My name is Chen Meng, twenty-eight, works as a planner at an advertising agency. Five years in this business, project after project, client revisions after revisions. You change the proposal eighteen times, then they tell you to use the first version.
Recently I've got three bids on my plate—meetings by day, writing plans by night. My body clock's shot to hell. I toss and turn in bed, eyes closed, all I can hear is the client saying, "Something's off, tweak it again."
After two weeks of insomnia, I decided to go for a run. Get myself tired enough to sleep, right?
There's an old stadium near my place, built in the eighties. The track's still cinder, the grass in the middle bald enough to see dirt. Old folks stroll there during the day, but it's empty at night. The iron gate's never locked. I've been a few times before—after ten PM, basically no one. Quiet, perfect for running alone.
That night, around eleven, I changed into a sports tank and shorts, wandered into the stadium. The stands were pitch black, only a few dim streetlights along the track, their glow barely reaching the lane lines. The air smelled of damp earth, like rain was coming. I did two stretches, started jogging.
First lap, I noticed someone ahead.
About thirty meters in front of me, a guy—white tank top, dark shorts. Running real slow, dragging his feet, no energy. I didn't pay much mind, kept my pace.
Second lap, something felt off.
Still thirty meters away. Not faster, not slower. Always exactly that distance. I figured it was a coincidence—we ran at the same speed.
Third lap, I picked up the pace, pushing harder. The guy ahead sped up too. I slowed down—he slowed down. I stopped to tie my shoe, looked up—he stopped thirty meters ahead, back to me, motionless.
The streetlight caught his soaked tank top, clinging to his back, showing his shoulder blades. He hung his arms, like he was gasping for breath.
I called out: "Hey! You running at night too?"
He didn't turn around, didn't say a word. After five seconds, he started running again—same slow pace.
I stood there watching him a while, feeling creeped out. But then I thought, maybe he had headphones on and didn't hear. I gave myself that excuse and started running again. After the fourth lap, I decided to leave.
Just as I turned toward the exit, I heard footsteps.
*Slap. Slap. Slap.*
From behind me, on the cinder track. Each step solid. Getting closer, clearer. I didn't look back, walked faster. Footsteps sped up.
I started jogging—footsteps jogged too. Could almost feel someone less than two meters behind me, cold breath on the back of my neck.
I didn't dare turn around. My mind went blank, legs took off on their own. Sprinted through the iron gate, onto the road, kept going until I reached a brightly lit convenience store. Leaned against my knees, gasping for air. Looked back—nothing. Empty.
The stadium gate hung half-open, dark inside like a mouth.
I bought a bottle of water, sat on the plastic stool outside, drank it. By the time I walked home, I kept telling myself it was just side stitch tinnitus, or wind blowing the gate. But I didn't believe it.
Next day, I passed the stadium and went inside to check. The track was clean, cinder packed hard, a few white lane lines still visible. An old security guard sat on the stands, bamboo broom in hand, slowly sweeping dust off the steps.
I hesitated, walked over: "Sir, do people still run here at night?"
The guard looked up, eyelids droopy, face lined with wrinkles. "Yeah, they do. Every night."
"Yesterday... I mean, around eleven PM, did you see someone in a white tank top running?"
The guard slammed his broom on the ground, brushed dust off his hands. "You mean Old Huang."
"Old Huang?"
"Yeah, Huang Jianjun. Used to be on the provincial team, middle-distance runner. Got third place nationally." The guard sighed. "Shame. Back in '98, he was training here, ran and collapsed—heart attack. They found him next morning when they opened up. Face down on the track, tank top soaked through with dew."
My back went cold. "So he's..."
"Buried. What else?" The guard glared at me. "Why you asking?"
"Nothing, just curious." I turned to leave. A few steps away, I heard him mutter: "People see him at night sometimes, get scared. What's there to be scared of? He just runs his own run, doesn't hurt anyone. Just... habit, can't stop."
I paused. "You mean... he's still running?"
The guard didn't answer, picked up his broom and went back to sweeping.
I stood at the stadium entrance, sun burning my forehead, but my whole body was cold.
That night, I didn't go back. Went to the gym instead, ran on the treadmill for forty minutes, sweated through my clothes, took a shower at home, crawled into bed.
But all I could see when I closed my eyes was that white tank top back—narrow shoulders, swaying as he ran. Tossed and turned until two AM, still wide awake. Got up.
I don't know what came over me. Maybe I was too tired to think straight, maybe the guard's words stuck in my head, wouldn't let me rest until I figured it out. Or maybe I'm just stupid—had to see with my own eyes whether Huang Jianjun was really still on that track.
I went back to the stadium.
Later this time—almost midnight. Moon hidden behind clouds, stands pitch black, only those few streetlights still on, dimmer than yesterday. I skipped stretches, walked straight onto the track. Cinder crunched under my feet, same earthy smell in the air.
I walked along the track—straightaway, turn, curve on the other side. And I saw him.
Same person. White tank, dark shorts, back to me, slowly running in the shadows at the far end of the curve. Thirty meters away.
