Chapter 4: I Forgot to Turn Off the Lights

I had planted a whole forest of bamboo, leaning on my hoe nearby as I lovingly listened to the bamboo shoots growing—swish swish swish, sprouting new shoots and growing taller, leaves rustling down as they flaunted their branches at me. Just like how the Calabash Boys call their grandpa, the bamboos called out to me: Teacher Xiao Jiang? Teacher Xiao Jiang! Their calls stirred my heart into waves. Back when I was twenty, I was still a young person tender inside and out, full of youthful vigor as I eagerly awaited the bamboo’s growth. Suddenly, the bamboo snapped in half with cracks. I picked up my hoe to search for the culprit’s tracks, but it was just the wind blowing through—the wind that snapped the bamboo. The bamboo forest crackled, the children all snapped like that, the cracking sounds like an invisible blaze.

I swung my hoe wildly, hearing cries of “Teacher Xiao Jiang, Teacher Xiao Jiang.” Teacher Xiao Jiang wielded her hoe, not knowing who she was fighting—up and down, left and right, east and west, north and south—only the crackle crackle of the children dying. The wind was an invisible knife that suddenly rushed at me, blood-drenched as it clashed with my hoe.

“Teacher Xiao Jiang, why won’t you save me?”

I heard the bamboos crying, their bodies not yet cold, trembling in the aftershocks of the gale.

I shuddered and rolled out of bed. My phone showed the time: 3:30 a.m. I’d had another nightmare.

Alright, stop thinking about it. Dust to dust, earth to earth. The killer’s been brought to justice; the dead can’t be brought back.

But now that I was awake, I couldn’t fall asleep again. Compelled by some impulse, I pulled back the curtains to look downstairs. The night was thick and heavy, making everything below pitch black. An old streetlamp stood faithfully on duty, but it was too weak to do much, casting only a dim yellow glow the size of a millstone.

I was about to draw the curtains back when suddenly, a black shadow emerged atop that glow.

The shadow’s edges were sharp, cutting a human silhouette into the light.

It was still that messy mop of hair, tinted by the light, still that thick hoodie with the hood piled on the back of her head.

It was that woman looking for the teacher. She was still hanging around our neighborhood.

I gripped the curtain fabric, ready to hide myself at any moment, but my head couldn’t help stretching further out. The closer my head got to the glass, the clearer I could see this woman’s face.

She didn’t look up, just glanced around. I could only see that wild tangle of hair being blown up by the wind.

Then, she undid her hair tie, bit it in her mouth, gathered her hair at the back of her head with both hands, smoothed it a couple times, tilted her head to pull out the strands caught in her hood, and then—

She looked up.

I didn’t know who else in Jiaxing Residential Area was sleepless at 3:30 a.m. like me.

My light was on. I was sure this woman saw me.

But somehow, I stayed calm. Instead of hastily pulling the curtains to cover up, I pretended to be nonchalant and looked around, like I was just admiring the night view since I couldn’t sleep. I really should have had a cigarette dangling from my mouth—that way, my gaze wouldn’t seem so deliberate.

Her eyes met mine from afar. It felt like I’d been pricked; my back went numb.

I saw her lips moving, mumbling to herself. On closer look, she was counting numbers.

I looked away, feigning composure, staring into the distance.

But the woman lowered her head, let go, and allowed her messy hair to scatter over her shoulders, tousled by the night breeze. From the corner of my eye, I glanced at her. Suddenly, she broke into a run, heading straight for our building’s entrance.

Our neighborhood’s security wasn’t great. The building door had a code lock for strict protection, but it was usually left open to welcome everyone—deliveries and takeout had worn down two corners of the concrete step.

My phone was silent. I quickly scrolled for someone to call for help. Zhu Erting, the closest, had it turned off.

I scrolled to Li Yongquan, stared at those two emojis, but still couldn’t hit call. 3:30 a.m. crossed some unspoken line.

Leaving the phone on the emergency dial screen, I quietly slipped off my slippers and stood barefoot at the door, peeking out through the peephole.

The hallway was dead silent, the empty stairwell pitch black. The emergency exit sign right across from me glowed green, like a cat’s eye staring at me.

Suddenly, a ding—then the heavy sound of the elevator doors opening.

My bare feet on the floor sent chills creeping up instead of down. Cold sweat drenched me, pooling on my back and trickling down slowly.

I heard the drip from the kitchen sink, the whoosh of the bathroom drain like a wad of toilet paper flushing away. From upstairs came faint creaks, like a bed frame shifting under a heavy body, groaning in protest.

I pinched my brow, my mind itching to sing.

In the darkness, some melody from years ago played in my head, but it was quickly shattered by the stench of blood. I bit my tongue hard, forcing myself not to instinctively sing some prayer.

The elevator doors closed.

Then, footsteps headed my way.

Peering through the peephole, the fish-eye world looked unchanged—except now those hollow footsteps echoed.

Thud, thud, thud.

The motion-sensor lights blazed on. The emergency exit’s green glow dimmed in panic, revealing the stairwell’s heavy, murky light. I saw a black figure approaching—the upper half of the fish-eye view made her shoulders bulge high and swollen, looking incredibly burly.

I could feel the sweat soaking my waistband. The AC light was on, but I was radiating heat, drenched in sweat at the door like a fire burning in place. My feet were freezing cold, not feeling like my own, rooted to the spot. My fingers lightly pried the peephole cover, leaving enough space to see.

Then, a grotesquely shaped hand reached out and covered the peephole.

Thud—someone knocked.

I pressed tight against the door; its vibrations pressed against me. I trembled too, like a flea on a drum bouncing to the thuds.

Thud thud thud—

She knocked twice, then three times.

I bit my tongue, leaning against the locked door, trying my best to pretend I didn’t exist.

Was it that woman outside? Was she counting to figure out my floor and position? Was she crazy? Would a crazy person calculate so precisely? There were four households per floor, up winding stairs twisting every which way—she should knock on the door across from mine, get glared at by the male owner, or the diagonal one, where the old folks with nerves would curse her out.

But she zeroed in on me precisely.

“This peephole has light,” the person outside suddenly said.

Her voice was distorted through the door, like it crawled out of a box.

I stayed silent, eyes squeezed shut, leaning motionless against the door.

“I know you’re watching me,” the woman said.

I exhaled heavily but didn’t speak, fumbling with my phone to dial for help. The keypad blurred in my eyes; my fingers couldn’t find the right spots. I didn’t even know who to call.

“Do you know a kindergarten teacher lives in this building? From Plum Kindergarten. I need to find her. Do you know where she lives?”

The questions came abruptly, different from before—like recited lines, flat and toneless.

I looked through the peephole again. This time, she’d moved her hand. A pair of huge eyes stared through at me, bloodshot and twisted, sharp as a screwdriver drilling through the peephole straight into my eyes.

I yelped in shock and stumbled backward, landing hard on my butt.

The woman lost patience, enunciating each word: “Tell me, does the Plum Kindergarten teacher live here?”

Then she kept knocking.

Thud thud thud—bang bang bang—

I could even see the door shaking under her pounding.

“I don’t know—” I shouted.

The knocking stopped.

After yelling that, I could barely breathe. Stumbling to my feet, I snatched my phone: “Who are you?!”

I waited ages, met only with silence.

Gritting through the fear, I pressed my eye to the peephole again.

At some point, the stairwell had gone dark once more.

My palm was marked red from gripping the phone; I tossed it on the mat and peered out again, scanning around. The emergency exit sign lit up anew.

I turned off all the lights in the house and slid down against the door to sit.