Chapter 8: It's Really Haunted |
Chapter 8: It Really Is Haunted 7
Wu Zhong suddenly had money. Even if it was only one million, he didn’t hesitate to quit his job.
The boss was shocked and regretful, tried every which way to persuade him to stay, but Wu Zhong’s mind was made up.
The reason was simple: this sum was what his current job would take him ten years of hard work to possibly earn, and that was with insane overtime.
If he just coasted and only took the regular pay, it would take over twenty years.
How many decades does one person have?
With the money in hand, Wu Zhong felt it settle in his stomach; the nerves that had been taut in his head finally relaxed.
He walked with newfound confidence, noticeably slower, no longer hunched over and rushing.
Outside the rain kept falling, clouds blotting out the sky.
Not expensive—fourteen yuan—he lit one and stood by the entrance, smoking in slow satisfaction.
“Ha…”
Cold rain spattered down. After one lung-clearing drag, he felt a tingle of bliss all over; his thoughts sharpened like never before.
First thing he did was pay off the loan in full.
Then he called the caregiver agency, requested a replacement caregiver, and signed a new two-year contract.
The agency next to the hospital sent their manager over; Wu Zhong haggled casually, and after signing the papers they transferred 140,000 yuan to the guardian services company behind them.
A caregiver for round-the-clock patient care at 140,000 a year was actually cheap.
With that done, he withdrew the remaining money into his bank account, just in case the payment app suddenly stopped working—this would take two days.
Luckily he’d already paid the surgery fee, so there wasn’t an immediate need for a large sum.
Wu Zhong went back to the ward to see his grandfather and told him about the surgery scheduled for tomorrow.
But Grandpa kept shaking his head, repeating “eat clothes” over and over.
Wu Zhong sighed—he didn’t even know whether Grandpa recognized him anymore… After the new caregiver arrived, Wu Zhong went home to fetch clothes.
He decided to bring all of Grandpa’s clothes back and show them one by one to see which he wanted.
Rummaging through the house, Wu Zhong sorted out all of Grandpa’s garments.
Not many—eight sets of seasonal clothes—he folded them one by one and looked for a box to pack them.
Suddenly he found a wooden box under the bed.
He raised an eyebrow; he remembered this was Grandpa’s. He opened it and froze.
Inside, neatly folded, was a full set of blue-brown silk with auspicious embroidery—five fortunes holding longevity… it was a burial suit.
His mind buzzed. In an instant he recalled Grandpa’s repeated words: “I want to eat clothes,” “There’s one in the room’s box, give me clothes to eat… go get it…”
“Grandpa…” Tears welled in his eyes as he finally understood what Grandpa had meant.
Grandpa wanted to wear a burial suit—he had already prepared it for himself long ago.
Wu Zhong hurriedly packed the burial suit, grabbed the box, and rushed back to the hospital.
Entering the ward, he slowed his steps, looking at the thin, dazed old man on the bed.
“Is this the one you want?” Wu Zhong patted the box.
Grandpa blinked and nodded, pointing with his chin: “Eh! Eat clothes, give me clothes…”
Wu Zhong set the box down, took his hand, voice choking, “Don’t say that… what living person wears a burial suit?”
“Don’t overthink it… there’s surgery tomorrow, after it you’ll be completely fine.”
No matter how he tried to reason, Grandpa insisted on the burial suit.
The meaning was simple: he didn’t want to keep enduring.
Finally, putting on a stern face, Wu Zhong said, “I’ve already paid the surgery fee—30,000 yuan. Whether you want it or not, you have to have it.”
Then he didn’t mention the subject again.
Wu Zhong felt a knot in his chest as he left the ward and lit a cigarette in the stairwell.
That day he stayed in the hospital and went nowhere.
He stayed by Grandpa’s side the whole time, handling eating, washing, and bathroom needs together with the caregiver, very patient.
Without a job, he had spare time and a strange lightness; his thinking cleared, his temper softened, and he chatted with the caregiver in a gentle tone.
The new caregiver felt embarrassed seeing Wu Zhong willingly take on chores even though he’d been paid; he explained that the previous caregiver whom Wu Zhong had disliked was actually a hardworking man. He hadn’t cared for Grandpa because Wu Zhong used to be ill-tempered and had even scolded him before.
The caregiver didn’t say muchback then but had taken out his resentment in the care he provided for Grandpa.
Wu Zhong froze. Thinking back, his tone and expression had indeed often been unpleasant; he couldn’t fake it—if he was in a bad mood it showed on his face.
Only now, after the car crash and with money in the bank, had he calmed down considerably.
“Really? Actually I’m not a bad person… well, I don’t have much education, maybe there were misunderstandings,” he stammered.
“Sir, when I’m not here, please look after my Grandpa for me. Please be conscientious,” he pleaded.
The caregiver smiled awkwardly: “Ah, it’s my duty. I’ll take good care of the old gentleman.”
