Do you believe in ghosts?
I used to be skeptical. Running a flower shop for three years, I'd seen drunks buying flowers at midnight, heartbroken girls with smudged makeup, and old ladies haggling over a single yuan. But never a ghost.
Yet some rules exist regardless of whether you believe in them or not.
My name is Chen Yuan, twenty-six, running a flower shop in the southern part of the city. The name's tacky—"Four Seasons Bloom." It's a small store squeezed between a Shaxian snack shop and a hardware store. A few buckets of lilies, carnations, and roses sit out front, while imported varieties fill the cooler inside. Days pass uneventfully, no great highs or lows.
I remember October 17th clearly—I still hadn't filled out the Double Eleven stock order. At 10:20 PM, I was scrolling through short videos behind the counter. After a full day breathing in the damp floral scent mixed with soil, I'd almost stopped noticing it.
The wind chime above the door jingled.
I looked up. A man stood in the doorway.
He wore a faded gray jacket, his face expressionless—the kind you'd forget the moment you looked away. He stared at the flowers for a while, his gaze sweeping past the fiery reds and delicate pinks, finally settling on a bucket of white chrysanthemums in the corner.
"Boss, how much for white chrysanthemums?"
His voice was soft, lips barely moving, as if unused to speaking. I was still looking at my phone, barely glancing up. "Fifteen yuan a stem. How many do you want?"
He didn't answer.
I waited two seconds, then looked up. He stood at the counter, about two meters away, clutching a hundred-yuan bill so tightly his knuckles whitened, as if afraid it would fly away. The bill was crumpled, edges darkened—whether from age or dirt, I couldn't tell.
"Is a hundred yuan enough?" he asked.
I glanced at the money, then at his face. There was something wrong with his eyes. I couldn't pinpoint what, but his gaze seemed to pass through me, as if looking at something behind me.
A chill ran down my spine, but I brushed it off. Working alone at night makes you jumpy at every little sound—it's normal.
I said it was enough, told him to take the chrysanthemums while I got his change. I pulled eighty-five yuan from the cash register—fives, tens, twenties—and handed it over. He took the money, tucked the bouquet under his arm, and turned to leave.
The wind chime jingled again.
I went back to scrolling. Ten minutes later, I locked up and went home, stopping for a fried rice noodle bowl on the way. That night was perfectly normal—so normal, it feels ironic now.
The next morning at 8:30, I unlocked the shop. I wheeled the flower buckets outside, changed the water, then sat down to breakfast. Halfway through, I remembered the hundred-yuan bill from the previous night was still under the cash register. I pulled it out to put it away properly.
When the money touched my hand, I froze.
It was joss paper.
Printed on gold foil, it said "Celestial Bank" with what looked like the Jade Emperor's face on it. The paper was thin and brittle, edges singed as if burned. I flipped it over again and again—this wasn't a prank, and I hadn't taken it by mistake. I'd clearly seen a normal red hundred-yuan bill the night before.
I stood behind the counter, holding that joss paper, my mind buzzing. I thought of the man's face, his eyes that wouldn't meet mine, his flat, emotionless tone when he'd asked, "Is a hundred yuan enough?"
I told myself there must be a mistake. Maybe I'd been too tired last night, misread it. Maybe someone had swapped it as a prank. Maybe I'd misremembered—perhaps the real bill was still in the register, and this joss paper had gotten mixed in earlier.
I emptied the entire cash register. No real hundred-yuan bill—only this joss paper lying at the bottom, its gold foil glinting under the fluorescent lights.
I decided to check the security camera.
I'd installed it myself—a cheap brand for three hundred yuan. The quality wasn't great, but it could capture people. I pulled up the footage on my phone, adjusting to around 10:20 PM the previous night.
On screen, I was looking down at my phone. Then I looked up, speaking to thin air. Two seconds later, I said something else. I turned, pulled some change from the register, and handed it to empty space. I even nodded, as if saying goodbye to someone who wasn't there.
The entire time, I was alone in the shop.
No man in a gray jacket. No white chrysanthemums. Just me, talking to myself, selling a bouquet to someone who didn't exist.
I watched that footage five times. First time I thought I'd misseen. Second time goosebumps erupted. Third time my hands started shaking. Fourth time I turned off my phone. Fifth time I couldn't bring myself to look.
I called my mom. The phone rang four times before she picked up. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Nothing," I said, "just wanted to hear your voice." "You sound sick," she said. "Maybe didn't sleep well," I lied.
After hanging up, I sat behind the counter for a while, fingers ice cold—like holding snowballs in winter, the chill seeping from my bones.
By noon, customers arrived, diluting the fear. I even began to think I was overreacting. Maybe the camera had malfunctioned. Maybe someone had tampered with the footage. Maybe I'd never given the eighty-five yuan change at all—just misremembered.
