The carriage halted before a white villa.
Its location was intriguing—the back garden bordered a marsh, surrounded by boundless green lakes. At a glance, one could scarcely distinguish between lake, marsh, and meadow, as though the place were a beautiful yet inescapable cage.
As Boyd turned to step down, Bo Li quickly checked the holster at her lower back, only then allowing herself a measure of calm.
Approaching the villa, a footman spotted them and came forward to open the door.
He was tall and powerfully built, dressed in a vest and shirt, with a gun holster strapped to his belt. The flap was unfastened, exposing the nickel-plated handle of a revolver.
Bo Li’s gaze fell upon the holster, her expression unchanging, though her heart skipped two beats in rapid succession.
Noticing her eyes, Boyd softly reassured her: “Do not be afraid. They will not fire upon us.”
At that moment, a woman came forward. She appeared to be about fifty years old, with a severe face and dressed in a plain yet proper gown. She reached out, intending to remove the black cloak from Bo Li’s shoulders.
Bo Li hurriedly stepped back. “No need, I am a little afraid of the cold.”
The woman looked toward Boyd.
Boyd explained, “This is Madam Merlin. She will not harm you, only wishes to see whether you carry anything that may hinder the work of a medium.”
He leaned closer, speaking at Bo Li’s ear with a smile. “Any sharp object—needles, hairpins, brooches, scissors… none may be taken inside. Though ghosts fear a medium, the moment they find a chance, they will harm the living. To be safe, it is best to let Madam Merlin check whether you have overlooked removing any pins.”
For an instant, dozens of thoughts flashed through Bo Li’s mind—such as stepping forward, drawing her gun against Boyd’s back, and demanding to leave.
But the footman stood just behind her. She had no professional training; the speed of drawing, cocking, aiming, and pulling the trigger could never outpace his.
Lie, then?
Bo Li could think of no falsehood sufficient to prevent Madam Merlin from searching her.
Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down.
Rather than be compelled to surrender the pistol, it was better to take the initiative, to let them remain uncertain of what cards she still held.
With this in mind, Bo Li suddenly allowed a faint smile, raising her hand to undo the black cloak and reveal the shirt and trousers beneath.
All present were momentarily taken aback—they had seen women perform in men’s attire, but a long-haired woman in male dress, this was a first.
Bo Li’s features were refined, a wide-brimmed lady’s hat with a camellia bloom adorning her head, yet her body was clad in a gentleman’s shirt and fitted trousers. The line of her neck, shoulders, and legs revealed themselves without warning before their eyes.
Boyd too was startled.
He had seen many girls cut their hair short and don men’s clothing for the stage, but they were either entirely boyish—stuffing handkerchiefs into their trousers—or bashful and ill at ease in them.
Bo Li, however, gave him the impression that she had been born to wear trousers, her bearing open and unrestrained, untouched by the gaze of others.
Her composure was so calm and assured that Boyd did not dare look directly at her.
Bo Li unbuckled the holster. “I have no sharp objects on me, only this. Do you want it?”
Just as she had anticipated, the calmer she appeared, the less excuse Boyd had to press the matter. He merely waved his hand, and Madam Merlin took the gun away.
“Do not worry, it will be returned to you shortly,” Boyd said.
They proceeded forward. Beyond the villa’s main doors lay a splendidly decorated corridor, its walls lined with oval portraits.
“This is Madam Hilly, the mistress of the house.”
Boyd stood before a portrait. The lady in it wore an ostrich-feathered hat, her features dignified and stately.
“She is a kind woman, very supportive of mediums, and has allowed us the use of her house to receive honored guests.”
Bo Li understood then—the house had been tricked from its owner.
They entered the drawing room. Inside was an old-fashioned fireplace, stoked with coal, its flames blazing high, making the air almost oppressively hot.
More than a dozen women sat upon the sofas of the room. When Bo Li entered, they all turned their heads to look at her.
Their ages varied—some old, some young. Their attire ranged from elegant to plain. Some wore smiling faces, some looked with curiosity, others were cold and stern.
