Chapter 59: Setting Fifty-Nine

Setting Fifty-Nine: Supernatural Research Club (Part 12)

“Waa—waa… waa… waa—waa… waa…”

The doll let out a piercing scream, as shrill as a baby’s cry or a cat’s wail, throwing everyone’s breathing out of rhythm.

The whole mansion seemed to tremble, accompanied by crisp clicks from all directions—but no one paid attention. Their gazes were locked on the doll on the coffee table.

“Waa—waa… waa…”

The doll seemed alive now, crying and clawing at the knife embedded in its body. Though it was stuffed with cotton, the blade dripped blood.

The bleeding doll glared at them with hatred, like looking at the dead.

“Go.”

Host’s voice snapped them out of it. The players scattered, fleeing the living room.

The doll and its cries fell behind. It kept pulling the knife out, bit by bit. The moment it was free, Hide and Seek would begin.

Shan Ziwei already had a hiding place in mind. The master bedroom on the first floor was a good option. But as he reached the first-floor corridor, he was stunned to find every door open.

Had the clicks been unlocking sounds? From the open bathroom to the stairs, all rooms were open. He marveled at the scale of this spiritual game—had the entire mansion been unlocked?

He quickly abandoned his original plan and ran to the second floor.

Earlier, only the middle room on the right was open—now all six symmetrical rooms were. He headed straight for the first room on the right—the Study he’d been eyeing.

In most horror puzzle games, studies or libraries were information hubs, holding at least 10% of the game’s lore—sometimes even key to the true ending. Another reason he’d rushed in: the paper and pen for the Ouija board were here.

Once inside, his first move was to close and lock the door—but an invisible force held it ajar.

He wasn’t disappointed. He’d expected a flimsy door couldn’t stop a vengeful spirit—this was just psychological comfort. Leaving the door ajar, he turned to inspect the study.

He already knew the layout from the floor plans, but seeing it in person was overwhelming. Except for the wall behind him, the other three walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with books. Not an ocean of books, but a “pond” deep enough to drown him.

#There should be sparkles here*#

*Traditional horror games highlight interactive items with sparkles.

#It’s been 200 years—I miss keyboard games#

#Hidden vital info: “Come find me—catch me and I’ll let you have your way~”#

He randomly pulled out a copy of Stray Birds and stared blankly at lines like “You can’t see yourself—you only see your shadow” and “Let life be beautiful like summer flowers, and death like autumn leaves.” These weren’t set dressing—they were real books! Readable books!

He estimated at least three hundred books in this room—it would take him a year to read them all. Clearly, he needed puzzle hints, like the white book in Wuwang Prison. He strode to the center of the study, where a 2-meter-long mahogany desk sat with a black leather chair behind it—very dignified.

The desktop was simple: a pen holder with several pens, and a stack of blank A4 paper. No puzzle in sight. Just as he picked up the paper and pens, a great terror descended.

Kakaka~~~ kaka~~ kakaka~~~

That laughter was like a rusty saw cutting rotten wood—it made his temples ache. He’d never known laughter could be so twisted, so filthy, so hysterical—like the infamous “Black Friday,” every note discordant, ending on the most uncomfortable note. It brought no joy—only revulsion.

Kaka~ find, find, find find find—I’m coming to find you, kakaka~~~ kaka~~ kakaka~~~

Even if the fear made him want to vomit, he couldn’t cover his ears—he strained to listen. That “thing” had started moving.

Kakaka~~~ kaka~~ kakaka~~~

Click… click… click…

Among the nightmarish laughter was a subtle, strange footstep—growing clearer. Growing closer!

His mind exploded. He’d planned to grab the paper and pen and leave—but the thing hadn’t searched the first floor; it had come straight to the second!

Within seconds, the footsteps reached the stairwell. Cold sweat poured. His position was dangerous—the study was a terrible hiding spot. The bookshelves were fixed to the north, east, and south walls—a single glance revealed everything.

The only cover was the desk. Hearing the “click, click” footsteps approaching, he lamented his terrible luck and dove under it.

Thump.

The door hit the wall and bounced slightly. A grotesque figure stood in the doorway, twisting as it surveyed the silent study.

“Kaka~ kakakakakakaka—”

The horrific laughter echoed through the room. He hid under the desk, tense as a drawn bowstring. The desk was a classic French style—enclosed on three sides, solid and heavy, shielding him from direct view.

