Mitt looked into Bo Li’s eyes, and his feelings toward her completely changed.
Before this, he believed that if a woman lost her feminine charm, she lost the qualification to be admired by a gentleman.
He had a strict set of standards for women—they must be beautiful, gentle, kind, and yield to men.
They had to be well-read, yet never contradict a man’s opinion; they had to manage the household, yet never defy a man’s command.
His wife met all these requirements perfectly, a most standard model of an upper-class lady.
Yet after seeing Bo Li, Mitt suddenly felt that a woman who did not abide by decorum also… had her own unique flavor.
He was even willing to bow his head and admit fault to her.
—On the condition that she agreed to become his mistress.
Mitt was not worried in the slightest about failing the courage test.
He cast a casual glance over the tavern’s setup and thought the police officers had exaggerated too much.
This?
It was not even as frightening as spending a night in the swamps.
He had once gone hunting in the swamps, lodging outdoors for the night, and happened to stumble upon a skirmish in the woods.
The gentlemen accompanying him dared not approach, but Mitt sneered, lifted his lamp, and went forward to see.
What met his eyes was blood flowing like rivers, severed limbs and entrails scattered all over, the swamp dyed a muddy red. No one knew what had happened in the woods, but more than a dozen gunmen had not died from the gunfight itself; instead, their heads had been severed.
At that time, Mitt’s face turned ashen and sweat poured down, and it took all his strength to suppress the violent urge to vomit.
What comforted him somewhat was that the other gentlemen, upon seeing that scene, vomited until the sky spun, and two of them even fainted on the spot.
Because Mitt had appeared the most composed, he briefly became known in high society as the bravest man.
Could Bo Li’s performance, however terrifying, be worse than the bloody scene he had witnessed that day in the woods?
As the performance was about to begin, Mitt took one last look at Bo Li.
He was determined to win her.
Wright and Davis did not share Mitt’s confidence. The moment they stepped into the performance space, a chill surged up from their soles straight to the tops of their heads.
Before their eyes was an entire wall of grotesque exhibits.
Closest to them was a smooth, sticky fetus specimen, no larger than a palm, its features already clearly visible, as if someone had cut it out with a knife.
Beyond that were spirit photographs, exorcism tools, the skeleton of a mermaid… Wright and Davis, though men of broad experience, were both startled by the sight.
“This is simply… blasphemy against God.”
Light, a devout Catholic, had been taught since childhood that abortion condemned one to hell, that once conceived, a child must be born. But Bo Li had turned a fetus into a specimen—this was utterly beyond his comprehension.
Davis noticed that beneath the fetus specimen was a label:
“This specimen originates from the true experience of ‘Four-Legged Woman’ Emily. In order to attract attention, the circus manager cruelly killed the child in her womb and made it into a specimen.”
“Emily…” Wright frowned. “Isn’t that the identity card assigned to me? I am to play this woman who was forced into abortion? How inauspicious.”
He had not even approached the delivery room when his own wife gave birth, yet now he was required to play the role of a woman who had suffered an abortion.
Wright felt a surge of nausea, an impulse to withdraw altogether.
Davis said, “This is precisely where Claremont’s ingenuity lies. She knows men find these things taboo, so she deliberately placed such exhibits at the entrance, intending to make us retreat in fear. This woman is not as ignorant as we imagined.”
Wright turned his gaze toward Mitt, hoping he would once again denounce Claremont: “Walter, what do you think?”
Mitt was still savoring Bo Li’s wildcat-like eyes. At the question, he answered absentmindedly:
“What do you expect me to think? Don’t be so timid—frightened by a single specimen?”
Wright felt Mitt was being duplicitous, abandoning principles for lust. But Mitt’s family background was far superior to his own; no matter what, he could not reproach him. He could only shift his eyes toward Davis and say bitterly: “Very well, since you all think so highly of Claremont, then why bother with this courage test at all? We might as well surrender immediately.”
Davis thought Wright was being completely tactless. Mitt was obviously enamored of Bo Li, yet Wright insisted on speaking ill of her at such a moment, making the atmosphere tense.
“Mr. Wright,” Davis said, “Claremont is still a lady, after all. Where have your gentlemanly virtues gone? Show her a little respect!”
His two friends seemed to have become different people. Wright could not accept this, yet neither could he tear his face with them, so he could only swallow his anger and follow behind them, pressing forward.
Ever since entering the performance space, Mitt had grown unusually silent, his thoughts unknown.
Thus Davis took up the responsibility of leading, actively searching for clues.
“…I understand now,” Davis said. “Mitt is ‘Marbelle,’ I am ‘Flora,’ you are ‘Emily.’ We are now inside a circus. As long as we escape from here, we succeed.”
Wright sneered, “You slip into your role so quickly—already treating yourself as a woman?”
Davis could hardly bear it. “Mr. Wright, this is no time for quarrels. If you wish to get out of here quickly, then collect clues with me…”
The two glared at one another, tension mounting, on the verge of eruption.