I stopped. He stopped.
I shifted left. He shifted left.
I shifted right. He shifted right.
My last shred of hope shattered. This was a ghost—only me alive on the track, what else could he be? But my brain just wouldn't process it. You know that feeling? Scared out of your mind, but your legs keep moving forward anyway. I took a deep breath, stepped toward him.
He didn't move.
Another step.
Still nothing.
I kept going, heart pounding—twenty meters, fifteen, ten. The streetlight finally hit him. I could see his tank top—old cotton, collar stretched out, back soaked through. Arms thin, skin deathly pale, blue veins visible.
"Huang Jianjun?" I called.
He didn't turn around. But his shoulder twitched.
I took another step—seven, eight meters away. Could smell him—sweat, but not like a living person's. Mixed with an iron-like tang. Then his foot moved.
He started running.
I didn't chase. I stood there, watching him run. Slow, dragging his legs like yesterday. Around the curve, down the straightaway. One full lap. When he came back to me, he stopped. Same distance—seven, eight meters—back to me.
Then he turned around.
His face was young—early twenties, thick eyebrows, eyes closed. Sweat covered his face, dripping down his chin. Eyes shut, lips slightly parted, chest heaving like he was gasping for air.
He took a step toward me.
I backed up a step.
Another step. I backed up again.
Then I heard a woman's voice from behind him, far away, sharp: "Jianjun! Jianjun, slow down! Don't push so hard!"
The man with closed eyes stopped. He tilted his head, like he was listening. Then he raised a hand, waved toward the voice. Natural—like an athlete acknowledging someone on the sidelines during training.
My heart clenched.
Then he started running again. Past me, into the curve's shadow. One lap, another, stopped in front of me.
The woman's voice again: "Jianjun! Drink some water! You don't look good!"
He tilted his head, waved again. Kept running.
I suddenly understood. He had no idea I was there. He was replaying that day of training. The woman's voice—maybe his coach, maybe a teammate—telling him to take it easy. He heard, didn't care, kept running.
Then he collapsed.
I stood on the track, watching him finish the third lap, stop in front of me. This time he didn't turn around—just stood there, back to me, shoulders heaving like he couldn't breathe. I heard a guttural *huff-huff* from his throat, like a broken bellows leaking air.
Then he fell forward.
Face down, on the cinder track. Motionless.
I froze. Knew it was an illusion—something from years ago—but couldn't move. Watched him lying there, sweat spreading on his tank top, mixing with cinder. Streetlight on the back of his head, hair wet.
The woman's voice again, now crying: "Jianjun? Jianjun, what's wrong? Someone help! Please!"
I snapped out of it, turned and ran. As I burst through the iron gate, I glanced back—track empty, nothing there. Not even footprints.
Ran all the way home, locked myself in my room, turned on every light, sat until dawn.
Third day, fourth day—I didn't go near the place. Worked during the day, binged shows at night until my eyes closed, fell asleep. Thought it was over.
Fifth night, worked until eleven, walked past the stadium on the way home. Gate half-open, dark inside. I hurried to get past—then heard footsteps.
*Slap. Slap. Slap.*
From behind me. Getting closer.
Cold breath on my neck, didn't dare look back, walked faster. Footsteps got louder, closer—almost right behind my ear. I ran, kept going until I reached my building entrance, hands shaking as I fumbled with the key, missed the lock several times.
Inside, up the elevator, home. Pressed my eye to the peephole, stared for ten minutes. Hallway empty.
Didn't sleep all night. Every time I closed my eyes, heard those footsteps—*slap slap*—right next to my pillow.
Sixth day, took the day off. Went to the city library, searched old newspapers for the '98 incident. Spent two hours with microfilm, eyes burning, finally found it on the July 12, 1998 evening paper.
Bottom right corner of the society section, a tiny blurb: Provincial track athlete Huang Jianjun dies during training. Short piece—said Huang was doing routine training that afternoon, collapsed on the fourth lap, rushed to hospital but couldn't be saved. Cause: acute myocardial infarction.
It mentioned he was preparing for the national championships, training hard. The coach said: "Jianjun was too stubborn. His face looked bad that day, I told him to rest, he said one more lap and he'd stop."
A small photo in the corner: Huang Jianjun standing at the starting line, white tank dark shorts, grinning, showing white teeth. Young, sunny. Nothing like the closed-eyed, sweating man I'd seen on the track.
I made a copy, folded it, put it in my pocket. Walked out of the library—sun blazing, asphalt softening. Standing on the sidewalk, I felt lightheaded. A kid in his early twenties, running one minute, gone the next. Twenty years later, he's still running there.
But why was he chasing me? I wasn't his coach or teammate—just some insomniac wandering at night. Why me?
That night, I didn't go home. Checked into a budget hotel near the office, figured a change of scenery would help. Less than half an hour after lying down, I heard footsteps in the hallway. *Slap slap*, slow, from one end to the other, stopping at my door.
Staring at the gap under the door—I saw a pair of feet standing outside. Barefoot, ankles thin, skin deathly pale.
