Have you ever had this feeling?
You're home alone late at night. You hear dishes clinking in the kitchen. You tell yourself it's the pipes, the building expanding in the cold, the neighbors upstairs. You don't go check.
Because you know—if you check, that sound has to come from somewhere.
And that somewhere might be more than you can handle.
***
My name is Zhou Ping. Thirty-two years old. I do special cleaning.
Put bluntly, I clean up after dead people.
It sounds creepy, but most of the time it's quiet work. The clients are usually people whose elderly parents have passed away. They want the place cleaned out fast so they can sell it. I throw out what needs throwing, disinfect what needs disinfecting, make the house look like nobody ever lived there.
What's the most important qualification for this job? Not a strong stomach. A strong need for money.
I needed the money.
So that day I took four jobs in a row, worked from six in the morning till seven at night. By the time I pulled up to the last place, the sky had gone completely dark.
The GPS took me to an old neighborhood on the edge of town. No streetlights anywhere. When I parked, I checked my phone. One bar of signal.
Ground-floor apartment. A few black trash bags piled by the door. Couldn't see what was inside.
I punched in the code the client sent me, pushed the door open, and reached for the hallway light.
The bulb flickered twice before it caught.
Then I froze.
The place was fully furnished. Sofa, coffee table, TV stand, bookshelf, knickknacks, wall clock, cross-stitch on the wall—everything still there. Even a half-drunk glass of water on the coffee table, a pair of reading glasses beside it.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. The family should've cleared out the personal stuff first, gotten rid of the furniture. I was only supposed to do deep cleaning and disinfection. This apartment looked like the owner had just stepped out to buy groceries and would be back any minute.
A note was sitting on the shoe cabinet in the entryway. I picked it up.
"Mr. Zhou, sorry, the moving company had a problem at the last minute. Just clear out whatever you can, don't worry about the rest. The old man passed away in the living room. Sorry for the trouble."
No signature.
The note bothered me. The moving company had a problem—was it really that hard to call? They had to leave a note taped to a shoe cabinet? Like they were afraid to tell me face to face.
But I was already here. Might as well work.
I stuffed the note in my pocket and took a real look at the place.
Small living room, old-fashioned decor. Walls covered in photo frames. One showed an old man smiling at the camera, a black cat sitting beside him. Another showed him eating with some younger people—his kids, probably. A third showed him in a rattan chair, reading glasses on, a book in his lap, the cat curled on his knees.
Ordinary old man. Ordinary cat. Ordinary life.
Except now he was dead.
I pulled on my rubber gloves and mask and stepped further in. The smell of death is unlike anything else. Even if you've never smelled it before, you know it the instant it hits you. A sweet, metallic rot that crawls into your nose and sticks to the back of your throat. No matter how hard you swallow, it won't go down.
A dark stain sat in the middle of the living room floor.
About the size of a person.
Someone had tried to scrub it before me. No use. After death, bodily fluids seep into the gaps between the floorboards. Regular cleaner can't touch it. I crouched down and pressed my fingers against the wood. Soft. Spongy.
I dug the industrial solvent out of my toolbox, poured it over the stain, let it soak in, then started scrubbing.
That took half an hour.
My back's not great. Crouching too long makes it ache. By the time I finished that section of floor, I was drenched in sweat. I sat down against the wall to catch my breath, letting my eyes wander across the room.
Folding dining table over there, two chairs. In the corner, a rattan chair—the one from the photo, where the old man used to read. Bookshelf to the left of it. To the right, a full-length mirror.
The mirror was big, about as tall as a person, with a dark wood frame. The glass had yellowed with age. I glanced at my reflection—gloves, mask, face dripping sweat. Pathetic.
I looked away, stood up, and opened all the living room windows to air out the chemical smell. Then I went out to my van for the coffee I'd bought earlier.