At last, the stern-faced medium rose, stepping before Bo Li.
She was about thirty years of age, of ordinary appearance, clad in a velvet gown.
She circled Bo Li once, then suddenly leaned in, sniffed at her collar, and let out a sigh.
“I smell upon you… a most evil aura. Miss Claremont, you are entangled by a ghost. Your spirit is terrified to such a degree that it has even forgotten the way home. That is why you cannot return!”
Dusk deepened. The drawing room lamps were unlit, and only the firelight flared fitfully. Shadows surged and ebbed within the room like waves against the shore.
Bo Li felt that all of this was nothing but a grotesque game.
It was so absurd that she did not even feel herself in peril, but only wished to see how far they would carry their fabrication.
“What ghost?” Bo Li asked. “And what has it to do with my returning home?”
“It was your spirit who told me,” said another medium, rising to her feet. Someone beside her handed her a sheet of paper, which she spread upon the table. She motioned for Bo Li to come forward and place her hand with hers upon a steel pen.
“Now, close your eyes, imagine your home, and attune yourself to the aura in the air… You will enter the spirit realm with us, speak with your own spirit, and it will tell us the name of that ghost.”
Bo Li almost laughed aloud. They truly meant to fool her as though she were a simpleton.
Was this not precisely the principle of pen fairy—several people holding one pen, asking eerie questions, and under the pressure of a dreadful atmosphere, someone inevitably grew unsettled and unconsciously pushed the pen across the page, leaving behind “supernatural” traces?
She shrugged and stepped forward, placing her hand upon the pen with the medium.
What made her heart give a violent thump was not the pen’s movement, but that Erik’s gaze appeared once again.
She did not know where he was, but his eyes pressed down heavily upon the joined hands of hers and the medium’s.
At that moment, the drawing room window flew open without warning. A cold wind rushed in, the temperature inside plummeting in an instant.
The mediums thought it a trick of one among them; they nodded subtly to each other, eyes gleaming with approval.
Bo Li had no leisure to watch their reactions.
She was trying to guess Erik’s location.
In the drawing room, with every leap of the flames and every surge of shadow, he might be moving, leaving behind those flickers as his trace.
She wondered if he had seen the note she left.
If he had not—would he believe she was in league with Boyd?
And if so, how would he treat her?
The female medium kept her eyes closed, murmuring incantations as she clutched Bo Li’s hand, moving the pen across the paper—her strength was astonishing, Bo Li could not move in the opposite direction even if she tried.
“Relax, relax—” the medium intoned, her voice theatrical like a stage performer. “The ghost is beginning to manifest! We shall write down his evil name!”
As her words fell, the pen drew a horizontal stroke, then a slant, another horizontal, and yet another.
Erik’s gaze upon her suddenly grew heavier.
As the nib scraped against the paper, his eyes seemed to scrape along the back of her hand as well, each stroke etching clearly—
“E!” the medium cried. “The first letter of the ghost’s name is E—”
The other mediums crowded closer to look at the “E.”
Boyd also stepped forward, speaking low by Bo Li’s ear: “I have never seen such an evil ‘E.’ This spirit must surely be a malevolent one.”
Bo Li barely heard what he said.
Erik was still watching her.
His gaze traced upward inch by inch, from the back of her hand to her neck, then to her earlobe.
Her heart thudded wildly beneath his stare. The back of her hand grew hot, tingling, and burning with a searing prickling pain.
The sensation spread to the roots of her ears, making her scalp tighten.
Whether it was the confidence from their earlier encounters, she no longer felt only danger—instead, there was a strange… thrill.
Perhaps because she had already done all she could, and had evidence enough to prove herself.
She did not know how matters would unfold, but she could not help feeling that she might yet follow her plan—to use this matter to win his favor.
The pen moved again, making a faint rustling sound on the paper. This time it was the second letter—just a single stroke: r.
The medium shuddered, as if truly glimpsing a spirit. “E, r… We are about to see the evil spirit’s outline!”
Bo Li was a little distracted.
A voice rose within her heart: Do you truly believe you can win his favor?