Don’t come in… don’t come in… please don’t come in…!

He prayed desperately. The desk was too large—even with the chair partially blocking, there were gaps. Anyone who bent down could see him.

“Click… click… click…”

For a moment, he wished he were deaf—so he wouldn’t hear those footsteps, growing clearer, meaning death.

—The “ghost” had entered.

It staggered as if unfamiliar with its new, distended body—its bones barely covered by a thin layer of skin. Though its movements were deformed, it wasn’t slow; it crossed half the room in a few steps, each “click” a hammer blow to his heart.

“Kakaka… pluck out my eyes, I can still see you.”

Its eyeless gaze swept the bookshelves. It turned toward the central desk.

“Kakaka… plug my ears, I can still hear you.”

It slouched to the desk and flopped onto it.

“Without feet, I can still reach you, kakaka…”

The broken laughter leaked from its lipless mouth. Its head twisted upside down, peering under the desk.

“Without a mouth, I can still—”

There was nothing there.

It seemed to forget its words—then resumed its “kaka” laughter, rising and walking out, repeating the first lines of its death song.

“Kakaka… pluck out my eyes, I can still see you… plug my ears, I can still hear you…”

The study fell silent.

He fell from under the desk, drenched in cold sweat.

The desk had a cross-beam design underneath—narrow, purely decorative. In that split second, he’d braced his hands and feet against the inner walls, pressed himself flat against the inner corner formed by the beam and the desk bottom—and narrowly escaped.

Pant, pant…

He lay on the floor like a dead dog. It had only been 20 seconds, but it felt like a century. He’d been terrified a ghostly face would pop under the desk.

Too terrifying…

His depleted MP slowly recovered. He’d really thought he’d die—if the head had leaned in just a bit further, or lingered a little longer… Even while resting, he stayed alert, tracking the ghost. From the distant footsteps, it was some distance away—but still on the second floor.

He crawled out. He wasn’t in a hurry to leave; the ghost had just searched the study, so it wouldn’t come back so soon. There was a safe window of time.

Little Gaia opened wide and swallowed the paper and pen he handed over. He lifted it by the scruff like a small animal.

His gaze wavered. Even though it wasn’t his first time confessing to his Toy Box for Heart SP, it was still hard to say. This was a full-immersion game, nothing like typing a few letters on a keyboard.

“…I… like you…”

Once the first “like” was out, the rest came easier. He said “like” several times in a row—then noticed Little Gaia had pulled its mask down over its face, half-shy, half-happy, making him even more embarrassed.

He pinched his burning earlobe. The word “like” was too potent—it carried so much meaning and emotion that just saying it stirred his heart.

Only a seasoned Casanova could remain indifferent. He thought of Host, who could toss off “love” and “possess” with ease, like eating or drinking—without a ripple.

Who’d have guessed that Host, so “quiet” in-game, might be a total flirt in real life?

He didn’t know that a “like” expressed so blandly could hide terrifying depth. It meant “like” was no longer a passing flutter—it had become as natural as eating or drinking, an objective truth in his conscious mind.

—People need to eat. That’s normal.
—I like you. That’s normal.

His Heart SP steadily rose in the pink atmosphere. Both man and toy were satisfied. With his own safety addressed, he turned back to the situation. The ghost’s footsteps still lingered on the second floor, growing fainter—seeming to search inward. He could slip downstairs now, but…

He scanned the bookshelves. He hated to give up—was there a way to pinpoint the key books?

…Wait—position?

An idea struck: he’d solved the cabinet puzzle using the old horror game. Could he use it again to find useful materials in the bookshelves?

He acted on it, digging through his memories. In the old game, the study had three interactive spark points—the creator had placed each at the center of a bookshelf. He’d been stuck there long enough to remember vividly.

Following those memory positions, he took three books from the center of each shelf and laid them out on the desk.

Strange People, Rebirth: Master of the House 3, PTSD.

He fell silent. Just from the titles, his “past-life knowledge” seemed… maybe… probably… not reliable.

Holding onto a thread of hope, he opened the first book—written entirely in classical Chinese.

[Merfolk: South of the Southern Sea dwell merfolk, living like fish in water, never ceasing their weaving; their tears become pearls… One was captured by a mermaid who loved him. Unable to understand each other, he refused food and starved. The mermaid ate his body, believing they would be together forever. The author concludes: This is their custom—other races need not judge.]