Just as Davis was about to ask Mitt to arbitrate, he realized—at some point, Mitt had disappeared.
Mitt’s head was filled with thoughts of Bo Li. He had no patience to heed their quarrel.
He had not even bothered with a parting word before leaving directly—these two, in background and in knowledge, were both far beneath him. Keeping them by his side would only slow his progress through the test.
Mitt went straight toward the second floor.
The arrangement on the first floor was nothing more than the circus’s backstory.
He had no interest in such things; circus tales were all alike. The real clues must lie on the second floor.
Sure enough, in one of the rooms upstairs, Mitt discovered a long-dead corpse.
The corpse was crafted with such realism that it even exuded a pungent stench.
Mitt’s stomach twisted violently; he frowned and stepped closer to the body.
Its face was grotesquely swollen, its skin thin as a cicada’s wing, as though it might rupture at any moment. From its eyes, nostrils, and mouth, swarmed a mass of writhing white maggots.
The sight was so revolting that Mitt’s favor toward Bo Li diminished considerably.
If she were to become his mistress, he would have to stipulate beforehand—never again was she to meddle with such repulsive things.
This tavern too must be shut down.
Utterly improper.
He would permit her only to continue wearing men’s attire. (TL: Maybe you are gay??)
The thought of her in a shirt and trousers, walking before his eyes, suddenly made Mitt’s throat go dry.
His desire to pass the test grew stronger, yet in the room there was nothing but the corpse.
—Could the clue be hidden inside the corpse?
Mitt did not wish to lay a hand upon it—even if it was but a circus prop. Yet after searching the room for some time, he could not find so much as a pair of tongs.
He had no choice but to put on gloves, force down his revulsion, and fumble over the corpse.
Whether it was an illusion or not, he thought the corpse seemed to have shifted—drawn nearer to him.
It must be a mistake of perception.
When he had searched for tongs earlier, he had also checked around the corpse: no fishing lines, no counterweights, no hidden panels.
Yet no matter how he searched over the body, he could not find a single clue.
Realizing he had gone astray, Mitt muttered a curse, turned, and prepared to move on to the next room.
At that moment, the sound of wheels rolling suddenly echoed down the corridor, pressing the wooden floorboards into groaning creaks.
A chill crept up Mitt’s spine, spreading all the way to the back of his skull.
He told himself it was all false.
Actors moving wheels.
Yet Mitt had underestimated mankind’s instinctive fear of the unknown—the corridor was shrouded in darkness, the room likewise engulfed in darkness, and all lay hidden within the unknown.
Why would the actors push wheels? What message were they trying to convey?
Did it mean someone would soon come to chase him?
Or did it mean that, once the wheels turned, the corpse behind him would suddenly sit up?
Unknowingly, Mitt was already drenched in cold sweat.
Suddenly he recalled that the character he was playing, “Marbelle,” seemed to be seated in a wheelchair.
The air temperature appeared to plummet, an icy chill sweeping toward him from all directions.
In the next instant, something pressed against the back of his neck.
It felt as though a block of ice had been forced into his skull, the cold seeping instantly into his marrow.
Every muscle from Mitt’s head to his feet tightened, and he shuddered uncontrollably.
—There was someone standing behind him.
Over and over in his mind Mitt repeated: It is false, it is all false, they are actors, only actors, there is nothing to fear.
What kind of people, after all, could become circus performers?
—The Lower Class.
The lower class were generally workers, coolies, miners, peddlers, foreign immigrants… people who, when they saw him in daily life, could not wait to kneel and polish his shoes. Why should he fear the lower class?
It was they who ought to fear him.
Mitt swiftly regained composure. With a cold laugh, he turned around: “Is this all you are capable of?”
—
Wright and Davis, meanwhile, had already been eliminated—once they realized Mitt had disappeared, they no longer cared about searching for clues, but stumbled about like headless flies.
Then they came upon Theodore and Emily.
These two were even more faint-hearted than Henry. When they discovered Theodore sawing off Emily’s leg, they were so terrified they could not move a muscle.
Only when blood and fragments of flesh spattered onto their heads did they react, convulsing as they vomited violently upon the ground.
The reporters had long since set up their cameras. At the very instant the two vomited, they lit the magnesium flash and pressed the shutter.
With a sharp hiss, a dazzling white light flared.
The wretched figures of Wright and Davis vomiting were forever frozen upon the film.
Bo Li waited for some time, but there was still no movement from Mitt. An ominous premonition stirred within her heart.
Impossible… could it be that Erik truly harbored feelings for her?
So much so that merely because she agreed to Mitt’s invitation, Erik had reacted with such vehemence as to cause Mitt to vanish on the spot?
Bo Li had thought, even if Erik did like her, at most he would find some roundabout way to dissuade her upon hearing she was going to meet Mitt.
He did not seem like a man who was impulsive, quick to anger, or prone to betraying his emotions.
Just as Bo Li was about to don her black cloak and head upstairs to see what Mitt was doing, an ear-splitting scream of abject terror resounded.
