“Do you know what it feels like to die?” Martha Grant's voice trembled. “The kind of death where someone strangles you with fishing line, from here to here, the flesh splitting open, blood gushing out like a waterfall, the originally white lace nightgown soaked completely red. He pulled so tight that I couldn’t even beg for mercy.”

Martha Grant began to cry, bright red tears of blood streaming from her eyes. Her sexy lace nightgown was instantly drenched, countless drops of blood dripping from the hem like rain falling from the eaves.

What’s a person’s first reaction upon seeing a ghost? In movies, it’s usually screaming and running away in panic. But Grace Lincoln just stood there in a daze, her legs weak. Her adrenaline made her pupils dilate, but it couldn’t give her the strength to run.

Suddenly, a set of brass knuckles engraved with “Amitabha” appeared before Grace Lincoln's eyes. Jason Grant punched Martha Grant square in the face, sending the female ghost flying, crashing through the wall of a rental room at the end of the corridor.

“Damn! That’s tough!” Jason Grant yelled in pain, flinging off the now-deformed brass knuckles, his hand feeling as if the bones had snapped.

“It’s useless... I’ve long forgotten what physical pain feels like. I’m dead, remember?” From the hole in the wall, Martha Grant propped up her twisted body and stood up again. Her head rotated 180 degrees from the back of her neck to return to its original position. The cheek that had been struck shattered like porcelain, and beneath the peeling skin was the shriveled, blackened face of a corpse.

“Go!” Jason Grant grabbed Grace Lincoln's wrist and dragged her quickly toward the main door.

Just as they passed the room Grace Lincoln had peeked into earlier, the half-closed door suddenly swung open, and a man, not even having time to pull up his underwear, lunged out like a madman.

“Stay away from her!” Jason Grant's fist swung past Grace Lincoln's face, sending the man flying back into the room, his face twisted in pain, several molars scattering across the floor.

But ahead, the other tenants had all come out, their ferocious faces like zombies infected with the T-virus. There was no way to reach the door without killing them all.

“Living people are more troublesome than the dead.” Jason Grant shielded Grace Lincoln behind him, pulled out a roll of yellow tape from under his trench coat, the tape covered in countless bright red talismans.

Jason Grant's movements were so practiced—he tore off a strip of tape and stuck a huge X on the wall, bit his finger, used a drop of blood as a guide, and rapidly chanted an incantation.

With a thunderous boom, a hole was blasted in the wall. Without waiting for the dust to settle, Jason Grant pulled Grace Lincoln through it.

Following the flickering streetlights, they dashed straight for the elevator.

“Hurry, hurry!” Jason Grant held Grace Lincoln with one arm and frantically pressed the elevator buttons with the other. Not far behind, the tenants crawled out of the hole, wailing, with Martha Grant right behind them, surrounded by the group.

“Don’t run, I still have rent to collect from you!” Martha Grant grinned wickedly, opening her mouth wide, her tongue shooting out like a venomous snake.

Just as it was only a few centimeters from Grace Lincoln's neck, Jason Grant pulled the girl into a sideways dive, tumbling into the open elevator.

“Made it!” Jason Grant frantically pressed the button for the first floor and the close button, only relaxing once the doors finally shut.

Chapter 3: Men Are Beasts

The elevator descended in utter silence. Every second in that enclosed space felt like an hour, the air so heavy it was almost suffocating.

Grace Lincoln sat huddled in the corner of the elevator, her already pale skin now completely drained of color from fright.

As for that idiot uncle—no, the man called Jason Grant—he acted as if nothing had happened, half-squatting in the center of the elevator. He set down the black box he refused to let go of, took off his black trench coat, and spread it flat on the floor. The inside of the coat looked like a treasure chest, covered in all sorts of strange and unusual gadgets.

“What is that thing?” Grace Lincoln asked Jason Grant in a trembling voice.

“Huh? Speak up, I can’t hear you. That explosive talisman just now was too close, my ears aren’t working right,” Jason Grant said, digging at his ear as he turned around.

“What the hell was that thing? Why is she trying to hurt us?” Grace Lincoln practically shouted her question.

“Didn’t you already say it? That thing is a ghost. To be precise, she’s not trying to hurt us, just you. That ghost is called Martha Grant, born from a human’s vengeful spirit. She created the barrier in this shared apartment, luring strong young men to move in so she can absorb their spiritual energy—what TV shows call ‘yang energy’ or ‘essence’ or whatever. Tonight is her ninety-ninth night of returning, the night when her power is at its peak. If the conditions are right, she can possess a corpse and come back to life. TV calls this ‘finding a substitute ghost.’ Unfortunately, you’re the substitute,” Jason Grant said with a wicked grin, fiddling with various gadgets in his hands.

“Why does it have to be me? I’ve already had such bad luck, and now I run into a ghost in the middle of the night?” Thinking back on her day, Grace Lincoln couldn’t help but want to cry again.