He cannot be controlled. Until now, every encounter you have had with him has been passive. You have never once guessed his thoughts correctly.
Yet she had written a letter, left in the guest room.
Do you truly believe he will trust you?
He is not the male lead of the original story, nor the protagonist of a musical, killing only to win the heroine’s love. He is the lead of a horror tale, whose sole mission is to kill unceasingly. All those around him, including you, are his prey.
And yet, have you not noticed?
Even when he speaks, the way he looks at you is like a ravenous beast.
Bo Li shivered violently.
The cold wind rushed in, and the fire in the hearth leapt high in sudden turbulence.
At Boyd’s signal, the other mediums came forward, joining hands to encircle them.
“This ghost’s evil surpasses our imagination… Do not fear, the spirit realm shall grant us strength—we will protect you…”
The nib still scraped against the page. In the darkness, the white paper slowly revealed the third letter, i—then the fourth, k—
Erik.
Erik.
“Erik…” the medium cried aloud. “The evil spirit’s name is Erik! I smell the stench of Satan upon this paper. That means he is not a true evil spirit, but one who has offered up his soul to Satan, in exchange for a spirit’s power… This is the first time I have ever seen such a strange being. Though still living, he has slain countless men; his every motion is no different from that of a ghost. Listen to me—you must leave him, or you will meet with a calamity of blood…”
The farce had gone about far enough.
Bo Li tried to withdraw her hand. “And if I do not?”
Boyd seemed to have anticipated her words, pinning her hand fast, whispering urgently:
“You must leave him. I have invited a master who has drawn his likeness. Once you see it, you will understand—it is no human face at all…”
Bo Li: “…” If you wish to die, do not drag me into it!
Cold sweat broke out instantly across her skin. Her heart pounded violently as she struggled to wrench her hand free.
Boyd grew ever more agitated. Stepping forward, he pressed her hand down upon the table almost in an embrace.
“Listen to me, he is far more evil than you imagine! Do you see my finger? It was he who cut it! You wish to go home, do you not? Have you thought that the reason you cannot return is because of him?”
In the struggle, the table legs groaned with a creak.
Bo Li longed to bite him.
Boyd turned to the mediums: “What are you waiting for—hurry and fetch the portrait!”
At those words, Bo Li’s mind went blank, her breath stifled.
If before she had felt no danger, even a faint thrill, now she was entirely enveloped in a bone-chilling sense of peril.
The moment they produced that portrait, Erik would undoubtedly unleash a slaughter.
Whether he would spare her then, she could not say.
It was not that she did not wish to see his face—indeed, she had even thought about what expression she ought to wear upon seeing it, what words she might speak. But absolutely not under these circumstances, and not before so many eyes.
That face was the source of all his suffering.
Had it not been for features so unlike those of ordinary men, he might have been hailed as a genius known throughout the world, rather than a monster feared by all.
For a fleeting instant, Bo Li felt danger pierce to her very marrow, every hair upon her body standing on end.
What to do?
How could she save herself?
If only Erik were beside her—she could at least give him a kiss, an embrace, something to tip the scales toward survival.
But she did not know where he was, or what he was doing.
Perhaps, even now, he had already drawn a dagger within the shadows, face cold and grim, preparing to kill them all.
Bo Li’s mind spun rapidly. After a moment’s hesitation, she clenched her teeth—a desperate gamble was better than waiting for death.
She had to make him know she was innocent.
By then, the mediums had already carried out the portrait, its surface draped beneath a dark-red cloth.
“This painting is too sinister,” Boyd said. “Even mediums dare not look at it for long, lest calamity befall them—”
As he spoke, the blood in Bo Li’s body seemed to freeze. A sharp chill pressed against her back, like the edge of a blade.
Could it be Erik’s knife?