On my way back, I glanced into the kitchen and bathroom. Counter coated in dust, sink empty, a pot still sitting on the stove, its bottom burnt black. The bathroom was small, toilet lid up, an old towel on the floor for stepping on after a shower.
Nothing unusual. Just what you'd expect in an old apartment.
Back in the living room, I spotted an old TV in the corner—one of those big-backed tube TVs. I figured some background noise might keep me from getting too jumpy, so I walked over and hit the power button.
The screen lit up. Static. Hissing white noise.
Who even has analog signal these days? I turned it off and set the remote back on the TV stand.
Turned around. Took two steps.
Behind me, a burst of electric screech.
I flinched so hard my shoulder cramped. Whipped around. The TV was on again. Full-screen static.
I stared at it for a few seconds. Old TV, bad connection. The power button's spring was worn out—push it in, it pops back up. Normal. Happens all the time.
I walked back, jammed the button down hard. The screen went black. I waited three seconds. It stayed off.
Good. Back to work.
I cleaned the bathroom first. Two hours. Then the kitchen. Another two hours. Gloves, mask, sweat soaking through my clothes, plastered to my back. But the work didn't need thinking, and that actually helped me relax.
By the time I got back to the living room, the chemical fumes had mostly cleared. I shut the windows, rolled my neck, and hummed a few bars of some song.
Couldn't remember what song. Something from my school days, probably.
That's when I heard it.
A thud behind me.
Not loud. But in an empty apartment, at one in the morning, it hit my chest like a gunshot.
I turned around.
A book was lying on the floor in front of the bookshelf.
Black hardcover. No title. I was too far away to make out details.
I stared at the book. The book didn't move.
A cat was crouched beside the shelf.
Black. Long fur. Yellow eyes. It watched me calmly, the tip of its tail giving a lazy flick. The cat from the photo. The old man was gone. Why was the cat still here? The family hadn't taken it?
I exhaled and cursed at myself.
"You scared the hell out of me."
The cat ignored me and licked its paw.
I walked over and bent down to pick up the book. Black leather cover, badly worn, edges frayed. I opened it. The first page was printed with a strange symbol—a triangle with a horizontal line extending from each corner. Kind of looked like the letter T.
There was a line of text beneath the symbol.
I couldn't read it. Not Chinese. Looked like some variation of English, the letters mixed with strokes I'd never seen before. Below that, a line of handwritten Chinese—probably phonetic. The way I used to sound out English words back in school.
Without thinking, I read it aloud.
"Ectonas. Hasophreetskanas. Lementurum Ivkorum."
Only after I'd said it did I realize how wrong that was. Why the hell did I just read that?
The rest of the pages were blank. I shut the book, slid it back onto the shelf, and turned to the cat.
"Your owner's gone. You know that? Why are you still here?"
The cat looked at me. Licked its paw again.
"You hungry? Let me find you something."
I crouched down and reached out my hand.
The cat stood up, turned around, and walked toward the full-length mirror.
Then it walked into the mirror.
It just walked right in. Didn't crash into the glass. Didn't vanish. Like stepping through a door. Its body sank into the surface, tail giving one last flick, and then it was on the other side.
I stayed crouched there, watching the cat in the mirror take two more steps, then sit down with its back to me and start licking its paw. Slow. Unbothered.
My legs were shaking. I don't remember standing up.
The living room in the mirror was exactly the same as mine. Same rattan chair. Same bookshelf. Same folding table.
I reached out and touched the glass.
My fingers went through. I felt nothing but air.
I yanked my hand back. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might jump out of my throat. I glanced over my shoulder at the living room behind me. Nobody. No cat. Nothing.
Then I looked back at the mirror. At that living room that was exactly like mine. At the cat sitting with its back turned.
I took a step forward.
Just one step.
The mirror touched my face. My shoulders. My body. And then I felt myself pass through.
Like pushing through a cold film of water.
By the time I realized what had happened, I was standing on the other side of the mirror.
***
The living room looked the same. But it didn't smell the same.
