Volume Three: The Vengeful Spirit Chapter One: A Ghostly Figure in the Dead of Night

The night had grown deep, and the city had sunk into slumber. Only the vibrant neon lights, reflecting the faint moonlight, illuminated every street, casting their glow even into the darkest corners, upon those unseen souls. Yet, there are always places in every city where noise and life persist into the small hours—places that harbor the shadows of the human spirit: loneliness, sorrow, contentment, or anger. Amidst dazzling lights and the melodies of music, the revelry continues.

Each night, this entertainment district spun on in its endless cycle. Every day was a repetition, a loop. A graceful figure stepped out from behind a grand doorway, high heels clicking on the pavement as she swayed homeward. No one had called for her tonight—she could return early. She disliked taking taxis, so she made her way back on foot, unhurried, since her place was not far. As she crossed a junction, she glanced up. The streetlamp above was out once more. She pulled out her phone, switching on the flashlight. The path ahead was clear enough, and she continued drifting toward home.

A faint giggle drifted through the air.

She turned her head; nothing was behind her. She hadn’t drunk much tonight—was she hallucinating? Shaking her head, she kept walking.

Again came the eerie, distant laughter.

“Hmm? Whose child is that?” She glanced back, but still saw nothing. Peering around, she found only emptiness. A chill crept over her, making her hunch her shoulders and quicken her pace. Home was just ahead.

The laughter echoed once more. Fear began to clutch at her heart. She broke into a small run, dashing up the stairs.

The laughter seemed to whisper right beside her ear, but no matter how she searched, she couldn’t find its source. It sounded like a child. Terror seized her—was she seeing ghosts? Frantically, she jabbed at the elevator button. At last, the elevator arrived at the first floor. Her nerves stretched taut, she glanced over her shoulder and stepped inside. The doors slid shut, and she exhaled deeply, watching the numbers rise.

Reaching her floor, she stepped out.

Again, that laughter.

She was truly afraid now—the voice had followed her all the way home. With trembling hands, she fumbled out her keys, unlocked the door, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind her. She took a deep, shaky breath.

What she didn’t see was the small, shadowy figure that had silently slipped in behind her.

She shed her clothes, turned on the hot water, and slid into the bathtub. The warmth soothed her frayed nerves. Reclining, she closed her eyes as steam curled around her. After her bath, she wandered languidly to her bed, unaware as the mist from the bathroom began to gather and thicken. From the bathtub, a mass of black shadow oozed out, inching its way to her bedside, onto her bed, and beneath her covers.

Her sleep was restless. Strange dreams enveloped her—a blindingly white room, cold instruments, blood everywhere, so much blood. Why was there so much blood? She felt something being pulled from her body and struggled to see, to grasp whatever was slipping away, but it remained out of reach, impossible to hold onto no matter how hard she tried. She was so cold, so unbearably sad. In the dream, voices called her—no, many voices, all at once. She fought desperately to wake, but could not. The cold was suffocating, as though she had plunged into an icy abyss. So cold, so terribly cold.

At last, the chill jolted her awake. Groggy, she opened her eyes—a biting cold filled the bedroom. It was summer, so why was it so cold? Confused, she suddenly sensed something lying atop her, something icy and heavy. Fear gripped her as she shakily lifted the blanket.

A scream tore through the night.

Followed by soft, eerie laughter.

And again.

And again.