Chapter 5: I Got Spooked Out

By this point, there was no way I could sleep anymore.

I was a bit short of breath. Hugging my head, I sat there on the spot for a while before staggering to my feet and wrapping myself up in the blanket.

Three-thirty, four-thirty, five-thirty, six-thirty—tick-tock, tick-tock. I had no idea whose second hand was dutifully racing along the markings, drilling through the walls straight into my ears. I piled up the pillows into an arch bridge and buried my head in the hollow underneath, my hair a messy tangle, sweat steaming nonstop from my body.

Until daybreak, when I finally gave up and stopped going crazy.

I hadn’t gotten a clear look at that woman’s face, so I had no way to describe it. After a whole night, I still hadn’t figured out how to tell anyone about this.

No doubt about it—this woman who’d come knocking at my door was the crazy hag the principal had mentioned.

No doubt about it—the preschool teacher from Plum Kindergarten she was looking for was me.

These “no doubt about it”s crashed down on my head. I was crystal clear, rock-solid, while she remained blurry and unidentified. Once she went nuts, she was all righteous fury, no need to even consider motives.

Daylight came, and I made up my mind: I couldn’t go to work.

I imagined if this crazy hag came back, staking out again outside Bright Kindergarten. I’d be the one taking the kids out to play, exposed beyond the railings, past the gates, through the alleys—surrounded on all sides. If she spotted me, she’d know for sure I was the one she was after. I didn’t know if this woman had memorized my face, but I wasn’t about to take the chance.

I hurriedly WeChatted Zhu Erting that I needed to take a leave of absence and she didn’t need to come pick me up.

Good thing there was enough time. I sent it at exactly seven, and by seven-ten, Zhu Erting replied with an “ok.”

I asked the principal for leave, and they quickly said okay, even telling me not to rush back to work. Bright Kindergarten didn’t really need me as just one teacher—I wasn’t core staff, and right now I was more trouble than I was worth. Putting me on leave meant no salary, like sweeping the floor at home: all benefits, no drawbacks.

With leave approved, I sneaked over to the window like a ghost and peeked downstairs. I saw the cleaner quietly righting the trash bins. Those kids on roller skates were being dragged off to school one by one by their parents, electric bikes slinking out one after another. The complex gate opened and closed, the security guard greeting everyone. An old lady ambled back with the family’s tofu pudding and youtiao.

That woman in the thick hoodie who’d appeared out of nowhere lingered like a nightmare from yesterday—or maybe just from dusk and night. In the daylight, she’d evaporated without a trace. I stared for a bit, then exhaustion suddenly hit me. I drew the curtains and rolled myself into the blanket, drifting off into a hazy sleep.

I woke up at four-thirty in the afternoon, my head throbbing like I’d had brain surgery.

There wasn’t much food at home. I did a quick wash-up, changed out of my sweat-soaked tank top, threw on a random white T-shirt. Rifling through, the only clean clothes left were a pair of overalls, which I pulled on. I stuffed all the dirty stuff into the washing machine and set it churning.

While hunting for my keys, I heard a noise outside. I perked up my ears warily, but only heard the washer rumbling. Still, I checked through the peephole. Our neighbors across the hall were maneuvering out a massive old sofa.

I poked my head out, and they spotted me right away. Without me even asking, the woman said they’d gotten a new sofa—this one was too scratched up by the cat. I nodded, eyeing the huge fabric sofa covered in claw marks, and chimed in, “Tangni sharpening its claws, huh? Gotta replace the sofa just for that.”

“We sent the cat to the countryside. The old folks like keeping cats and dogs. If she wants to raise it, let her,” the woman muttered, steadying the sofa back. The man rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t it you who didn’t want it? When you wanted it, oh man, you were all in—pestering nonstop. Then raising it: changing litter, feeding, grooming, bathing, clipping nails—which of those wasn’t me? Spur of the moment.”

The woman protested aggrievedly, “How was I supposed to know raising a cat was such a hassle? It’s not like the cats back home in the countryside—they just eat and live. This little thing gets sick every few days. I was scared I’d kill it, so I gave it to the elders. Let it hang with those stray kittens, maybe pick up some wildness, catch its own mice to eat.”

The couple had a pretty good relationship—or maybe it was me watching. They bickered a bit but didn’t get mad. They counted “one, two, three” and shoved the sofa out.

I got myself together, grabbed some pocket change, took the elevator down, and lent a hand.

The sofa was faded with age, some indeterminate grayish-yellow, blurry color, covered top to bottom in scratches.

As we got it near the trash bins, the security guard said it was too close to the fire escape—move it outside. Our complex faced the street but had a little alley as buffer. The three of us hauled it to the gate, then south another few dozen steps, propping it against the wall. The man slipped, and crack—one good sofa leg snapped. The whole thing tilted to one side, like a battered cripple begging on the roadside.

