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After returning to her own tent, Bo Li could not fall asleep for a long time.
Erik was definitely not an ordinary person.
No ordinary man could possess such terrifying powers of recovery.
Even more frightening was that, though he clearly could speak, he uttered not a single word, like a silent madman.
Bo Li could not help but suspect—had she perhaps done something before transmigrating, which caused her to arrive here?
But she seemed to have done nothing at all. She had only tossed her hiking pack into the trunk, lain down in the back seat, casually opened a film, and watched while waiting for her friend to arrive.
The film was rather old, with a somewhat slow pace. She watched for a while and fell asleep, only to awaken when half of it had already played.
She saw the male lead wearing a long black coat and a black top hat, his face obscured beneath the brim, standing behind a lady in full dress. Slowly, he pulled on a pair of black leather gloves.
Just when Bo Li thought this was a nineteenth-century romance film, the male lead suddenly seized the lady’s neck from behind and, without hesitation, strangled her to death.
When others discovered her, she had already been thrown into the banquet’s boiler. Her head had been boiled until it turned soft and mushy, the lace hem of her gown drifting upon the broth, like fat congealed upon the surface of the soup.
Bo Li: “……”
She halted her hand, which was about to order takeout.
It was only then that she noticed the name of the film—The Phantom of the Opera.
Bo Li: “???”
She searched online and discovered that this was the horror film version of The Phantom of the Opera, filmed in the 1970s. The director had inserted a large number of blood-splattering scenes.
In the original, the male lead fell in love with a ballet dancer of the Paris Opera House. While teaching her vocal techniques, he threatened the opera manager, forcing him to let her replace the famous soprano on stage.
Naturally, the soprano was unwilling to yield. Thus, during her performance, the male lead somehow caused her to croak like a frog, disgracing herself before the audience.
In this film, however, the male lead directly strangled the soprano with a lasso and tossed her into the boiler.
In the original, though the male lead kidnapped the heroine, imprisoned her in the underground labyrinth, and tried to force her to stay with him, he abandoned this extreme idea after receiving a single kiss from her, willing instead to grant her happiness with the second male lead.
But in this film, the male lead resembled more of a monstrous being devoid of humanity. When he revealed his true face, it was not a matter of removing a mask—it was tearing off his own visage alive.
In the end, he was never moved by the heroine, ever ready to drag her to death together with him.
Of course, the heroine did not kiss him either, but rather burned him to death within the underground labyrinth.
Yet, like most European and American horror films, this one was not frightening in the least.
After watching for a while, Bo Li opened her food delivery app.
To speak fairly, the film was only of above-average quality. Horror films from the West were always like this: no sense of psychological oppression, only torrents of blood and explicit imagery.
But all this was built upon the foundation that she lived in the normal world.
…If she had transmigrated into the horror film version of The Phantom of the Opera, that would be far more terrifying than any East Asian horror film.
After all, in East Asian horror films, so long as one did not offend taboos of the spirits and gods, one could generally coexist in peace.
But in the world of Western horror films, there were far too many causes of death—
A taciturn younger brother at home; a mother who had once committed adultery; going camping in the wilderness; gathering in the park; attending a party with one’s boyfriend and sharing a kiss.
Any of these could become a reason for being hunted down by a madman.
The more Bo Li thought about it, the more her hair stood on end.
She would never again say that Western horror films were not frightening.
What kind of peaceful life had she lived before, that she could actually think being hunted by a madman was not terrifying!
After quite some time, Bo Li barely managed to suppress the panicked beating of her heart.
Even if Erik wore a mask, could sing, perform ventriloquism, and conjure illusions, that did not necessarily mean he was the Phantom of the Opera, much less the Phantom from a horror film.
Besides, what if she had transmigrated into the original work instead?
…It did not seem to make much difference.
The male lead of the original was also a lunatic. If the heroine refused to be with him, he was ready to blow up the Paris Opera House.
