The door sealed shut behind me. I stood on one side of the ceremonial black table, my forehead drenched in cold sweat.
"Mr. Gao, are you alright? May I continue with the questions?"
The voice came from beneath the paper mask—flat, cold, emotionless. It sounded less like a question and more like a warning.
"I'm fine. Please go on."
Something was wrong. My mind had already shifted to escape plans. Whatever this Netherworld Live job was, I wanted no part in it.
"Mr. Gao, the following questions require your full attention. If your answers fail to satisfy us…"
He paused, lifting the wrinkled flyer off the table, "You may never leave this place—just like the true owner of this card… Xia Chi."
Xia Chi! Xia Qingzhi's brother!
So it was here that he disappeared—or worse. My heart began to pound.
Where the hell were Jiangcheng's police? A man had gone missing and they couldn't trace him? Or wouldn't?
Xia Qingzhi hadn't lied. But then why did the records show no trace of her brother's existence? Why did even her family seem to have no memory of him?
"Mr. Gao, please pay attention."
This time it was the man on the left. All three of them looked nearly identical in build, only their paper masks varied—some newer, some yellowed with age.
He began.
"When I was thirteen, I killed my sister because her crying annoyed me.
I dumped her body into the well behind the house.
The next day, her body was gone.
Five years later, I killed a friend over a petty argument.
I dumped his body into the same well.
The next day, his body was gone.
Ten years later, I killed a prostitute who tried to blackmail me after I got her pregnant.
I dumped her body into the well.
The next day, her body was gone.
Fifteen years later, I killed my boss for scolding me.
I dumped his body into the well.
The next day, his body was gone.
Twenty years later, I killed my disabled mother because I grew tired of caring for her.
I dumped her body into the well.
The next day, her body was still there.
On the third day, the fourth, and every day after… it never disappeared."
He leaned forward.
"Mr. Gao, your first question: Why didn't the mother's body disappear?"
What kind of question was that?
I'd listened carefully, dissected every word, but I couldn't figure out the logic behind it. These weren't interview questions. This was a psychological test—maybe even a criminal one.
The way he told the story—simple, calm—was what disturbed me most. It was like a giant hand in the dark had clutched my chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Your thirty seconds are up. Please answer."
With no better option, I started to analyze.
"In each case, the body disappears after a night—until the final one. If we assume the well has some supernatural quality, then the change must be due to the mother. The only reasonable explanation is… that she was the one disposing of the bodies all along. When she died, there was no one left to clean up after you."
I glanced at him.
No reaction. His paper mask didn't twitch.
"Now, for your second question."
He didn't confirm if I was right or wrong.
"Have you heard of snuff films?
The kind that mix real torture and murder into underground video footage—stuff only insiders know how to find.
Some say they're made by the killers themselves.
One day, I was drinking with a friend who said he had something like that.
Being curious, I agreed to watch.
He invited me to a remote cabin in the hills. I showed up on time, but he was thirty minutes late.
'Sorry, sorry,' he said. 'My third kid came down with a fever—wouldn't take the meds.'
'I get it. Kids can be tough.'
'Haha. Anyway, let's begin.'
The film was grotesque. Cries, muffled laughter, screams.
A masked man tortured a ten-year-old boy for twenty minutes until he died.
I turned off the TV halfway through, appalled. I shouted at my friend:
'How can you even watch this?! You have kids yourself!'
He gave me a casual smile and said:
'Yeah, I've got two. So what?'"
"Mr. Gao, your second question: Do you think the narrator made it out of that cabin alive?"
This was no less twisted than the first.
"Watching a video shouldn't be a death sentence," I thought—until something clicked.
In the beginning, the friend claimed his third child had a fever. But later he said he had two kids.
What happened to the third?
"The friend arrived thirty minutes late. The video shows a boy being tortured for twenty minutes. That missing 'third child'… could it be him? Was the friend the masked man in the video?"
My chest went cold.
"Mr. Gao, please respond."
"My opinion—no. The narrator didn't make it out. He probably became the star of the next film."
The air in the room grew heavier.
I unbuttoned my collar, slipped a hand into my pocket, and gripped my dead stun gun.
"Impressive," the voice said. "Here's your third question."
"They were childhood sweethearts, planning to grow old together.
At 35, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. She read the diagnosis and laughed through her tears.
She never smoked, lived a clean life—how could she get lung cancer?
She went to visit him at work.
In his drawer, she found a bag of her favorite dried fruit—and a bottle of pills.
Three days later, she lit candles for his birthday.
He wasn't there.
She lit 34 long candles, and one short one.
And laughed softly:
'You've lost weight.'"
"What did she mean, Mr. Gao?"
This riddle felt familiar, but I couldn't place it.
I thought for a long moment, then offered a wild interpretation.
"The man betrayed her. He laced her favorite snack with cancer-causing drugs. She found out, killed him, and rendered his body into candle wax. But he wasn't fat—so his body only made enough wax for 34 full candles… and one short one. That's why she said he'd lost weight."
"Very imaginative. Now, for the fourth."
"I pushed my girlfriend off the sixth floor.
I made it look like suicide and the police bought it.
But guilt haunted me.
I kept thinking she'd come back.
On the seventh day after her death, I visited a mystic.
He said her spirit would return, and the only way to survive was to hide under the bed—and never let her find me.
I did as he said.
Past midnight, I heard a basketball bouncing in the living room: thump, thump, thump.
When the bedroom door opened… I knew I was doomed."
"Mr. Gao, what do you think the narrator saw?"
"She's dead, so… the setup assumes her ghost returned. That's the whole point."
"You only need to answer."
I racked my brain.
Why these questions? What were they really testing?
"Assuming the woman fell head-first… she would've crawled back with her head dragging along the floor. That explains the thumping sounds. And when the bedroom door opened, she would've spotted the narrator under the bed immediately—because her face was upside-down, right there. That's why he knew he was dead."
"Well reasoned. Now, just one last question."
This time, all three men spoke at once—in eerie, perfect unison.
It chilled me to the bone.
Sweat trickled down my neck. I swallowed hard.
"Mr. Gao, the final question is…"
"Do you believe in ghosts?"