Chapter Eight: Hair in the Pond

A hand suddenly stretched out from the darkness beside him, leaving Fu Yang completely stunned.

Luckily, despite his overwhelming fear, his years of practicing Sanda had trained his body to react instinctively to danger. Without thinking, Fu Yang swung his folding knife in the direction of the hand.

The blade sliced through the air with a sharp hiss—yet there was nothing there but emptiness.

“What the hell? Come on out! Let’s see if I don’t gut you with one stroke!” Fu Yang bellowed at the top of his lungs, his terror fueling his rage. He waved his knife frantically toward where the hand had appeared, shouting all the while.

“Bring it on! I don’t care how many of you there are! If you’ve got the guts, let every last corpse in here come for me!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a rustling noise filled the morgue behind him, like bed sheets being pulled back. Then came the slow, dragging sound of footsteps—feet scraping across the floor.

Swish... scrape... swish... scrape...

Fu Yang whipped around and let out a horrified curse.

The sight before him nearly made his soul flee his body: every corpse lying on the mortuary slabs had sat up. Their movements were slow and rigid as they climbed down and began to approach him.

The causes of death among them were as varied as their appearances: some were missing limbs, others had half their heads gone, some were charred black from burns... It was like a grotesque masquerade ball!

To fight a single zombie with just a palm-sized dagger might make one a hero; to face a horde, however, made one a martyr.

With a wail, Fu Yang spun around like a bull gone mad and charged headlong at the side door of the morgue.

Crack!

The wooden door splintered under his force, and Fu Yang tumbled out onto the grass, surrounded by a shower of broken wood. He rolled on the ground clutching his chest in agony.

“Damn it, that hurts! No wonder that bastard Director Zhang made me sign a waiver—just standing night watch here could cost me my life!”

He thought he would be safe once he escaped the morgue, but as he rolled on the grass like a panda, a swarm of corpses crashed out through the broken door, following him. Their mouths emitted low, guttural growls like wild beasts.

“Enough already! Haven’t I suffered enough?!”

He cried out in despair, mustering all his strength to scramble to his feet and take off running.

In the darkness of night, a lone figure dashed desperately ahead, with a horde of zombies in pursuit.

His strength was already spent, and the pain from smashing through the door slowed him even more. Fu Yang ran clumsily, without any sense of direction, until suddenly he found himself at a dead end—a pitch-black, abandoned artificial lake.

“How did I end up here? Have I lost my mind?”

Fu Yang felt a sudden urge to end it all himself. Behind him, the mob of corpses howled and fanned out, cutting off his last hope of escape.

“Well, at least I can swim. These zombies’ joints are stiff—they shouldn’t be able to swim.”

He forced himself to stay calm, recognizing their weakness. Gritting his teeth, he plunged into the icy, inky water, treading water and swimming away.

It worked—the zombies gathered at the shore, unable or unwilling to enter the water.

“Idiots! Thought you could catch me? Not so easy!” Fu Yang laughed triumphantly, congratulating himself on his quick thinking, feeling for a moment that he’d escaped danger.

But his smile soon faded, replaced by a look of painful constipation.

He could just make out strange things surfacing around him—a mass of black, flowing strands... women's hair! Thick, snaking locks writhing like serpents in the water, reaching for him.

“Great... Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”

His mind reeled, and he felt sick with dread. All he could do was swim frantically toward a stretch of bank where there were no zombies.

But the masses of hair followed, slithering after him, emitting faint, mournful wails as if they carried vengeful spirits.

Tonight, Fu Yang was truly being put through hell.

He silently swore to himself: if he survived this night, he would never... meddle in other people’s business again. Next time he’d be more careful on duty.

He had to admit, the vengeful ghost Dong Weike had inflicted a deep psychological trauma on him. Even with the hospital so haunted at night, he didn’t dare quit his job lightly.

In the freezing pond, he swam desperately for the shore—almost there—when suddenly he felt his waist and ankles tighten, ensnared by the hair. He was being dragged under.

“Help! Help!” he cried, knowing it was useless, but survival instinct drove him to struggle as he sank, deeper and deeper...

Bubbles rose to the surface as Fu Yang disappeared, only his hands thrashing weakly above the water.

“It’s over... I’m finished tonight. Maybe this is better—at least I won’t have to fear that ghost Dong Weike anymore.” He thought in despair as the cold, foul water flooded his ears, nose, and mouth.

Suddenly, he felt a pair of hands—warm and strong—grab hold of his own, the last part of him above the surface. With a powerful yank, he was pulled out of the water.

Coughing violently, Fu Yang collapsed, soaked, onto the shore. A deep male voice spoke to him, calm and resonant: “Young man, you shouldn’t be swimming here in the middle of the night.”

It sounded... human?

Fu Yang turned his head sharply and saw a handsome young man in a white coat crouched beside him, smiling. He looked about thirty, clearly a doctor from the university hospital.

“Ghosts! So many ghosts, zombies chasing me, and ghostly hair in the water...” Fu Yang stammered, pointing shakily back toward the other shore—only to find it empty. The lake surface was calm, not a ripple in sight.

It was as if everything that just happened had been a hallucination.

How could that be? Impossible!

Fu Yang was dumbfounded, unable to make sense of what he saw.

The doctor seemed momentarily surprised, then laughed heartily. “You must be a student here, working part-time? My name’s Zhao Que, I’m a doctor here. You could even say I’m your senior.”

“Thank you for saving my life...” Fu Yang finally came to his senses and hurriedly expressed his gratitude.

After a brief conversation, Fu Yang learned that Zhao Que had also studied medicine at Jiangcheng University, and after graduating in 2006, had stayed on as a doctor at the campus hospital. Tonight, he happened to be on duty and went for a walk because he was feeling restless—only to find Fu Yang struggling at the edge of the abandoned lake. Strangely, Fu Yang had been less than half a meter from the shore—he could have easily gotten out, but it was as if something in the water was dragging him down.

“Senior Zhao, did you really not see... any ghosts just now?” Fu Yang asked cautiously.

Zhao Que laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “Fu, you must have been so scared patrolling alone that you started hallucinating. I’ve been a doctor here nearly ten years and never heard of the hospital being haunted. Don’t overthink it. Go back—if you stay out here soaking wet, you’ll catch a cold.”

Fu Yang nodded, thanked him again, and ran back toward the gatehouse.

But he didn’t see the expression on Zhao Que’s face as his figure faded into the darkness—the smile slowly vanished, leaving him with a blank, emotionless look.

Zhao Que turned to stare at the black, stagnant lake, his face twisted with disgust. He muttered softly, “Senior, must you really drag mortals into your quarrels?”