The air was thick with the scent of cooking—oil and soy sauce and something savory drifting from the kitchen. From the kitchen came sounds, too. Dishes clinking. A spatula scraping the bottom of a wok. Oil crackling and spitting in a hot pan.
Someone was cooking.
One in the morning. Someone was cooking.
I turned my head slowly and looked at the cat.
The cat had turned around. It was looking at me.
Its eye sockets were empty.
Two black holes. The fur around the edges had rotted away, showing gray-white bone underneath. Its mouth was slightly open. I could see teeth and gums and a small strip of blackened tongue. A chunk of skin was missing from its neck, the matted fur around it stained dark red.
"Meow."
The sound was wet and hoarse. Not a cat's meow. Like something being squeezed out of its throat.
I stumbled backward. My back hit the mirror.
Solid.
Cold. Hard. Real glass. I slammed my palm against it. Punched it. Rammed my shoulder into it. Didn't budge.
The sounds in the kitchen stopped.
In an instant, the whole apartment went dead silent. Then footsteps. Coming out of the kitchen, stepping across the floor, one after another. Heading toward me.
An old man emerged from the hallway.
Gray sweater. Dark trousers. A hand towel slung over his shoulder. Not tall, a little hunched, hair going white. He had a gentle smile on his face.
The man from the photos.
He glanced at me, then down at the eyeless cat on the floor.
"Xiao Rong, you brought a guest. Why didn't you call me?"
His voice was soft. The way an old man talks to someone younger. He looked back up at me and smiled.
"Sorry about that. I hope it didn't scare you."
I opened my mouth. My throat had tightened so much I barely got the words out.
"N-no. It's fine."
"Good, good."
The old man gestured toward the folding dining table.
"Come. Sit down. You're just in time for dinner."
"I'm sorry. I can't stay. I still have work to finish over there."
I tried to keep my voice steady. My back was pressed flat against the mirror, my fingers still pushing against the glass behind me.
"Oh, what's the rush?" The old man smiled. "It's been so long since I had company for dinner. I can't let you leave on an empty stomach."
He tilted his chin toward the mirror.
"You've been working so hard over there. You must be exhausted. What's wrong with a meal? I just finished cooking. You came at the perfect time."
I wanted to run. But the old man was looking at me.
Not a threatening look. Not a warning. Just a kind, gentle look. Like an elder genuinely wanting you to stay for dinner. And it was that very normality that sent a cold spike straight through my bones.
I nodded slowly, forced myself away from the mirror, and walked to the dining table. Sat down.
The old man went into the kitchen and came back with two plates—stir-fried greens, sliced pork. Steam rising from both. Looked perfectly ordinary. He went back for two bowls of rice and two pairs of chopsticks, then sat down across from me.
"Ah. It really is nice." He let out a sigh. "So long since I've had someone to eat with."
He jerked his head hard to the left.
Crack.
The sound of bone grinding against bone. Muffled. Like a dry branch snapping underfoot.
Then to the right.
Crack.
He rolled his shoulders, producing the same sound. Smiled at me.
"Getting old. Stiff bones."
"You've been... living here all this time?" My voice came out thin.
"Yes." He picked up a bite of greens and chewed slowly. "Used to live here. Then lived here again."
I watched his mouth.
"When did you live here before?"
The old man didn't answer. Just picked up another bite.
"Why aren't you eating? Is the food not to your taste?"
"I was sweating from the work earlier. I'd like to wash my hands first." I said. "Where's your bathroom?"
"Down the hall to your left. Don't take too long. The food will get cold."
I stood up, controlling my pace so I wouldn't walk too fast. Behind me, I heard him chewing.
The bathroom was tiny. Toilet. Sink. Small mirror. Several of the wall tiles were cracked. The window was shut, curtain half-drawn.
I locked the door, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain aside.
There was nothing outside.