The male lead of the musical seemed somewhat more normal, yet in truth was not all that different—he hypnotized the heroine, kidnapped her, and nearly hanged her fiancé.
The only difference was that he had not planned to blow up the Opera House, but if driven to desperation, who could say for certain?
Bo Li could only comfort herself: her name was Polly Claremont, and this was not the Paris Opera House but a circus. It had nothing at all to do with The Phantom of the Opera.
To take ten thousand steps back—even if Erik truly were the Phantom, he would not blow up Paris for her sake.
At that thought, she peacefully closed her eyes.
The next day, at the faint break of dawn, Bo Li awoke—this body seemed to have a steady biological clock. Still drowsy, she sat up and drew out the golden pocket watch for a glance. It was only half past five.
She was just about to lie down again when she suddenly shivered, sat bolt upright, and stuffed the golden watch back into her chest bindings.
The first-aid kit was still outside. She wandered about the tent for a long while but could not find any proper place to hide it. In the end, she could only bury it in the pile of dirty clothes.
But that was obviously no long-term solution.
She must find a better spot, one without the stench of sour sweat.
By then, the others outside had also woken, and countless noises surged in—
the crowing of roosters, birdsong, footsteps, the sound of chopping wood, coughing, loud spitting, water being poured into the boiler.
Bo Li drew in a deep breath, put on her coat, and walked out.
The fog outside was thick; everything was shrouded in golden morning mist. The air was heavy with the sour smell of tobacco and sweat, mixed with the greasy staleness of leftover food. Half-dried flecks of spit dotted the ground everywhere.
Before long, Bo Li felt as if her clothes had been dirtied by the very air.
She silently resolved that, whether or not she could return, she must leave this place—go somewhere clean.
Suddenly, cheers and whistles sounded ahead. No wonder she had seen no one all this while; everyone had gathered at the front, applauding.
The manager stood among the crowd, his arm slung warmly about a tall, thin man, laughing and speaking loudly. Behind them sat a woman of unremarkable appearance.
Her face was waxen pale, and she wore a satin blue dress, its neckline tied with a lace bow, as though she had carelessly donned a doll’s clothing. Her skirt was lifted and laid across her knees, revealing—four legs.
Each leg was encased in striped stockings and red shoes, a sight that was somewhat chilling.
The manager ignored the pallor of the woman’s face, and patted her wheelchair with genial familiarity: “Thank the Lord, Emily has found her elder brother—remember what I said before? It was because we were abandoned by our families that we gathered here.”
“Mike’s mother, my sister, gave me five thousand francs and entrusted him to me—we all know full well what that means. His mother did not want him.” The manager continued, “Emily I picked up at the train station. Polly’s mother was a madwoman, and nearly stabbed his eye with a fountain pen.”
He smiled faintly. “Even a genius as rare in all the world as Erik was despised by his own parents. But I once promised: if one day you should find your family—or perhaps someone willing to take you in—you may leave at any time. I will never force anyone to stay.”
As he spoke, he turned his head toward Emily. “Isn’t that right, Emily?”
Emily gave no reply. Her face looked as though it had been sealed with wax.
Yet the manager acted as if he had received affirmation. Cheerfully, he declared that there would be a party that evening to celebrate Emily’s having found her kin, and he even promised to hire a band to play dance music for everyone.
All cheered excitedly, clapping their hands and stamping their feet.
Bo Li had originally wanted to use this chance to observe the circus folk more carefully. But just then, the little boy from yesterday squeezed his way before her and called out:
“Polly, the manager said you and I are to move things from the warehouse!”
Bo Li could only regretfully withdraw her gaze, turn around, and walk shoulder to shoulder with him.
On the way to the warehouse, the boy lowered his voice and spoke with deliberate mystery:
“Do you believe it? That man is absolutely not Emily’s brother. She must have hired someone to impersonate her kin.”
Thinking of Emily’s waxen face, Bo Li asked, “…Why would she hire someone to be her brother?”
