Chapter Thirteen: Such Terror

“Ah…”
At that moment, Feng Yuan let out a startled cry, suddenly opened his eyes, and threw a hard punch toward his neck, intending to kill whatever was strangling him.
But his fist hit nothing but empty air.
Feng Yuan sat up in bed, checking the space around him. There was no one nearby, yet the icy sensation of being choked lingered vividly in his memory.
Instinctively, he reached up and rubbed his neck gently—nothing seemed amiss.
Was it just a dream?
His brow furrowed deeply; the moment his neck had been gripped, it hadn’t felt like a dream at all. It was as if someone had truly tried to strangle him.
But the room was empty. Feng Yuan glanced around and suddenly noticed the door was ajar, a gap just the width of a finger, through which the cold, clear moonlight spilled in.
“That’s not right. I clearly locked the door. If I didn’t open it from inside, how could it be open now?”
Feng Yuan thought to himself, recalling how he always locked the door before sleeping. Life on the streets had made him wary, with many enemies, so he would habitually bolt the door at night to prevent intruders.
Tonight, he remembered distinctly sliding the bolt into place. Without his intervention, not even a strong wind could open the door, and unless someone broke it down, it was impossible for it to open from outside.
But he was alone in the room; unless there was someone else inside, he couldn’t have opened the door.
A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. If someone else was here, it could only be a ghost—for he had watched Hu Xiao return to her own chamber; she couldn’t be hiding here.
His mind flashed to the painting he had seen in the second courtyard that evening—the woman’s face, pale as death, with a strange smile. The more he thought about it, the more terrified he felt.
The old man had warned him not to go to the backyard because of evil spirits. He hadn’t believed it, but now it seemed almost certain. Otherwise, how could tenants have gone mad or died so mysteriously?
Now, with the door open, it was all but certain something unclean lurked inside. What had happened just now was likely not a dream, but reality.

As these thoughts chilled him further, Feng Yuan unconsciously touched his neck, feeling the icy dread that someone might grip him at any moment.
While he was lost in thought, a white shadow suddenly flashed through the courtyard outside the door. Feng Yuan, watching intently, saw it clearly—he was sure it wasn’t a trick of the eye.
“What was that? A female ghost?” The sight sent another wave of cold terror down his spine.
He got out of bed, slipped on his shoes, and cautiously approached the doorway, determined to see what lay outside—even if it cost him his life, he wanted to know the truth.
As he walked, he kept a wary eye on the room, sensing something strange—the temperature seemed unnaturally low. It was the height of June, the hottest days of summer; even at midnight, the air should be oppressive, yet the room felt as if an air conditioner was running.
But he found nothing unusual. He reached the door, resisted the urge to look outside immediately, and first checked the bolt. It had been slid open from inside, undamaged. This proved the door hadn’t been forced from outside, but opened from within—strengthening his suspicion: something unclean was indeed here.
He glanced again at the rooms behind him. The house’s layout was simple: two bedrooms and a hall, with the hall in the center, study on the right, and his own bedroom on the left.
His gaze swept across the study and living room—dark and empty. Candlelight flickered in the bedroom, the flame dancing swiftly and tinged green, lending an eerie atmosphere, but nothing else seemed out of place.
He turned back to peer through the crack in the door into the courtyard.
Through the gap, he saw a woman’s face smiling at him—the very same face from the painting in the second courtyard.
“Ah!”
Feng Yuan screamed, instinctively stumbling backward, then spun and fled toward his bedroom.
But as he turned, he saw a woman in white standing before him, smiling—the face from the painting. Before Feng Yuan could shout, the woman reached out and gripped his neck.
The icy touch of her hand was identical to what he had felt in bed—it must have been her who attacked him earlier.
It really was a haunting!
Feng Yuan tried desperately to struggle, but his body was completely paralyzed; only his mind remained conscious. He could do nothing but watch as the ghost choked him.

Breathing became harder by the second. Pain pierced his neck, and warm blood began to flow. His throat was crushed, blood gushed forth, and the ghost’s smile grew colder and crueler.
“Ah!”
With a final scream, Feng Yuan saw everything around him shatter—the ghost vanished, and when he looked around, he found himself lying in bed, drenched in cold sweat.
“What happened?”
He sat up, checked his neck—no sign of injury. He scanned the room; everything was normal. The door was shut tight, the candlelight steady, no wind, no drop in temperature.
“Huh? Was it all just a dream?”
He frowned, confused. It felt like a scene from Inception: he had dreamed that his dream-self heard someone calling, was strangled, found the door open, went out to investigate, and was killed by a female ghost.
But after the scream, he hadn’t died—instead, he woke up in bed. It was all too incredible, almost unbelievable.
He had experienced a dream within a dream before—frightening enough that after waking, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming or back in reality.
Now, Feng Yuan doubted: was he still dreaming, or was he awake?
He immediately pinched his arm hard. A jolt of pain—nothing changed around him. Everything was real; he wasn’t dreaming.
Seeing the room so normal, without the eerie atmosphere of his nightmare, Feng Yuan relaxed a little. It seemed the painting had frightened him into this nightmare. Tomorrow, he would have to take it down and burn it, or else he would suffer nightmares every night.
Shaken and exhausted by the ordeal, sleepiness overwhelmed him. Feng Yuan lay back down, ready to sleep again.
But just as he settled in, he saw above his bed the white-clad woman floating, smiling at him—the same woman from the painting.
“Feng Yuan, are you going to sleep?” she asked, her voice soft and gentle…