Not night sky. Not trees. Not the wall of the next building. Nothing. An endless black. Darker than a moonless night. Deeper. No distance. No direction. Nothing.
I grabbed the half-bar of soap sitting on the sink and threw it out the window.
The soap fell.
Fell.
Fell.
I watched it shrink to a pinprick of white, and then the darkness swallowed it whole.
No sound of it landing.
I stepped back. The back of my leg bumped the toilet. That was when someone knocked on the bathroom door.
Thump. Thump.
"Young man? Everything all right?" The old man's voice came through the door. "You've been washing a long time. The food really is getting cold."
"Almost done," I said.
My voice was shaking badly.
"Good. Good." A pause outside the door. "I was starting to think you didn't want to eat."
He said the last part lightly. Like a joke.
The doorknob rattled.
Locked.
Then the wall beside the lock started making a sound. The plaster cracked. Split. Crumbled away, exposing red brick underneath. The lock plate tore free from the doorframe, taking half a brick with it. It hit the floor.
The door swung open.
The old man stood in the doorway. He looked down at the broken brick and plaster dust on the floor.
"Ah. This old place just keeps falling apart." He sighed. "Forgive the mess."
He lifted his head. Same gentle smile.
"Come on. Back to dinner."
I squeezed past him and hurried back to the living room. I could hear him following. Slow footsteps. Steady. No rush.
I sat back down in the same chair.
The bowl of rice was still steaming. Stir-fried greens. Sliced pork. The dead cat had climbed onto the table at some point. It was crouched beside my plate, those two black eye sockets aimed at me.
The old man sat down too.
"Eat."
The warmth was gone from his voice.
"I'm really not hungry," I said.
The old man stared at me for a moment. Slowly, he set down his chopsticks.
"You know," he said, "when I was a boy, I didn't like to eat. My mother would take my father's belt and beat me. Beat me until I was willing to eat."
He tilted his head and looked at me. The corner of his mouth tugged upward.
"Seems you haven't learned manners either. Let's start with the basics, then."
He leaned forward.
"No leaving the table until you've finished your meal."
Then he smiled.
"Easy to learn. Because once you can't stand up, you won't be able to leave anyway. Right?"
My brain went blank for a second.
Then I grabbed the chopsticks off the table and drove them into his left eye with everything I had.
The chopsticks sank in with a wet, muffled sound. Halfway in. They stopped there. The old man's head snapped back, then slowly returned to center. One chopstick jutting from his eye socket. The other eye watching me. Calm.
"Sigh."
He reached up, gripped the chopsticks, and pulled.
The eyeball came out with them. Round. Wet. A few thin, stringy threads of tissue trailing behind it. Swaying.
He looked at the eyeball.
"I wasn't planning on eating meat tonight."
He brought the eyeball to his mouth. Bit down. Chewed.
Crunch.
That wasn't the sound of chewing food. Something else had broken.
I kicked backward. The chair toppled over. I spun and ran for the mirror, pounding on the glass, shouting the words from the book as I hammered.
"Ectonas—Hasophreetskanas—Lementurum Ivkorum!"
Nothing. The glass didn't move.
A strange noise came from behind me. I turned.
The old man was standing up. His body was changing. His neck was longer than before. The color of his skin was shifting—yellow, purple, gray. Patch by patch. Like meat left out too long.
His right arm was stretching. His fingers touched the floor. His nails scraped against the wood with a grating shriek. His left arm braced against the bookshelf. His entire body had bent itself into a posture no human body could make.
"Good," he said.
That wasn't a human voice anymore.
"Class is in session."
He came at me. I threw myself sideways. He crashed into the wall, another chunk of plaster raining down. I grabbed a folding chair and swung it at him. It smashed across his back. Broke apart. He turned his head. The remaining eye looked at me. The decayed face twisted into an expression.
Almost like a smile.
I ran.
