Chapter 116: Chaonei No. 81

Su Yao left the hotel and walked into the Beijing night market, letting the crowd push her forward. The smell of grilled lamb skewers and fried dough sticks slowed her step. Colored lights flickered above the stalls as the alley tightened.

She threaded through people. A vendor’s shout about stinky tofu made her veer aside. Another clanged a spatula against a wok, and steam from dumpling baskets brushed her face as people jostled her onward. Money changed hands and the current carried her deeper.

As the griddle hissed, she stopped at a jianbing stall. “One,” Su Yao said.

The cook poured batter onto the griddle and spread it thin. An egg cracked, spring onions scattered, sauces brushed on in quick strokes. He slipped the crepe into a wax paper bag, and she paid with her phone.

Warmth seeped into her hand from the jianbing. She bit in. The cracker crunched, and the flavor landed just right.

Su Yao ate as she walked, passing stalls selling cheap electronics and plastic toys. No one looked at her twice. She was just another face in the crowd, the night market’s noise wrapping around her.

This is... nice. To just be a person eating a skewer.

She watched a young couple argue over which stall to try next. Further down the alley, a child was licking a melting ice cream cone.

They worry about small things. Their lives are so simple.

A vendor offered her a sample of candied hawthorn on a stick. She took it. The sweet crunch was its own small universe of sensation. This is enough for now.

She could walk and watch without thinking ahead. Freedom is so addictive. Once you taste the lightness of being no one, you never want to put the weight back on. She let her feet carry her without direction, savoring the unplanned turns.

The noise of the busy market faded, leaving only the quieter sounds of a tree-lined street. The air became still. She looked up.

Her wandering had led her to a high wall of weathered grey brick. Set within it was a rusting iron gate. Silhouetted against the night sky beyond it stood a dark Western-style mansion, its windows boarded. A cold energy prickled against her skin.

She hadn’t meant to come here. Yet here she was, standing before Chaonei No. 81.

Of course. She stared at the imposing structure. The universe abhors a vacuum. And my nature abhors peace.

Su Yao turned to an elderly man sweeping the sidewalk nearby. “Uncle, what is the story with this building? It looks creepy.”

The man leaned on his broom, following her gaze. “Ah, that one. It’s owned by the Catholic Church now. The Archdiocese of Beijing. They’ve been trying to rent it out since 2017.”

Su Yao studied the decrepit mansion. “It doesn’t seem to be inhabited. Is nobody willing to rent it because it’s haunted?”

The local laughed. “Haunted? Maybe. But that’s not the main reason. The rent is 10 million RMB per year. That’s the real ghost that scares everyone away.”

Ten million. Su Yao mused. The Church places a higher value on earthly currency than on spiritual purification. “I see,” she said aloud. “That would indeed be a deterrent.”

She thanked the man and turned back to face the gate. The cold spiritual residue was unmistakable. A stale energy clung to the bricks. A price tag to keep the living out, and a lingering presence to keep the dead in. A fascinating arrangement.

Her eyes tracked over the weathered grey brick beside the rusted gate. Spray-painted in a hasty fading red were the characters: 没有鬼 (No Ghosts.)

A very likely story. Su Yao’s lips curved into a smile. One does not announce the absence of something unless its presence is a persistent concern. The denial itself is an invitation.

She would see what the Church was willing to pay so much to contain.

Su Yao pushed the heavy iron gate. It groaned open. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet street. She walked up the overgrown path with a confident, measured pace.

A security guard emerged from a small booth near the main entrance. “Miss, this is private property. You can’t be here.”

She met his gaze. “I’m here to evaluate the property for a potential rental. The price isn’t an issue.” She gestured toward the decaying facade. “I prefer to assess investments in person before involving agents. The online listings are inadequate.”

The guard faltered. “I need to see some identification. And you need an appointment.”

“Of course.” She handed him Xiao Ling’s ID card. “My schedule is tight. I will only be a moment. The architectural details are what interest me.” She stepped past him toward the carved wooden doors. “You may wait here. This won’t take long.”

The guard stared at the ID then at her retreating back. By the time he thought to protest further, she was already inside.