“You seem like a good kid—polite and respectful. Not at all like he described. Sounds like the other guy was slacking off and gossiping. I used to think he was responsible.”
Wu Zhong only smiled quietly.
He couldn’t help reflecting: time truly is a person’s most precious asset.
Wealth isn’t the necessary condition for self-improvement.
Having time under your own control is what's critical.
To examine myself thrice a day, you need the time and energy to do so.
…
Night fell. The wind howled and the rain lashed down hard.
After settling Grandpa for the night, Wu Zhong lay down on the ward’s bedchair, still in his clothes.
He must have dozed off because as he began to drift into sleep, Grandpa’s shouting abruptly woke him.
“There’s a ghost! There’s a ghost! Go away! Go away!”
Grandpa screamed hoarsely at him, trying to sit up though his limbs were weak.
Wu Zhong felt groggy; his head ached from lack of sleep.
He looked around confused, rubbed his temples, and walked over: “Do you need to pee? Do you need to poop?”
Grandpa pointed at the window: “Guaiguai, ghost’s gonna hurt you, be careful!”
Guaiguai was Wu Zhong’s childhood nickname. He looked at the window—someone had blown it open and the rain was lashing in. He hurried over and shut it.
“No, Guaiguai, there’s a ghost!” Grandpa urged urgently.
Wu Zhong shut the window and muttered, “Why wasn’t the window closed? The rain’s blowing in… this lousy weather.”
He kept hearing Grandpa shout about ghosts, but saw none—just dismissed it as nonsense.
Suddenly the patient on the bed beside them sat bolt upright!
Wu Zhong assumed Grandpa had woken the person and hurried to apologize: “Sorry, sorry.”
“My grandfather’s confused, sorry for bothering you. Please go back to sleep, nothing’s wrong.”
He found it odd—the man in the neighboring bed was a stroke patient; how did he get up with so much vigor?
Clatter!
In the dim light the man didn’t just sit up—he got out of bed barefoot and walked toward Wu Zhong.
He still had an IV needle in his hand and the drip bottle swinging.
“Hey, hey, old man, take it easy—your IV’s on. If you need the bathroom I’ll help you.”
Wu Zhong rushed forward to steady him, fearing a fall.
Up close, the old man’s glazed eyes grew sharp and savage like a predator!
Yes, murderous intent!
Wu Zhong couldn’t describe it—his gaze had sharpened and grown cold.
Combined with the old man’s gaunt, shriveled frame and sparse hair, the sight made Wu Zhong’s skin crawl at midnight.
“Ah?”
Wu Zhong sensed trouble. Sure enough, the old man’s clawed, dry hand grabbed the IV stand and swung it straight at his head.
“Oh shit!”
Wu Zhong startled and instinctively dodged.
The old man’s movements were clumsy, so he missed, but in the sudden rush Wu Zhong’s heel caught the bed leg and he staggered, nearly falling against the footboard.
“What the hell are you doing, old man?”
Wu Zhong was young, 1.8 meters tall, not someone to be scared off by a raving old man. But this frail body seemed fragile—he didn’t want to injure him.
Whoosh!
The old man swung the IV stand again.
Wu Zhong rolled agilely on the floor to dodge and sprang up at once.
Not waiting to see the old man’s next move, he went to his grandfather’s side to protect him, fearing the crazed patient would hurt his grandfather.
He jabbed the call button, tense and ready.
He stared at the old man whose dry frame shuffled toward them in little feeble steps.
Those tiny steps looked near-death, yet the man brandished the IV stand like a weapon with terrifying momentum—a baffling sight.
At that moment the newly arrived caregiver woke up.
“Uncle! Help! This old man’s gone mad.”
Wu Zhong hoped the caregiver would restrain the man, but instead the caregiver snatched up a fruit knife from the table and lunged it at his neck!
“What the—”
Wu Zhong cried in shock, eyes wide, and saw the caregiver’s own gaze had turned murderous too!
Snick!
The caregiver, in his fifties and usually sturdy from work, lunged and grazed Wu Zhong’s neck with the blade.
Luckily Wu Zhong reacted enough to avoid a fatal stab; otherwise it would have been bleeding everywhere.
Feeling the pain and warmth at his neck, Wu Zhong snapped: “Are you guys insane?”
He kicked out hard, sending the caregiver stumbling back, then lunged forward to wrest the knife away.
Bang bang bang! He pounded on the caregiver’s hand holding the knife, while the stroke patient brought the IV stand down on the back of his head.
“Ouch, what are you doing!”
Fortunately the old man didn’t have much strength; Wu Zhong held on, managed to knock the knife from the caregiver’s grasp, and then shoved the old man away.
As he separated the two attackers and prepared to pick up his grandfather to run, a horrifying thing happened: Grandpa glared at him viciously, grabbed the metal spoon from his bedside used for eating, and thrust it toward his grandson’s eye!
