Chapter 242: Night Road
A game of cards no one wanted to continue naturally ended swiftly. Song Laoyao, after leaving the table, grumbled and cursed the entire way.
The other three heard him, yet none spoke a word, though they all felt quite uncomfortable inside. The silence stemmed from their unwillingness to provoke Song Laoyao, that madman.
They knew perfectly well what kind of person Song Laoyao was. They hadn't wanted to play cards with him, but couldn't resist his repeated invitations. Their aim wasn't to win much money from Song Laoyao; they merely wished to seize the chance to fleece the other three. To their astonishment, only Song Laoyao ended up losing.
Though the debts had canceled out, Song Laoyao's mood remained foul; after all, every penny he'd brought had been gambled away.
This sum of money was his deceased wife's salary for the past month. After her death, he'd gone to her employer to reclaim her wages, and had even extorted an additional sum.
His deceased wife's salary wasn't high, and his petty schemes only netted him a few hundred yuan more from the employer. Even combined with her wages, the total wasn't much.
Yet, if this money had been used wisely, saved carefully, it absolutely would have allowed him and his child to live in the slums for a month. Alas, he hadn't done so; instead, he'd lost it all in a single day.
Deep in the night, the slums lay quiet. Those who needed to rise early had already drifted into dreamland.
Those who played cards through the night were all indoors, careful not to disturb the slums' quiet.
Only thoroughly drunkards occasionally babbled and raved, shattering the deep-night tranquility of the slums.
“Goddammit, today’s truly cursed luck. I’ve never been this unlucky playing mahjong. Could it be that stinking hag is messing with me from the shadows? Has she come back for me? ”
Song Laoyao stumbled along, his body lurching with each step, muttering to himself.
As he spoke, his face betrayed not the slightest fear; instead, it contorted into a sneer of mockery.
Although it was his wife's Head Seven, and according to superstitious beliefs, tonight marked her soul's return, he had never believed in ghosts or gods, and thus, naturally, he wouldn't believe his wife would come back for him.
The reason this sudden remark escaped his lips was entirely because, having lost money, he was in a foul mood. Whatever crossed his mind, he felt compelled to retort or mock.
But to his bewilderment, the moment the words left his mouth, he suddenly felt a chilling sensation behind him, causing him to shiver involuntarily.
“What the hell, what season is this? It's still so cold at night. ”
After cursing, Song Laoyao tightened his clothes. It was then he suddenly realized that tonight, the slums were unsettlingly quiet.
“This is truly damn unsettling, I usually see one or two drunks at this hour. What's wrong today? Have all the drunks died off? ”
He cursed again, yet somehow Song Laoyao felt even colder. This inexplicable chill stirred unease within him, and even as a non-believer in ghosts and gods, he felt a strange apprehension take root.
He instinctively halted, glancing around. Pitch black surrounded him; there was nothing to be seen.
The slums had no streetlights. If residents wished to venture out at night, they either brought their own lamps or relied entirely on providence: traveling by moonlight when available, or navigating by feel when there was none.
Song Laoyao never carried a lamp when walking at night, for he knew these paths intimately. As he often boasted, he could walk home even with his eyes closed.
Yet tonight, he found his eyes were not as reliable as before. Normally, even without moonlight or lamps, he could navigate his way back in the dark, but tonight he nearly stumbled several times.
It wasn't as if he'd tripped over anything; rather, it felt as though someone had seized his feet. . .
A prickle of unease spread through him, and Song Laoyao pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. These were decent cigarettes, with a hefty price tag. Not only the destitute, but even office workers with respectable salaries wouldn't dare smoke cigarettes so expensive.
But to conceal his poverty and incompetence, Song Laoyao would rather put on a show of wealth and smoke these cigarettes. He had been doing so for many years.
A single pack of these cigarettes was enough to cover his entire family's daily expenses. Not enough for a feast, certainly, but far better than what most in the slums could afford.
Furthermore, Song Laoyao needed two packs of these cigarettes a day; one pack was far from enough. When he played cards, he might even buy three or four packs. . .
He pulled the last cigarette from the pack and lit it, taking a deep drag. The prickling sensation in his heart not only failed to dissipate but grew even more intense.
“What the hell, what's going on tonight? Why does everything feel so strange, every turn revealing something odd? ”
He cursed loudly to steel his nerves, then quickly pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight.
The flashlight's beam immediately illuminated the path beneath his feet, yet this action didn't enhance his sense of security. Instead, it made him feel even more profoundly unsettled. . .
He kept feeling as though someone was watching him from behind. . .
Yet, whenever he turned to glance behind him, there was nothing but pitch blackness.
His pace quickened, and Song Laoyao, whose stamina was poor, gradually began to pant. In the stillness of the dark night, beyond his ragged breaths, no other sound could be heard—not even the chirping of insects that typically filled the nights.
These incessant, chattering insects that kept people from sleeping every night seemed to have collectively vanished tonight. Not a single one dared to utter the slightest sound. . .
The house Song Laoyao rented was in the most secluded corner of the slums. He had chosen it precisely because the rent there was considerably cheaper than any other location within the slums, so Song Laoyao had decisively picked this spot.
As for its distance or remoteness, these were things he had never given a second thought. After all, it wasn't he who had to commute to work, so a bit of distance meant nothing. Furthermore, he possessed nothing valuable at home to be stolen, and thus he harbored no concerns about his house being robbed due to its secluded nature.
His home was utterly destitute; the phrase "four bare walls" perfectly described it. Even the most skilled thief entering his house would inevitably leave empty-handed.
Precisely because his rented house was so secluded, Song Laoyao had been walking for quite a while and still hadn't reached home. Furthermore, as he drew closer to the rental, the surrounding houses gradually thinned out.
Eventually, he could no longer discern any houses around him. Under the cloak of night, only Song Laoyao walked alone, his phone's flashlight cutting a meager beam, hurrying along the path. . .
For some reason, he, who had always been utterly fearless, now felt an unspeakable dread rising within his heart. . .
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