The heavy door clicked shut behind her, cutting off the noise from modern Beijing. Su Yao found herself in a large foyer. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old furnishings.

In front of her was a wide staircase with a carved railing. A large but dusty crystal chandelier hung from a ceiling with faded gold trim. The walls were lined with torn silk wallpaper showing European pastoral scenes. Worn rugs lay across the parquet floor.

This is a piece of France, she observed. Her gaze swept the room. Meticulously preserved and left to rot. The restoration was evident in the repaired woodwork and the structural solidity.

Su Yao ran a finger along the dust-covered surface of a console table. Her finger came away clean. The dust is a spiritual residue mimicking neglect. She could feel the hollow silence pressing in as she moved deeper into the mansion.

The faint scuff of a footstep echoed from the top of the grand staircase. Su Yao looked up.

A young woman descended. She held an old-fashioned brass lantern. Its flame cast a warm, dancing light that seemed to push back the oppressive stillness. The woman had pale skin and European features. Her hair was pinned up in an elaborate, old-world style. She wore a simple dark dress that was neither modern nor overtly historical.

The woman smiled. “Good evening. You are here for a viewing? I’m the caretaker. Please, follow me.”

She moves like a ghost, but her presence is solid. A spiritual echo given form? Or something else playing a role? Su Yao nodded. “Thank you, I’m interested in the architectural history.”

“Of course. This way.” The woman turned. Her lantern illuminated the hallway. “The building was constructed in 1910. It has retained much of its original character.” She gestured to the moldings. “The woodwork is all original French oak.”

Su Yao followed, and the air grew colder with each step. The caretaker’s explanations are rehearsed. She is performing.

“It seems very well preserved,” Su Yao commented.

“The owners take its history very seriously,” the woman replied. She led Su Yao into a large drawing-room where faded furniture was arranged as if for a party that had ended a century ago. “This was the heart of the social gatherings.”

The heart of something, but not social gatherings. “Fascinating. Please continue.”

The caretaker led her through a series of rooms, each a frozen tableau. There was a library with leather-bound books and a dining room with a table set for twelve, the silverware tarnished black. Her narration was a well-worn record of dates and architectural styles.

They ascended to the second floor into bedrooms with canopied beds, their curtains moth-eaten. A music room with a grand piano was next, its keys yellowed. Su Yao’s attention remained on a constant low-grade spiritual pull emanating from below.

At last, they stood at the end of a first-floor hallway before a plain, unadorned door that seemed newer than its surroundings. The caretaker ignored it and turned back.

“And this room?” Su Yao asked.

“A storage area,” the caretaker replied. “It isn’t part of the viewing. Structural issues make it unsafe.”

That’s a lie. The source is behind that door, Su Yao observed. The entire tour was a path to avoid this spot. The prohibition is the point.

“I understand,” Su Yao said. “Safety first.” Her hand closed around the cool brass doorknob. She turned it and pushed the door open.

“You aren’t supposed to do that!”

Su Yao stepped into a small windowless room. Crates stacked against one wall. Dust sheets covered vague shapes. The air was thick and still. She told the truth. This is just a storeroom.

But then her eyes landed on the far wall. Set into the plaster was another door, without any handle or keyhole.

“What is beyond that door?” Su Yao asked, pointing at it.

The caretaker tilted her head. “What door?”

Fascinating. Su Yao looked from the door to the caretaker. She truly can’t see it. Her perception is being edited. This is a high-grade spiritual blind spot.

A rhythmic sound began to emanate from behind the dark wood. Drip... drip… drip… The temperature in the storeroom plummeted. Wrapping her arms around herself, the caretaker shivered. “It’s very cold in here all of a sudden. We should go.”

Taking a step closer to the seamless door, Su Yao ignored her. “I hear water,” she said.

Su Yao’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the grain of the dark wood where carved letters became visible.

Don’t dead open inside.

She parsed the mangled syntax. “Don’t dead open inside.” A warning? Or a failed translation? The intended meaning is likely ‘Don’t open, dead inside.’ The dripping sound continued, slower now. Drip... drip...

The caretaker remained by the entrance. “What are you looking at? There’s nothing there, just a wall. Please, we must leave now.”

