about to turn off the light, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the floor beside the bed.
On the floor were two damp marks.
Footprints, toes pointing toward my bed.