The sight made every hair on his body stand on end; his blood ran cold.
“Grandpa!”
Wu Zhong’s heart tore in pieces as he dodged, his body staggering backward.
He didn’t know his father and had never seen his paternal grandfather; he’d been raised by this grandfather and his mother. After his mother died, this was his only close family—he called him Grandpa.
He couldn’t believe his eyes—his closest relative had gone mad and was trying to kill him?
“This can’t be! Absolutely impossible!”
His mind reeled. In a moment of distraction, the caregiver seized him from behind, arms like iron bands.
Wu Zhong’s arms were pinned; he struggled wildly, banging his head backward and forward, thudding against things.
But this new caregiver was frighteningly strong and didn’t seem to feel pain; his nose bled, but he didn’t let go no matter how hard Wu Zhong slammed his head.
Thud thud thud!
Gash!
He was struck by the two old men and bloodied. He watched in helpless fury as Grandpa staggered from the bed to pick up the fruit knife. Wu Zhong’s vision blurred with rage.
“Grandpa! What’s wrong with you? Say something!”
Grandpa paid no heed—his eyes were murderous. The frail body climbed down, trembling, and stooped to pick up the knife, taking tiny steps toward him.
That murderous determination chilled him to the bone.
Wu Zhong could have kicked him away, but couldn’t bring himself to do it—the old body was too fragile.
In that hesitation, Grandpa plunged the knife at his neck without the slightest doubt.
Sensing a life-threatening attack, Wu Zhong’s scalp tingled.
He drove his foot into the ground, levering his body and the caregiver behind him, stumbling backward into the wall.
Even as he jarred the caregiver’s face bloody with the impact, the man didn’t loosen his grip—he clung on like a vice.
Maybe the attackers’ adrenaline was off the charts—both these bedridden old men had somehow gotten out of bed to chase him. How much adrenaline must they be pumping?
The caregiver, too, in his fifties, seemed possessed by a deathly tenacity.
“Help! Someone’s killing—murder!”
Wu Zhong screamed for help, struggling with all his strength, kicking to break free, and he tumbled out of the ward dragging the caregiver with him.
“Help! Nurse! Doctor! Somebody!”
He ran down the corridor shouting; a nurse came running with a medicine bottle: “Stop shouting—that’s a hospital!”
Relief at normal human speech flooded him. “I know, I know—look! These people are trying to kill me!”
Another nurse sprinted down the dim corridor toward them.
Just when he thought rescue had come…
Smack! The nurse swung the medicine bottle and smashed it onto his head; glass shattered and splintered, medicine mixing with blood and running down.
“Ah?”
Wu Zhong looked up and met the nurse’s eyes—murderous, filled with intent.
“What’s happening? Why is this happening?”
He lost it. Summoning a burst of strength, he heaved himself up, spun, and used the caregiver’s limp body like a weapon to strike others aside.
Then, throwing his weight back, he drove the caregiver into the floor with his back; the caregiver’s head slammed down and he finally let go.
Free at last, Wu Zhong didn’t look back—he leaped up and ran like a mad bull, screaming for help.
But those streaming out of the ward were all trembling patients, clutching whatever objects they could grab as weapons, intent on killing him!
Shadows filled the dim corridor, their eyes ringed with bloodshot veins, converging on him.
“They’re all mad… all mad! There are ghosts!”
Wu Zhong gritted his teeth and fought through the pain, barreling toward the stairwell emergency door—he always smoked there and knew the route by heart.
An old dying granny sitting on a bed along the way sprang up and grabbed his clothes as he passed, refusing to let go, eyes furious like a vengeful spirit.
“Get off!”
Wu Zhong didn’t care; he kicked her away too.
He barreled through, punching old men and kicking old women. Even crazed and emaciated, they weren’t a match for his youth and desperate ferocity.
Before long he burst through the corridor, covered in numerous small wounds and a few big ones.
He barely felt the pain. He shoved open the emergency door and slammed it shut behind him.
Bang bang bang!
A mob of raving patients crowded the other side, pounding and pushing against the door with all their might, but they couldn’t open it.
Even when they smashed the glass, the shards fused to the frame and wouldn’t fall away, webbed with cracks like frosted glass.
Wu Zhong never imagined his strange ability would be so useful—welding it shut outright!
Even if the glass shattered, the pieces remained welded in place, rendering the exit unusable.
Panting, clutching his knees, he felt the frenzy subside; he was bloodied and dazed.
Through the small window in the emergency door he watched the crowd pressing and still trying to break through, intent on pursuing him, which baffled him deeply.
Good heavens—some of them were even his own relatives!
Why would the people in the hospital try to kill him? This wasn’t an act—if they weren’t mostly frail he’d probably be dead already.
Why? He had no idea why any of this was happening.