### 1
Six months into running this shop, the most important thing I learned: don't argue with people who come for hot pot at midnight.
1:23 AM. Fenglu Street had only my shop still lit. The tin awning flapped in the wind, red lanterns swinging at the door, their shadows stretching long on the ground.
I leaned behind the register scrolling my phone when I heard the shutter creak open.
Eight people walked in. The leader wore a dark gray windbreaker, followed by young men and women in their early twenties, faces expressionless.
Midnight hot pot, no talking, no laughing. They filed single-file to the booth.
"How many?" I stood up.
"Eight." The windbreaker man said.
They chose the largest window table. Eight people filled it exactly.
When the copper nine-square hot pot arrived, I glanced over. Nine sets of chopsticks and bowls were laid out. The inner seat against the wall was empty, but its utensils were perfectly arranged, teacup filled to the brim.
I didn't think much of it. Someone might be in the bathroom, or running late. I'd seen this before—friends always show up late, save seats first.
I handed over the menu. No discussion needed. Windbreaker man flipped through, checked a few items, passed it back.
I glanced—signature dishes: beef tripe, goose intestines, beef aorta, tender beef... and shrimp paste. Normal enough. Portions were large for eight people, but whatever.
Old Liu in the kitchen had already left. I served myself. Carrying the tray over, the table was dead quiet. No phones, no chatter—all eyes fixed on the boiling soup.
The chili oil broth was just coming to a boil, gurgling, spicy fumes stinging my nose.
I blanched the tripe first—seven up, eight down, that's the rule. Chopsticks dipping in and out, counting, distributing to their bowls. Everything normal—until I picked up the last plate of tender beef.
Slices arranged neat and tidy, pink, fresh-looking.
I glanced at the empty seat out of habit. No one there, chair empty, but utensils set, chopsticks resting on the bowl, tea still steaming.
I dumped the beef into the grid in front of that empty seat.
Meat hitting the broth, *plop*, oil splattering two drops. I heard a sound—chopsticks tapping a bowl edge. *Tap*. Soft, but crystal clear in the silent shop.
I looked up.
All eight were staring at me. Windbreaker man's hand froze mid-air, chopsticks still holding a piece of tripe, not moving to his mouth.
The girl next to him had wide eyes, lips slightly parted, like she wanted to say something but swallowed it.
Across the table, a guy in a baseball cap had gone pale, eyes darting to the empty seat then back fast.
No one moved. Soup still boiling, steam rising, blurring their expressions.
My mind blanked. Shit—service mistake. These were clearly friends. Why did I drop food into the empty seat's grid?
Was I implying the latecomer didn't belong?
"Sorry sorry," I quickly plunged the slotted spoon into the grid, "I'll bring you a fresh plate, this one's on me"
Windbreaker man blocked me with his hand. Long fingers, bony knuckles, faint blue veins visible on the back.
"No need." He said.
Voice flat, no emotion. He put down his chopsticks, pulled out his wallet, placed three hundred-yuan notes on the table.
"Keep the change."
Then he stood up. The other seven stood in unison, chairs scraping the floor in a long *squeal*—like a cat scratching glass.
They left. Shutter up then down. Wind rushed in, blowing the paper money on the table to the floor.
Paper money?
I stared at the bright yellow square on the ground, a coin stamp pressed in the center. Serrated edges, softened by the hot pot steam—but definitely ghost money.
I'd never burned ghost money. There was none in the shop.
I squatted to pick it up, flipped it over twice. A small oil stain on the edge, like something had touched it.
I remembered the tender beef I'd dropped into that grid—I'd fished for it but barely got any out, thought it had scattered in the soup.
That grid still had half the broth, a few Sichuan peppercorns floating on top. I fished again with the slotted spoon. Nothing. But the spoon hit something soft. I pulled it out.
A piece of meat. Thumbnail-sized, half-cooked, pink raw center still visible. I stared at it three seconds, then threw it in the trash.
Washed my hands, went back to the register. I tucked the ghost money into the drawer under the cash register, planned to ask Old Zhou tomorrow.