That's how people are. When the sun comes up, ghosts and monsters lose their credibility.
At three in the afternoon, Old Zhou from the hardware store next door popped over. He's in his fifties, gray-haired, been on this street over ten years—seen it all. He leaned against the doorframe smoking. After a moment's hesitation, I told him what had happened.
I didn't mention the joss paper—just said a customer had bought white chrysanthemums at midnight, but didn't appear on camera.
Old Zhou stubbed out his cigarette, giving me a look that made my skin crawl.
"Xiao Chen, do you know what this street used to be?" he asked.
I said no.
"It was a market," Old Zhou said. "Been here since before liberation—vegetables, meat, joss paper, everything. They tore it down to build this, but some things don't get torn up so easily. Your flower shop? This used to be a paper effigy shop."
A paper effigy shop—where they made paper people, horses, houses for funerals.
Old Zhou continued, "You haven't been here long, so you wouldn't know. Anyone who's had a shop here over ten years? They never sell white chrysanthemums after nine PM. That's an old rule."
I said I didn't know about it.
Old Zhou didn't respond, lighting another cigarette. After two drags, he said, "Go ask Old Zhou—not me, the other Old Zhou. Old Zhou from the nursery in the north. He's grown flowers forty years. Go ask him."
That afternoon, I closed the shop early and drove north. Navigation said forty minutes. When I arrived, it was a large nursery—greenhouses stretching as far as I could see, a wooden sign reading "Old Zhou's Nursery" hanging at the entrance. Flower pots and soil bags were piled in the yard. A yellow dog lay in the sun, lifting its head lazily when I approached, tail wagging weakly.
Old Zhou was spraying pesticides in one of the greenhouses. In his early sixties, skin dark from the sun, hands calloused—just an ordinary flower-growing old man. I explained why I'd come. He didn't answer immediately, just washed the pesticide off his hands, led me to the yard, and poured me a cup of tea.
I told him everything—the joss paper, the camera footage. Old Zhou listened, sipping his tea thoughtfully for a long time.
"Where did you get those white chrysanthemums from?" he asked.
"From the wholesaler in the south," I said. "Always get them there."
He nodded. "White chrysanthemums aren't usually sold individually—they go by the bunch. People buy them for graves, for memorials. Mostly during the day. Anyone buying them at midnight? Not human."
Not human.
The moment those three words left his mouth, the yellow dog in the yard suddenly barked—not loud, more like a warning. The sun was still hanging in the west, warm on my back, but the hairs on my neck stood straight up.
Old Zhou said he hadn't believed this stuff when he was young. One winter night when he was twenty-six, someone knocked on his nursery door asking for white chrysanthemums. He opened up, the person gave him five yuan, and he sold three stems.
The next day he found out it was joss paper—exactly like my situation. Later his master told him, this is the underworld's rule: those who buy white chrysanthemums at midnight aren't living. The money they give isn't money—it's "road toll."
"Road toll?" I asked.
"Passage money," Old Zhou explained. "When underworld guards escort souls through the mortal realm, they need to pay toll. If a living person accepts that money, they're paying the toll on the soul's behalf. If you refuse, they'll follow you forever—you're blocking their path. But if you accept, their debt transfers to you."
When I heard that, my first thought wasn't fear—it was disbelief. This was too absurd, too ridiculous to even repeat. I went to college, had nine years of compulsory education. How could I believe such superstitious nonsense?
But the joss paper was in my pocket. The camera footage was on my phone. That indescribable wrongness from last night—the way he looked at me without really seeing me—none of that could be erased by saying "I don't believe."
I asked Old Zhou what happens after accepting it.
Old Zhou gave me that same look as the other Old Zhou—the one that makes your heart race.
"You take the money, the soul moves on. But you owe the underworld a debt. It must be repaid. How, when, how much—no one knows.
"My master told me about someone he knew who accepted road toll money. His family had three disasters in a row, each worse than the last. In the end, he died in water—in the middle of summer, drowned in his own bathtub. The water wasn't even knee-deep."
The tea in my cup had gone cold. I poured another hot cup, picked it up, then set it down again.
Old Zhou said there was only one thing to do now: find that bouquet of white chrysanthemums, burn it along with the joss paper. Then burn paper money every first and fifteenth for three months, see if the debt can be paid off.
I asked what if it couldn't be paid off.
He said, "If not, you wait."
I didn't stay long at Old Zhou's. On the drive back to the shop, I kept thinking about that bouquet. The man had taken one last night—I should have more in the shop. White chrysanthemums keep well, last ten days in the cooler if properly stored.
It was dark when I reached the shop. I opened the cooler, searching through the white chrysanthemums. The one I'd sold was "Shenma"—large blooms, thick petals, sturdy stems, the best quality I had.