The mediums were just about to lift the cloth when Bo Li shut her eyes and snapped, turning her head in fury:
“Boyd, do not think I do not know what scheme you are playing at! You want to use this portrait to help Tricky sow discord between me and Erik. Do you think I will fall for it? You think I do not know what kind of man Tricky is? He has set his sights on Erik, wanting him to serve under his banner. But Erik is too clever, too powerful—he must be ensnared with plots. And I, in your eyes, am nothing but a piece in your game—”
Boyd had not expected Bo Li to suddenly grow so eloquent, and for a moment he stood dumbfounded. Only after several seconds did he come to himself, shouting: “She’s possessed by the evil spirit! Quickly, fetch the holy water!”
Bo Li said coldly, “Holy your head! Do you really take me for a fool?” She turned toward the mediums. “And you—do you think I do not know you are frauds? Give me a sheet of paper and a pen, I could put on a better performance than you. Saying I cannot go home because of Erik—do you even know where my home is? You spout whatever nonsense comes to your lips!”
The drawing room fell into dead silence.
In all his years of swindling, Boyd had never encountered a victim so lucid, so decisive. After a moment, he could only fumble for a cigarette with trembling hands, strike a match, and inhale deeply.
No one knew how much time had passed before a medium’s quavering voice broke the silence: “Mr. Boyd…”
Boyd, restless, rolled up his sleeves and paced. “At a time like this, still calling me ‘mister’? Speak quickly! I must think of how to tell Mr. Trick the plan is ruined—this bitch knows everything…”
“…The drawing room door opened.”
“The wall lamps have gone out,” another medium forced herself to say. “I lit them with my own hands. They had glass covers. How could they be extinguished?”
At that very instant, the fire in the hearth also died out!
The drawing room was plunged into darkness.
It was simply impossible. The hearth was still piled with coal, there was no draft, no water—yet the flames had vanished in an instant!
The mediums panicked at once. They were actresses Boyd had long employed, ignorant of any true spiritual craft, and now they truly believed a haunting had begun.
“Mr. Boyd, what is happening?”
“I want to go home…”
“Mr. Boyd, did you not say there were no such things as ghosts?”
The clamor made Boyd irritable. Forcing his voice low, he snapped: “Of course there are no ghosts! Have you not seen it yet? The wall lamps went out, the hearth as well—it’s because someone is playing tricks! Damn it, this time I came prepared, I have a gun in my hand!” He suddenly raised his voice, shouting, “I’m not afraid of him! If he dares to come, I’ll shoot him dead!”
Even as the words fell, the great chandelier in the drawing room swayed violently.
All the women screamed.
That chandelier was as vast and splendid as those in a theater, its branches elaborate, strung with hundreds of glittering crystal beads, linked together like necklaces, each dangling from gilded sconces.
It had hung from the villa ceiling all this time, seldom stirring. Now it shook madly, as though at any moment it might come crashing down.
One uncanny event after another finally drove Boyd’s mind to the brink of collapse.
His face went deathly pale. He staggered back a step, already seeking to shift the blame.
“I never wanted to provoke you… From the very start, I had no designs on you! If you must blame someone, blame Tricky. He said—he said if I lured this woman to the villa, he would give me Dawes’s purse… It was Tricky who devised all of this, it had nothing to do with me—”
With a sudden boom, the fire in the hearth blazed to life again without warning.
The drawing room was flooded once more with light.
And at last, everyone saw clearly what had made the great chandelier sway so violently—
Tricky’s severed head.
It looked to have been twisted off while he still lived, like a smashed watermelon, flesh and blood dripping in streams.
All the women shrieked in unison, voices shrill with terror.
Boyd’s eyes bulged, his chest heaving, and from his throat burst a scream of horror unlike any he had ever uttered.
Bo Li too was shaken.
She stepped back several paces, her heart surging into her throat until she could scarcely breathe.
…It was like being thrust into an immersive horror film.
She felt no pity for Boyd, nor for Tricky, nor for the fraudulent mediums. Had their scheme succeeded, her own fate might not have been any better than being beheaded.
Yet the sight before her struck too deep, the impact too great.
She needed a moment to steady herself.
And then—a hand in a black glove covered her eyes.
Cold, hard, carrying the scent of leather.
Bo Li shivered violently, but not from fear.
He had shown that ghastly vision to all, yet he alone shielded her eyes.