I ran into the kitchen. He came after me. Not fast. Not slow. I shoved over everything I could reach—pots, pans, dishes crashing to the floor. He walked over them. Things breaking under his feet. I ducked under his arm, sprinted back down the hallway, and burst into the bedroom.
I flattened myself behind the door.
He came in right after me. Too fast. His foot caught on something. He pitched forward onto the bed. The springs shrieked.
"Ah." His voice was muffled against the mattress. "Young people these days."
I was already out of the bedroom before he could push himself up. Ran back to the living room.
The goddamn mirror. Still sealed.
I looked down at the mess on the floor—my toolbox, bottles of solvent, rags, brushes. I bent down and grabbed the industrial-grade descaler. Twisted off the cap.
He came out of the hallway.
I swung the bottle and hurled the contents into his face.
The liquid splashed into his remaining eye. He let out a low roar. That freakishly long right arm came up to cover his face, nails clawing blindly at the air.
"Useless," he hissed. Bubbles foamed at the rotting corner of his mouth. "I can still hear you."
He wasn't where he'd been a second ago. He was moving toward me. Faster now. I dodged sideways. Too slow. His nails raked across my left shoulder—through fabric, through skin. A searing wave of pain exploded from the wound. I almost went down.
But I didn't.
I saw something.
The front door.
The entryway. The old man's slippers still sitting there. Another note on the shoe cabinet with my name on it. That was the direction I'd come in from. That was the door I'd walked through when I first arrived.
That door couldn't possibly lead outside. Outside was nothing. The void. But—
He was right behind me.
I ran for the door.
I heard his nails slicing through the air. A hair's width from the back of my skull. My hand hit the doorknob. Cold metal. I twisted. Pulled.
Blackness. No stars. No streetlights. No ground. Nothing.
I pressed myself against the wall.
He came barreling from behind. Too fast for me to even make out his face. Just the stench of rot sweeping over me. He couldn't stop. His deformed body was too big. Momentum carried him forward.
He crossed the threshold.
I threw both hands against his back and shoved with everything I had left.
He tumbled into the dark.
A low roar rose from below. Thinner and thinner. Smaller and smaller. Like the last trembling vibration of a thread right before it snaps.
Then nothing.
I slid down the wall. Back against it. All the way to the floor.
My left shoulder hurt so much I was drenched in cold sweat. The blood had soaked through my shirt, sticky and warm against my skin. I started shaking uncontrollably. My teeth chattered. I heard myself crying, but I couldn't tell if it was sobbing or just some kind of breathless noise scraping out of my throat.
A long time later, I got up. Dragged myself back to the living room.
The mirror was still a mirror. That side was still that side.
I stood in front of it, looking at the scattered toolbox and the overturned folding chair on the other side. That was where I'd just been. Less than a centimeter away. Less than a millimeter.
I pushed. Solid.
I pushed again. I pounded. I shouted those strange words. Nothing. I tried every window. Every one of them opened onto that darkness. I tried the front door. Same void. Only the mirror. That goddamn mirror. The only thing that led back to my world.
I don't know how long it's been.
Hours. Maybe days. My watch stopped. My phone lost signal long ago. The screen still reads 3:17 AM. I don't know what day it is anymore.
Then I figured something out.
Things I do on this side—some of them leave traces over there.
Like, if I press a note against the mirror, it won't go through. But the books on the shelf over there sometimes move on their own. I dug the black book out again and left it on the floor in front of the mirror. After a while, the pages flipped.
Little by little. Bit by bit.
I've been sending messages across.
If you're reading this. If you're in this apartment. If you see words in your mirror that shouldn't be there, or find a note on the floor that you don't remember dropping.
Believe it.
Find a big mirror. The biggest one you can.
Stand in front of it and draw this symbol:
A triangle. A short horizontal line at each corner. It looks like the letter T.
Then speak these words:
"Ectonas. Hasophreetskanas. Lementurum Ivkorum."
And then say my name.
My name is Zhou Ping.
Please.
I'm still inside the mirror.