I'd only ordered five bunches. Sold two over the weekend, one last night—should have two left.
But after checking three times, I only found one.
I thought I'd miscounted, so I tallied all the white chrysanthemums again. Still only one. That bouquet was gone, as if it had never existed.
I stood in front of the cooler, cold air blowing out, white mist fogging my glasses. A thought hit me: if that man never appeared on camera last night, did that bouquet I'd wrapped and handed over actually get taken?
Or had it never existed in the first place?
I closed the cooler, sat behind the counter. The shop was quiet. The hardware store next door was already closed. The Shaxian shop's lights were still on—I could see two people eating through the glass. Everything was so normal, it made me feel like a fool, scared out of my wits by an old ghost story.
My phone rang. It was my girlfriend Lin Xiao.
"Did you eat?" she asked.
I opened my mouth, wanting to tell her about last night, about Old Zhou's words, about the missing bouquet. But what came out was: "Yeah. You?"
That's the adult instinct—when something big happens, first thought isn't to share, but to spare the other person worry. Besides, even if I told her, would she believe me? And if she did, what could she do? Burn paper money for me? Fight ghosts?
After hanging up, I made a decision: do as Old Zhou said. Believe it or not, first find that bouquet and burn it, burn the joss paper, then burn paper money for three months. Doing something is better than doing nothing. Just in case.
I searched the shop again, every corner—still no sign of the bouquet. Finally, I gave up, pulling out my phone to ask Old Zhou if there was another way. Opening WeChat, I saw a new message from my supplier Lao Liu, sent at 2:13 AM.
Lao Liu said: "Chen Yuan, did you sell a bouquet of white chrysanthemums to a guy in gray today?"
I stared at the message for ten seconds, my heart suddenly racing. I replied: "How do you know?"
After sending, Lao Liu showed "typing" for almost a minute before sending a long message.
"I was going through delivery orders this afternoon, and found that batch of white chrysanthemums I sent you a couple days ago—the one signed for at your shop? It shows as returned in my records.
"The system doesn't auto-return. I checked the time—it was returned at 2:11 AM today. Meaning someone returned that bouquet to my inventory from your shop's system. But the backend shows the returned flowers arrived at my warehouse that night, with logistics saying 'received by doorman.'"
I read every word slowly, then read it again.
2:11 AM. The man had bought the white chrysanthemums at 10:20 PM the previous night. Four hours later, the bouquet was returned to the supplier's warehouse—initiated from my shop's system.
The thing is, only I have the account password for my shop's system.
I called Lao Liu. He picked up on the first ring, as if he'd been waiting. "Is anyone at the warehouse tonight?" I asked. He said no, the warehouse was empty at night. The doorman was a sixty-something grandpa who left at six PM.
"Then who signed for 'received by doorman'?" I asked.
Lao Liu fell silent. Only his slightly heavy breathing came through the phone. After five or six seconds, he said, "Chen Yuan, stop selling those white chrysanthemums. I'll come pick them up first thing tomorrow."
I said okay.
After hanging up, I locked the shop door, turning on every light—fluorescent, spotlights, cooler lights, even the bathroom light. The flower shop was blindingly bright, the harsh white light turning the flowers garish—reds too red, whites too white—adding an indescribable eeriness.
I sat in the shop all night, lights on, eyes open. My phone lay in front of me, screen bright. I didn't reply to Lin Xiao's messages, didn't reply to my mom's. Short videos scrolled by on Douyin, but I didn't see a single word.
Around three in the morning, the wind chime jingled once.
I jerked my head up. Nothing at the door. The chime continued to sway gently, making tiny tinkling sounds. I stared at the glass door for two full minutes, confirming no one was outside, before slowly looking away.
When I lowered my gaze to my phone, I saw something on the screen.
Not a message, not a notification—a photo of the missing bouquet. In my phone's album, among recent photos, taken at 10:21 PM last night. The bouquet was wrapped in kraft paper, sitting on the counter next to my cash register and calculator.
I didn't remember taking this photo.
I didn't even remember taking my phone out last night.
But there it was—clear as day, every detail matching my memory. I stared at the photo for a long time, then noticed something in the corner, at the edge of the counter: a hand. Only from the middle finger to the wrist. Grayish-white skin, blackened nails, as if soaked in water.
That hand was reaching toward my cash register.
I flipped the phone face-down on the table, gasping for air. My heart thundered like it would burst from my throat, ears ringing, temples pounding. I tried to stand, but my legs gave way. Grabbing the table to steady myself, the table wobbled, knocking over a vase. Water spilled everywhere, shards of glass flying onto my shoes.
I knelt to pick up the glass. Halfway down, the overhead light flickered once, then brightened again.