“You’re stupid!” the boy said. “Of course because she’s a freak! She doesn’t need to do anything—just standing there is enough to make money flow in. Why, over in London, one freak even met the Princess of England!”
Bo Li echoed him with a few perfunctory words, but inwardly she felt certain the matter could not be so simple.
The circus manager was a man who cared only for profit. How could he so easily let go of a money tree, merely because she had found her kin?
Only yesterday, he had still been encouraging two children to fight to the death.
Wait.
She had nearly forgotten—Erik was not very old, at most sixteen or seventeen.
…And yet she had been so terrified by a youth covered in wounds that she could not move.
But recalling the way he had drawn nearer and nearer, the cold and hollow eyes behind the white mask, the blade hovering above her cheek as though it might pierce her throat at any moment—she could not help but shiver again.
He was entirely a beast devoid of humanity.
If possible, she truly did not wish to deal with him any further.
The “warehouse” the boy spoke of was, in fact, nothing more than a covered wagon, saturated with a pungent stench of mildew and rot. Between the wooden crates, spiderwebs had already formed.
Thick dust lay upon the storage shelves, atop which stood a row of wide-mouthed jars, inside which floated animal livers of various sizes.
Moving things was heavy labor, so Bo Li and the boy said nothing. For a time, only the creaking of the wagon’s wooden boards could be heard.
When only the last crate remained, the boy excused himself, saying he had to urinate, and then slipped away who knew where.
Bo Li waited for a long while, but he never returned. With noon fast approaching, she had no choice but to open the crate herself and carry its contents out piece by piece.
Inside seemed to be grotesque exhibition items: the skeleton of a mermaid, the hand bones of a giant, a cursed portrait, a doll possessed by evil spirits… At the very bottom, she even found a fetal specimen.
It was no larger than the palm of a hand, its entire body slick and mucous-like, as though wrapped in a gelatinous membrane. One could already discern the lines of its facial features, as if at any moment it might open its eyes.
Bo Li did not wish to look closely. She was about to shut the crate and move it out whole, when she suddenly noticed a label pasted on the jar:
“Child born unexpectedly to the Four-Legged Woman Emily. We thank her for allowing us to make a specimen of it, so that the world may behold how wondrous are the works of God! Even a malformed child can still give birth to life.”
Bo Li felt a chill spread through her entire body.
Recalling the boy’s words about the “popularity of freaks,” it was hard not to let her mind turn to darker suspicions—Emily had become pregnant and no longer wished to remain in the circus, so the manager had used some method to make her miscarry, then turned her fetus into a specimen for display.
In this way, Emily’s waxen pallor, her silence, her refusal to speak—all had an explanation.
Most crucial of all: the manager valued profit so highly, he would not even spare Emily’s unborn child.
Would he truly let Emily leave?
Or rather, would he ever allow any member of the circus to leave?
Though the specimen jar was tightly sealed, Bo Li felt as if the liquid within had seeped through the glass, soaking into her fingertips, drilling into her veins, rustling along the edges of her ears.
It took her more than ten seconds to realize—this was what terror at its peak felt like.
Calm down. Calm down.
She forced herself to suppress every shred of panic, treating all of this as a survival horror game.
Condition for clearing the stage: Escape the circus.
Known characters: the manager, Mike, Emily, the boy, Erik.
The manager was a greedy, ruthless pervert; Mike was the manager’s nephew; the boy, though seeming precocious, was in truth simple-minded.
Emily’s plight was pitiable—her unborn child had been made into a specimen, and she herself seemed to have been sold by the manager. That tall, thin man was certainly no brother of hers.
But with Emily’s immobility, it was impossible for her to help Bo Li escape the circus.
In the end, going round and round, the only option left to her was Erik.
This circus was far too strange. With her strength alone, it was impossible to flee.
She had to bring Erik with her.
Even if he truly was the Phantom of the Opera, even if he might at any time descend into a frenzy of slaughter, she still had no choice but to grit her teeth and win him over.