The reporters immediately leapt to their feet.
Mitt came tumbling down the stairs, rolling and crawling.
His hair was in disarray, his face deathly pale, sweat streaming down his brow. His teeth chattered, his gentlemanly bearing utterly shattered. He was like a hounded stray dog:
“Upstairs—upstairs—”
People crowded around, clamoring with questions:
“What happened upstairs?”
“Don’t panic, speak slowly…”
“What did you see?”
After a long while, Mitt’s dry voice continued: “…I saw a ghost, a real ghost… He was practically everywhere, pervading every corner, and I could not grasp him no matter what I did.”
“At first, I thought he was an actor, until I realized he wanted to kill me—he wanted to strangle me with a rope…”
“I could not resist at all, could not even cry out for help… the moment I tried to speak, I saw my own mouth melting away, as though I had drunk acid—my tongue, my teeth, all dissolving!”
By the end, he was already sobbing, unable to compose himself.
The crowd fell silent, expecting to hear of some dreadful, ghastly scene.
But was this not merely his own hallucination?
“You do not believe me?” Mitt demanded in fury. “Where is Claremont? Bring her here—let her explain! If this is not a ghost, then what is a ghost?!”
At first, Bo Li was startled, thinking Erik had overreacted and directly made Mitt vanish.
When she realized Mitt was merely frightened out of his wits, her heart at once settled back into place.
Erik was rather dependable after all—he had not frightened Mitt into fainting.
If two people in succession had fainted, there would likely be no one left willing to watch the performance.
But how exactly had Erik caused Mitt to fall into hallucination?
Bo Li stepped forward and said with difficulty, “Mr. Mitt, though I have not read many books, even I know one must believe in science. If everyone were to call whatever they could not explain a ghost… then there would be no trains, no electric lights, no telephones, nor cameras.”
As she spoke, she stepped aside, revealing the reporters’ cameras already set up: “If I truly commanded ghosts, why would I need to ask reporters to take photographs for me? Would it not suffice to have the ghosts do it directly?”
A low murmur of agreement spread through the crowd.
Though they still believed in God and respected the teachings of the Bible, they also recognized that, without science, they would never in their lifetimes enjoy the conveniences of trams, telegraphs, telephones, and trains.
Mitt was a gentleman who had studied abroad in Europe, yet here he was blaming his own lack of courage on ghosts—unbelievable.
Still, some remained doubtful of Bo Li’s words.
“But Miss Claremont,” someone asked, “the existence of God cannot be explained either. Do you mean that believing in science is the same as believing God does not exist?”
A restless whisper spread quickly through the crowd.
God could not be denied.
Even Darwin himself had not completely denied the existence of God.
Bo Li looked at him in astonishment: “Why would you think so? It is precisely because of God’s permission that scientists were able to invent the tram, the telegraph, the telephone, the train, and the steamship.”
“God is omniscient and omnipotent; all has been arranged by Him. Since He has guided us to believe in science, why would He allow us to fall into superstitious terror? Or are you saying science itself is not part of God’s design?”
The man’s face flushed red in an instant, and he stammered without being able to utter a reply.
Most of the people were convinced by Bo Li. A smaller number thought her reasoning was flawed, but could not for the moment find grounds to refute it—for to rebut her would be to refute the very claim that “God arranges all things.”
Thus all eyes of doubt turned toward Mitt.
If not for his mention of “ghosts,” they would not have been driven into speechless embarrassment.
Bo Li seized the moment, stepping before Mitt and clasping his hand with regret: “I am truly sorry, Mr. Mitt—you have not passed the courage test. But never mind, Mr. Wright and Mr. Davis were eliminated even before you.”
After more than ten minutes, Mitt at last barely managed to regain composure.
His complexion flushed and paled by turns, cold sweat soaking layer after layer down his back—he knew he had suffered a grave humiliation before all.
Now, only one thought remained in his mind.
He must turn disadvantage into advantage.
Although he had disgraced himself before the crowd, Mitt was still a gentleman of the upper class, and thus retained a certain degree of attraction in Bo Li’s eyes.
He could first win her over, and then discard her.
In this way, he could restore the face he had lost.
With this thought, Mitt lifted his eyes toward Bo Li and, lowering his voice, said:
“…I am sorry that I failed the courage test. May I still invite you to dinner?”
The moment these words left his lips, the intense hallucination returned.
The second-floor corridor of the tavern.
The ghost was standing there, watching him with cold detachment.
He was terrifyingly tall, a white mask covering his face, with hollow, icy eyes staring out from within the sockets. He wore a black coat that hung down to his knees, and in his hand was clutched a length of rope.
The sight of that rope alone made Mitt’s whole body tremble, his heart pounding violently against his ribs.
And just then, he suddenly remembered—the headless corpses he had seen in the woods before, with their necks mangled and bloody… perhaps they had not been severed by a knife after all.
Perhaps they had been torn away in a violent wrenching by a rope.