Just that once.
But I saw something I shouldn't have seen.
On the opposite wall, next to my shadow, there was another shadow. Half a head shorter than me, hazy, like wrapped in fog. That shadow didn't move, just clung to mine, pressed tight against me as if standing right beside me.
I didn't dare look behind me.
I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I tried to run, but my feet felt nailed to the floor. There I knelt, holding a piece of broken glass, staring at the two shadows on the wall, mind completely blank.
After about ten seconds, the light didn't flicker again, the wind chime didn't jingle, and the shadow behind me didn't transform into anything. Slowly, I straightened up, turned my head.
Nothing was there.
Only the flowers, bleached white by the lights, and the glass door tightly shut.
I picked up my phone. The photo was still in the album, but the hand was gone. It looked like an ordinary snapshot—a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, a counter, a calculator. No grayish-white fingers, no blackened nails. As if everything I'd just seen had been a hallucination.
But I saw it. I know I did.
At dawn, I turned off the lights, pulled the rolling shutter halfway down, sat on the floor leaning against the wall, and finally fell asleep. I had fragmented dreams—men in gray jackets, white chrysanthemums, a red hundred-yuan bill slowly turning into white joss paper in water.
The last dream: I stood on a vast road, nothing on either side, fog ahead and behind. From the fog came the sound of bells, getting closer, louder.
My phone alarm woke me. 7:30 AM. Traffic outside had already started, the smell of breakfast stalls drifting through the shutter crack. I got up, sore all over, mouth tasting like copper coins.
I decided to go find Lao Liu, talk face-to-face about those white chrysanthemums.
On the drive to the southern wholesale market, Lin Xiao called. She said she'd had a dream last night—dreamed I was in a flower shop surrounded by white flowers, calling my name but I wouldn't answer. She said the dream felt too real, woke up feeling panicked.
I said it was nothing, probably just tired lately.
Lin Xiao said, "Chen Yuan, did you sell a bouquet of white chrysanthemums to a guy in gray clothes?"
My hand slipped on the steering wheel, almost losing control.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"In the dream last night, there was a man standing in front of you, wearing gray, holding white chrysanthemums. I tried to see his face, but I couldn't—it was like there was nothing there, just a smooth blank surface."
Lin Xiao's voice was unnervingly calm. Normally she'd cling to me in fear during a horror movie, but now she spoke about dreaming of a faceless man like she was commenting on the weather.
I suddenly realized something: Lin Xiao's dream and what I'd experienced last night were the same thing.
But she was at her place, I was at the shop—over ten kilometers apart. How could she dream about what happened in my shop?
Unless whatever was on that bouquet wasn't just following me.
I told Lin Xiao not to go to work today, stay home and wait for me. She said okay, then asked a question that turned my blood cold.
"Chen Yuan, did you see something in the mirror at the shop last night?"
My shop doesn't have a mirror. Flower shops don't need mirrors.
I opened my mouth to ask why she'd say that. But the line went dead.
I hit the brakes, pulling over to the side of the road. Checking Lin Xiao's call log—it showed four minutes and twelve seconds. But our conversation had been less than two minutes.
Who had been talking for those extra two minutes?
My phone rang again.
This time it was an unknown number. I hesitated three seconds, then answered.
No one spoke on the other end. Only breathing—soft, slow, like waiting for something. I waited ten seconds, about to hang up, when a voice suddenly came through, not loud, but clear.
"Boss, how much for white chrysanthemums?"
I recognized it.
It was the man's voice from last night.
The man who hadn't appeared on camera.
The man who'd given me joss paper.
The thing Old Zhou said "wasn't human."
"What do you want?" I asked. My voice was steadier than expected—maybe fear reaches a point where it numbs itself.
Silence on the line.
Then the voice repeated, word for word, same tone, even the same pause:
"Boss, how much for white chrysanthemums?"
I hung up.
My hand was still shaking. It took three tries to hit the end call button. I threw the phone onto the passenger seat, took seven or eight deep breaths, and restarted the car. Before I'd driven a hundred meters, the phone rang again.
Not an incoming call. A text message.
From that unknown number. No words, just a photo. A bouquet of white chrysanthemums wrapped in kraft paper, sitting on a grayish-white surface. The background was dark, hard to make out.
But I recognized that surface.
It was the lid of my cash register.
This bouquet was in the back seat of my car right now.
I whipped my head around. The back seat was empty. No bouquet, no kraft paper—only a jacket I'd left there yesterday and two half-empty bottles of mineral water.
But the moment I turned, I smelled something.
The scent of flowers.
White chrysanthemums. That slightly bitter, crisp, unpleasant aroma.
It's in my car. I know it's here. I can't see it, but it's here.
Just like that man.
I can't see him, but he came.
He's been here all along.