I think it must be those people trying to get a raise, so they pulled this stunt.

I was a bit angry, grabbed my flashlight and walked over, flung the door open in a rage, but there was nothing outside. I thought, could it really be a ghost? I turned my head, but there was nothing behind me either. Still, I felt something was off. I closed the door and locked it.

I planned to go back and sleep a bit more.

But I had barely lain down when the bathroom light turned on.

I lifted my head. The place wasn’t very big; the bathroom was only a dozen steps from the bed. Still, I hesitated a little. But it must be the wiring getting old—I’d check it in the morning.

Drip, drip.

It sounded like the bathroom was leaking.

Tap, tap, tap—

It was like someone in slippers stepping in water, walking across the wooden floor.

It was getting closer, closer and closer.

The dripping sound seemed to be getting farther away.

I opened my eyes and looked over—nothing.

I closed my eyes.

The footsteps started to approach again, slowly.

Five steps, three steps.

They stopped.

Several minutes passed. There was no movement. I slowly opened my eyes—nothing, just a plastic bag being blown by the wind. I really let out a sigh of relief, drenched in sweat.

It was a bit cold—maybe the window wasn’t closed properly.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me.

But a chill still swept over me. I thought I’d check if the window was really letting in a draft.

I turned my head.

It was in my blanket.

……

Howard Faulkner hid in his car, recalling what he had just experienced, his body trembling uncontrollably.

That face, swollen from soaking in water, was right there in the blanket, pressed against his body, blowing cold air on his neck, saying she was a bit cold and wanted to borrow his yang energy to warm up. Is yang energy something you can just lend?!

Howard Faulkner gripped the steering wheel tightly, his face twisted with a mix of terror and rage.

No more!

That cursed house—Andy Young died so young, it must have been all this weird stuff that caused it!

Forget it! Whatever happens, happens!

But then he remembered his son’s dying wish, hoping he would protect his life’s work, and he couldn’t quite harden his heart. Still, no matter what, he absolutely refused to go back in there. His face twisted in struggle, he shakily lit a cigarette, pulled out his phone, and checked the time.

A little after 3 a.m.

A conspicuous red dot on the email app.

Someone had sent an email.

He hesitated, his son’s hopeful gaze flashing before his eyes. Finally, he made a decision and opened the email, thinking—

If someone’s applying for the job, let’s see. I’m getting old and weak; if it’s a young man, maybe I won’t be so afraid of those ghosts. The men from the past six months didn’t have any accidents. If it’s an older person, or a woman with weak yang energy, then it’s fate telling me to close the museum.

He opened the email, opened the resume, and looked at the ID photo.

A young face with sharp features.

Evan Wade.

Howard Faulkner’s chest heaved heavily. In the end, he didn’t know if it was relief or regret. With extremely mixed feelings, he let out a long breath, quickly changed the salary from three thousand to five thousand, included room and board, and sent it to the person.

Then he stubbed out his cigarette, slumped over the steering wheel, and didn’t want to move at all.

……

“Did you scare him off?”

“He’s gone.”

“Good, now there’s nothing to worry about. Hmph, this place still belongs to us brothers.”

“Amitabha, Amitabha.”

Inside the folk museum, several figures invisible to the naked eye high-fived each other, their faces full of joy. One was covered in mud and water, a water ghost who must have drowned in some reservoir. Another wore a dusty old-style robe, with a gruesome wound in his chest. There was also a woman with a bluish face—who knows what poison she died from.

Finally, there were two paper figurines, holding hands and spinning in the air.

The paper figurine puffed up its cheeks, used all its strength to open the little fridge.

Then, wobbling, it pulled out a can, opened it, and inside were three burning incense sticks.

The ghosts gathered around in a circle, faces intoxicated as they breathed in. The can of cola was still perfectly intact, but if anyone took a sip, they’d find it had already gone sour and rancid, completely undrinkable.

The old ghost in the ancient robe, with the gruesome wound in his chest, clapped his hands and sighed:

“Excellent, every time I drink this, it’s like tasting fine wine and sweet dew. I never had anything like this in my day.”

The swollen water ghost said smugly, “Hmph, of course! This is cola. You didn’t have this in your era. Now that we’ve scared off that old guy, this place is ours. There’s plenty more in the storeroom.”

The man in ancient clothes licked his lips, then hesitantly asked:

“But what if he finds someone else to come?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

The water ghost drew a hand across his neck, grinned, and said with a sinister smile:

“This is my turf!”

“Whoever tries to take it, I’ll beat the crap out of them!”

……

After fleeing the folk museum for his life, Howard Faulkner spent the whole night in his car.

The cramped space and the lingering smell of tobacco in the car gave him a small sense of security.