[Jade Child: In Huaizhou lived the Su clan, masters of jade. A child was born with jade, blessed by heaven and earth—a great talent. Alas, success was his undoing. Had they known what would come, they would have been more cautious.

Filth-Eater: …]

It was a collection of strange tales. After reading two sections, his head spun. The archaic language was one thing, but the bizarre content kept him reading. Take the two he’d read: “Merfolk” described a race living like fish in the Southern Sea—they weaved constantly, and their tears turned to pearls. A captured outsider starved to death, and the mermaid who loved him ate his remains to keep him forever. The author noted it was their custom, not to be judged by outsiders.

If “Merfolk” was a tragedy of different races, “Jade Child” was human-made—the Su family, jade merchants, raised a “jade child” using their secret formula. Though in human form, it was essentially jade, kept at home, never to touch the outside. The clan prospered, growing immensely wealthy. But one day, the jade child escaped—its purity became a curse, attracting evil. The clan made it into a human cauldron and built a haunted house to contain it, but it was too late. The Su clan fell. The author lamented: if they’d let the child grow naturally, it would have been extraordinary—the clan might not have prospered as much, but wouldn’t have been destroyed.

He struggled to understand, only getting the general gist. For a middle-school dropout, it was too much. Unsure if the book was useful, and with the reading difficulty, he quickly gave up and turned to the next: Rebirth: Master of the House 3.

…This seemed even less relevant.

It was the third book in a web novel series—clearly a power fantasy. He didn’t bother reading the content, just flipped to the back for the blurb.

[Synopsis: Sima Hao is reborn after betrayal, starting anew. This life, he’s no one’s victim—he’s the undisputed head of the Sima family. His covetous cousin, indifferent parents, scheming uncles… when the time comes, everyone will pay.]

It was a classic rags-to-riches revenge story. The third volume covered the protagonist exposing his cousin’s schemes—completely unrelated to this Chessboard. Dejected, he set it aside and picked up the last book.

PTSD.

He opened it—all in English. That was fine; as a programmer, he could read English, even if speaking was harder.

[Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a mental disorder that can develop after a person is exposed to actual or threatened death, serious injury, or sexual violation.]

[The core symptoms are: intrusive re-experiencing, avoidance and numbing, and hyperarousal.]

[Intrusive re-experiencing: The patient involuntarily recalls trauma-related situations or content in thoughts, memories, or dreams. They may react strongly to triggers or feel as if the event is happening again.]

[Avoidance and numbing: The patient persistently avoids trauma-related situations or reminders, refuses to recall trauma-related people or events. Some even experience selective amnesia…]

“RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~”

The phone rang. His head buzzed—he dropped the book in shock. Pale-faced, he looked down as if through the floor at the ringing phone.

[Setting 4: You/your companions have triggered the Ghost Call. From now on, when the phone rings, if no one answers within 1 minute, the restless spirit will appear and kill the living one by one until no one remains.]

Just his luck—the one thing he feared.

He couldn’t fake it—he had to answer. Creeping to the door, he peeked through the crack.

Click… click… click…

The corridor was eerie. The distant footsteps and the frantic phone ring wove an invisible wave of terror. His hairs stood on end. His fearful gaze darted to the second room across the hall.

Outside that room, the head-lamp cast the ghost’s deformed shadow grotesquely on the floor—it was growing larger, the ghost apparently heading for the door, drawn by the phone.

If the ghost got to the phone first, they were doomed. Even as his limbs trembled, he yanked open the door and raced downstairs, the ghost about to emerge at any moment.

Pant—pant—

His mind blank, his body moved on instinct—until he grabbed the violently shaking phone. His sweaty hands almost slipped.

“RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~ RRRING~~~”

Even with the receiver in hand, it kept ringing—until he held it to his ear. Then the deafening noise stopped. The mansion fell silent, but his mind was chaos. He heard a man screaming on the other end.

“Help—someone, help!!! Blood—so much blood! Dead—someone’s dead! My wife is dead—”

The man panted and screamed, clearly terrified. So was Shan Ziwei—he’d planned to hang up immediately and re-hide, but now he couldn’t. He’d watched Host, Crimson Rose, and Hyacinth answer—it hadn’t seemed so bad. He’d never expected the Ghost Call had a forced-listening restriction.

Worse, his other ear caught the approaching footsteps.

Click… click… click…

—The ghost was coming down.