I jumped out of bed. Grabbed my phone to call the police, then froze—what would I say? "Hello, there's a ghost standing at my door"? Stared at that gap. The feet stood there for about a minute, then walked away. *Slap slap*, down the hallway.
I checked out, took a taxi to my parents' place. Mom was shocked when I showed up in the middle of the night, asked what was wrong. I said nothing, just worked late, didn't feel like going home. Lying in my old bed, listening to Dad's snoring next door—I finally slept.
Next morning, eating breakfast at Mom's—soy milk and fried dough sticks, morning news on TV. Chewing, I thought: this can't go on. He's just running his own run, right? If I stay away, he can't follow me home, can he? I'll avoid him day and night, take a different route—what else can he do?
That's what I told myself. Scheduled all projects for daytime, home by nine PM, locked doors, drawn curtains, earplugs. It worked—three nights without a sound.
Fourth afternoon, went to a meeting with a partner company. Their project manager, Liu, same age as me, we hit it off. After the meeting, chatting—he said he runs every night at a stadium near his place, asked if I wanted to join.
I thought: over my dead body. Was about to say no when he added: "The one in the old town, with the cinder track."
My hand shook holding my coffee cup. "That stadium... isn't it abandoned?"
"Abandoned? Nah, someone took it over, renovated it. Stands got painted, track got new synthetic surface. Reopened last month. Lots of people run there at night."
I froze. "You know about what happened there in '98?"
Manager Liu laughed: "Sure, it's all over the internet—athlete died there, haunted. Makes it more exciting, right? I go at night on purpose. Been running there two weeks, nothing." He looked at me. "You scared?"
"What time do you go?"
"Ten PM or so—less people."
I stared at him two seconds. "When you run... have you ever noticed someone in front of you? Keeping a fixed distance?"
He thought, shook his head: "No. Just me."
My neck went cold again. Where was Huang Jianjun? He ran every night—for whom? Or... does he just not run for Manager Liu?
That night, I didn't go home. I asked Manager Liu to take me to the stadium. Renovated, it looked different—stands painted blue, track red synthetic, new grass in the middle, bright stadium lights.
Seven or eight runners on the track—some with headphones, some in pairs. Looked normal.
I stood at the entrance, uneasy. Manager Liu started running, waved: "Come on!"
I didn't move. I was looking across the track, at the curve. Lights lit the whole track up—empty. I took a deep breath, stepped onto the track, started jogging.
First lap—nothing. Second lap—nothing. Third lap—I heard it.
*Slap. Slap.*
Right behind me. Looked back—nothing. Turned forward—thirty meters ahead, a person. White tank, dark shorts, back to me.
He was back.
Manager Liu ran past me, right through him, no reaction. He couldn't see. Manager Liu ran off, the person stopped. I stopped too. He stood thirty meters ahead, head down, shoulders hunched.
I suddenly wasn't scared. Don't know where the courage came from. I walked toward him. Step by step, until I was three meters behind him. He didn't move. I saw his tank top was still wet, sweat beads on his neck.
"Huang Jianjun," I said.
His shoulders shook.
"You finished running," I said. "That day you ran four laps. You finished."
He slowly turned around. Same face—thick eyebrows, eyes closed. But this time, no sweat. Skin dry, lips closed.
"You're dead," I said. "July 12, 1998. You finished your fourth lap, collapsed on the track. Your mom came to claim your body."
His lips moved. I didn't know what he wanted to say. Maybe "Mom," maybe "Sorry," maybe nothing. Just stood there, eyes closed, lips opening and closing like a fish out of water.
Then he started to fade. From the feet up, slowly disappearing—like mist blown away. Feet first, calves, thighs, waist, chest, finally his face.
Eyebrows gone, nose, mouth—whole face melting into the air. Took maybe ten seconds. Track empty. Synthetic surface soft underfoot, silent.
I stood there, stunned, for a long time.
Manager Liu ran back, tapped my shoulder: "What are you staring at? Run!"
"I'm done," I said. "Going home to sleep."
That night I slept like a rock—no dreams. Woke up next morning, birds chirping outside, sunlight warm on my blanket. Stretched, felt empty inside, like something was missing.
Later, I went back to the stadium once more—ten PM, not too many runners. Ran five laps, nothing ahead of me.
Stood in the middle of the track, looking at the curve. Lights bright, not even a stray cat.
I suddenly missed him.
That kid who collapsed on the track twenty years ago. The one with closed eyes, sweating, still running. Ran there for twenty years—maybe he just wanted to finish that last lap. Maybe he just needed someone to tell him: you're done, you can stop now.
As I walked out, I glanced back. On the stands, an old security guard sat with a bamboo broom, slowly sweeping steps. He looked up at me, then back down.
I smiled, turned and walked away.
On the way home, I thought: maybe everyone has a lap they can't finish. Some it's work, some it's love, some it's a night they can't get back. But someone has to tell you it's okay to stop. Otherwise, you just keep running—tank top soaked, face pale—until you collapse.
After that, my insomnia was gone.
But I never went back to that stadium.