It was trash anyway. Despite some grumbling, the man wasn’t mad. He even joked by stomping it with his leather shoe. “Hey, still pretty comfy. Maybe someone can sit on it.”

The woman said, “Then you sit. I’m heading up.”

I said my goodbyes and headed out the alley.

Our alley hugged a health spa—cupping, scraping, bone-setting, weight loss, you name it. I’d never gone in. Next to it were a few brand clothing stores—kids’, women’s, men’s—all cozily shuttered. No new shops yet; the shutters hung high and low. Beside that was a tiny noodle shop with just five tables.

I came out at a bad time—they weren’t open yet, but folks were already inside waiting for the water to boil, calling out their orders ahead. I got a small bowl with egg and sausage, sat against the wall. At five-thirty, the master chef came in, cinching his belt, hauling dough and board, grabbing his knife. In a flash, noodles were flying into the pot.

The room steamed up warm, the vapor hazing everyone’s faces. Before my noodles arrived, I pulled out my phone, but a weird feeling crept over me. Messages kept popping up from the group chat. The do-not-disturb parents’ group had people @ing everyone. I scrolled my Moments. Noodles hit the table; I squared my chopsticks. That weird feeling intensified.

I slurped a mouthful of noodles, blew on the steam, sat up straight—but felt like someone was watching me. I glanced around: eaters focused on eating, talkers on talking. No one looking my way.

Last night’s scare from that crazy woman had me breaking cold sweat just thinking about her. I twirled more noodles; the feeling lingered. I chalked it up to the aftershocks of fright, finished the bowl head down. Looking up, I suddenly spotted a blurry figure on the fogged-up glass.

Someone pressed against the glass outside? I wiped sweat from my neck with a napkin—the room was stifling. Without scrutinizing, the blurry shadow started moving toward the door.

The man at the table in front of me suddenly turned, pointing at the chili jar on my table. I nodded. He stood, pinched the jar with three fingers, turned—his tall frame blocking my view.

He dumped two big spoonfuls of chili into his bowl, then turned back to return it.

From start to finish, he blocked my line of sight completely. I was about to stand when the server brought a ladle of noodle broth.

I’d just glanced at the broth when a hand suddenly appeared on the table.

The hand looked young but overworked—scarred, knuckles rough. It popped out from behind the server, who left. It belonged to a woman in a black hoodie.

She just pressed on the tabletop, but not looking at me—instead, she turned to the stove, lips twitching. In the end, she said nothing, just turned back.

My heart lurched; I nearly jumped up.

But I didn’t. Like any ordinary, curious passerby, I feigned indifference and sized up the woman.

I finally got a clear look at her face. Her messy hair seemed combed somewhat, scattered across her forehead. Shockingly, under that shock of white hair was a young face—some fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but good skin. Long thin face, high cheekbones and nose bridge, sharp features, dark circles under her eyes. Those phoenix eyes drooped—and she was actually a woman of some looks!

But she had this deranged, gloomy expression. Head down when looking at people. Not short, stood straight, but head always lowered, messy hair piled on her neck. The hoodie hood bunched ridiculously behind like a tumor, fluff spilling out.

I was a bit scared. Remembering last night’s noises, I gripped my phone, ready to bolt or yell—plenty of people here eating noodles.

But the woman just turned her head, gloomily sweeping her eyes over everyone in the noodle shop.

The server bellowed, “Big bowl or small?”

The woman ignored her, using those drooping CCTV-like eyes to photograph everyone as thoroughly as possible.

I’d eaten my fill. Since she wasn’t here for me, I could leave. Gripping my phone, I was still panicky. I didn’t know if she remembered my face; her gaze hadn’t lingered on me half a second.

The noodle shop’s yellowish bulb cast an even dim yellow glow. When she lifted her head a bit into the light, she looked sickly.

I stood up—and the woman suddenly turned, locking eyes on me dead-on.

I wasn’t sure if she remembered me, only knew that yesterday I didn’t remember her. I should pretend not to know her, so I asked, “What are you looking at?”

The woman looked at my table again, said nothing, and pointed at the bowl of noodle soup.

I wanted to leave but didn’t quite dare. I glanced back. The woman casually grabbed an empty bowl and scooped the noodle soup into it. I jolted in surprise. She sat down, picked up a pair of chopsticks, and began stirring the leftover pickled vegetables I’d eaten, sipping the noodle soup along with them.

The server asked softly, “You know her?”

I shook my head, pocketed my phone, and headed out.

Suddenly, someone called, “Teacher Xiao Jiang?”

I turned around on reflex. The woman had already stopped her chopsticks, chewing the pickled vegetables in her mouth. She turned her head and looked at me with a blank expression.

Oh no.