The man kept rambling: “My wife is dead! Dead! She was murdered—I, I saw the killer! I never expected—I really never thought he’d do this…”

His heart was racing: Just say who it is—stop wasting time!

“…The killer—the one who murdered my wife—is—crack.”

Even though Host had mentioned it, even in this life-or-death moment, that violent sound—too real, too brutal—shook him. The headless man’s blood seemed to splatter through the phone line, warm and sticky on his face.

He flinched and dropped the receiver. Now he could move—he turned to find a hiding spot, but froze in terror.

A skeletal leg stepped out from the corner—the ghost had entered the living room. “Kaka”-ing, it staggered toward the sofa-surrounded coffee table.

He crouched behind the sofa, wishing he could shrink to the size of a molecule. The sofa wasn’t tall enough—just a bit closer, a bit closer…

He closed his eyes, awaiting death.

“WHOOSH—”

The toilet flushed from the bathroom, piercing the tense silence. The ghost turned its head 180 degrees, then walked backward into the bathroom.

He lay limp at the sofa’s base, still alive—but he felt like he’d died.

Why hasn’t anyone reported this damn game? He asked the heavens for the hundred-and-first time. This game’s existence is a crime!

He cursed—not just his Diamond SP, but his life expectancy had shortened.

If he ever faced another horror Chessboard, he’d quit as soon as he logged in. Only an idiot would play this.

Click. The ghost emerged from the bathroom. He flinched—it had searched so quickly. Thankfully, this time it didn’t return to the living room, but “click-clicked” back upstairs, fading.

He scrambled up, slipped into the bathroom. The flush had likely been a teammate’s rescue—he wanted to thank them and discuss a plan. The ghost was easily lured by sound; that could be exploited.

Seeing how fast the ghost had left, he understood why—the bathroom was tiny, barely fit for hiding. He checked the narrow cabinet—just toiletries. No one.

Had he been wrong? Was the toilet automatic?

He looked deeper in. The bathroom had two sections: the sink/toilet area, and the shower, separated by a curtain.

He pulled it open—and saw a bathtub full of blood.

His breath caught—he stepped back. Every haunted house bathroom had a bloody tub; these displays usually hid a key item. In a game, controlling a character, it was no big deal. But now, facing it himself, he didn’t want to reach in. Who knew what—

A head rose from the blood.

“AH—”

He half-screamed before a hand covered his mouth. He stared wide-eyed at Host climbing out of the tub, blood streaming down his handsome face—evil and alluring as a vampire.

Recognizing him, Host let go. Mortified, he wished he hadn’t screamed—other horrors were manageable, but a jumpscare caught you off guard.

“Wh-what are you doing here…”

They both knew—Host had flushed the toilet to save him, then hid in the tub.

What he really wanted to ask was: how could you hide in this—this bloody water?!

Suddenly, both their expressions changed.

Click… click… click, click, click, click-click-click-click—!

In an instant, the ghost reached the door. His scream must have drawn it—it had practically flown down, impossible to imagine its twisted body moving that fast.

“Pluck out my eyes, I can still see you.”

The ghost entered the bathroom, its bald head swiveling 360 degrees, scanning every corner.

“Plug my ears, I can still hear you.”

It stopped at the shower, its head tilting over the tub.

“Without feet, I can still reach you.”

At the bottom, two men pressed together.

He was re-evaluating himself—his earlier question was answered. In life-or-death situations, human potential was limitless.

The residents had been wealthy—the tub was large, but two adult males made it cramped. The ghost seemed to poke something into the water—maybe a knife? Its doll origins made it wary of liquids, so it prodded with the filleting knife. They had to press flat against the bottom, Shan Ziwei on top of Host, no gaps.

The blood was warm like fresh from a body—but it couldn’t match the heat from below. His mind was blank. He could endure the blood, but his condition couldn’t.

Condition, you bastard! T皿T

He tried to lift himself up—but nearly got cut by the knife.

Host noticed and pulled him back down.

“Pluck out my eyes, I can still see you… plug my ears, I can still hear you…”

The ghost repeated its death song, stirring the blood with the knife. Two centimeters below the blade, a certain sufferer was trapped.

His face was bright red, his heart racing. Blood carried pleasure through his body, wave after wave.

Worst of all, the blood flow was so fast he was oxygen-deprived.

He couldn’t—hold it any longer—

Seeing his twisted expression, Host’s dark eyes, stained scarlet by the blood—

He pulled Shan Ziwei close and sealed his lips.