She still sees nothing. Su Yao reached out. Her fingertips hovered just above the wood’s surface. A chill radiated from it. The spiritual pressure in the room intensified.

A black liquid began to seep from the bottom of the doorframe, oozing over the floorboards. It smelled of stagnant water and rot.

The caretaker gasped, seeing the black pool forming on the floor. “What is that? Where is it coming from?”

The barrier is weakening, Su Yao observed. The manifestation is becoming physical enough for even her to perceive. “It seems that something disagrees with your assessment of this room.”

Su Yao pushed the seamless door open. It swung inward without a sound, revealing a chamber flooded with a shallow inky black pool. Six women’s bodies hung from iron hooks embedded in the walls, their forms limp and pale against the darkness. Their clothes were dated from various eras, and their faces were frozen in silent screams.

Her eyes scanned the display and settled on one corpse in particular. That’s the caretaker. She has the same face and dress. But that means... She turned to look at the woman standing beside her.

The caretaker peered into the room, her lantern held high. She tilted her head. A smile played on her lips. “Oh, my. What nice props. The owners have really outdone themselves with the atmosphere this time.”

She sees her own corpse and calls it a prop. “You don’t recognize yourself?”

The caretaker laughed. “Myself? Don’t be silly. That’s just a very realistic mannequin. They must have modeled it after me. How flattering!” She stepped back. “This really adds to the authentic haunted house experience, don’t you think?”

Su Yao’s gaze shifted from the hanging corpses to the caretaker standing beside her. Her eyes dropped to the caretaker’s hands, still holding the lantern. The fingers were too slender and rigid. At each knuckles, there was a joint like those of a high-quality porcelain doll.

She is the mannequin. “You are quite well-made,” Su Yao remarked. “The craftsmanship is impressive.”

The caretaker beamed. “Thank you! The owners spare no expense for authenticity.” She gestured toward the corpses. “These are our finest displays. Would you like to see the rest of the tour?”

Su Yao watched the doll’s fluid movements. The dripping sound from the room seemed to grow louder, as if responding to the revelation.

Her eyes fell on one of the hanging corpses. Unlike the others, its fingers were curled tight, clutching a yellowed slip of paper.

She stepped through the black water. The viscous liquid parted around her ankles without staining them as she plucked the note from the corpse’s rigid grasp.

The handwriting was scrawled in what looked like dried blood.

Don’t disturb us. The six of us are the seal. Break it, and what we hold beneath this house will be unleashed.

Su Yao read the note twice. A containment ritual? Their souls are bound here as anchors.

She released the paper, letting it fall back into the black water. The Catholic Church are one of the oldest and most globally powerful spiritual organizations. Their exorcists are renowned, their methods absolute.

Her gaze swept over the six suspended corpses. For them to choose this... a perpetual sacrifice, binding six souls as a lock… Whatever sleeps beneath this house is something that forced the Church to admit defeat.

To break this seal would be to unleash a calamity level threat entity.

She turned and walked out of the chamber. The black water receded from her steps. She passed the porcelain doll caretaker without a word. The mansion and its secret could continue their silent stalemate without her interference.

Su Yao walked back through the grand foyer past the silent piano and the dust-shrouded furniture, retracing her steps to the main entrance. She reached for the heavy carved door.

Her hand met solid wood where the handle should have been. The door was gone, replaced by more wall paneling.

She turned and the hallway she had just exited was now a dead end. The grand staircase had vanished, the architecture shifting into a continuous stretch of silk wallpaper and molding.

Cold crept into the air. A hint of dried flowers twisted into the stench of wet soil and rot. The dripping from the sealed chamber echoed through the mansion.

A voice whispered from the walls around her. “You saw the seal. Now you know the price. No one simply walks away from such knowledge.”

Su Yao’s eyes narrowed. “It appears I have been too polite. Don’t mistake my presence for consent.”

“But you’re in my prison now,” the voice crooned. “A new guest. And a strong one, at that. Perhaps you could replace one of the tired anchors.”

So that is its game. Su Yao’s lips curved into a smile. “You mistake my reluctance for weakness.”

She flexed her fingers, feeling the familiar power coil within her. The gloves were off.