Old Zhou had worked the kitchen here fifteen years—since the previous owner. He knew Fenglu Street's rules better than anyone.
Lying on the small bed in the back room, I couldn't sleep. Half the fluorescent light on the ceiling was broken, flickering, making the "Customers Welcome" embroidery on the wall flash on and off.
I pulled out my phone to check the security footage. When I took over the shop, I'd installed four cameras—entrance, register, kitchen, dining hall. Crystal clear.
The dining hall camera pointed right at the window booth. I opened the playback, dragged to 1:30 AM.
On screen: eight people sitting in the booth. Windbreaker man on the aisle side, facing the empty seat. Others sat in order—no one at the wall seat.
Then the ninth set of utensils appeared.
I watched the screen three times. Those utensils were always on the table, at the wall seat. But I distinctly remembered counting them before the pot arrived—eight sets only.
When had the ninth set appeared? No one in the footage took or placed utensils. It was just... there.
I turned off my phone, buried myself under the covers.
Wind still blowing outside, awning clattering. I listened a moment—no other sounds. Sleep. Need to get up early tomorrow to prep.
Then I heard *tap*.
Soft. Like someone setting chopsticks on a bowl edge.
### 2
Old Zhou came the next day. Almost sixty, wearing his faded apron, started complaining about the tripe quality as soon as he entered the kitchen.
I told him about the ghost money.
Old Zhou's knife paused mid-slice. He arranged the fish slices on the plate, wiped his hands, turned to face me—face grim.
"You dropped food into that grid?"
"I didn't notice"
"Nine-square grid," Old Zhou interrupted, "Do you know why it's nine squares?"
I said nothing.
"Not for decoration," Old Zhou's voice dropped low, kitchen exhaust buzzing, "Nine-square grid is for nine people.
When a table orders nine-square and only eight show up—the ninth seat is for the 'uninvited guests.' "
He pointed to the empty space on his left.
"You dropped food into his grid—you invited him to eat. He ate your food, so you're the host. Hosts must accompany guests. Accompany means you go with them."
"Go with who?"
Old Zhou didn't answer, went back to slicing fish. "What about the ghost money?"
"I tucked it in the drawer."
"Dispose of it. Don't keep it in the shop, don't take it home. Find a crossroads, burn it tonight."
He wouldn't say more after that. I pressed him—he just waved his hand, "Don't ask. Knowing more isn't good."
After closing, I did as Old Zhou said. Took the ghost money to the crossroads at the end of Fenglu Street.
11 PM, few people on the street, one streetlight broken—ground patchy dark and bright. I squatted in the middle of the road, lit the paper with a lighter.
It burned fast—flames up then down, ashes scattered by wind. I stood watching until it was gone, then turned to leave.
Three steps, I stopped.
Footsteps behind me.
Soft, like someone wearing cloth shoes, soles dragging on the ground. I turned—empty behind me, streetlight stretching my shadow long, all the way to the curb.
I walked a few more steps. Footsteps again. This time I spun around—nothing.
But at the curb, next to my shadow, there was a small patch of darkness. Not big, irregular shape—like someone squatting there.
I stared at that shadow five seconds. It didn't move. I stepped forward—shadow moved forward too.
I ran. Back to the shop, pulled down the shutter, locked it, leaned against the door gasping.
Kitchen light still on. Old Zhou long gone. Stainless steel bowls covering the stove. Faucet dripping—*drip, drip*—into the sink.
I played a Guo Degang comedy on my phone at max volume, made myself instant noodles.
While eating, I kept feeling someone sitting across from me. Chair legs scraping the floor—*squeak*, then *squeak* again.
That night I didn't dare sleep at the shop. Took a taxi to my rented apartment, turned on all the lights when I entered.
Nothing happened for days. I thought burning the ghost money had solved it—prepped ingredients, served customers, business as usual. After 10 PM sometimes a few tables, Old Zhou left early, I stayed alone.
Until the fifth night.
### 3
Three tables that night. One with four college students, noisy, ordered a yin-yang pot; one with a young couple, in the far corner, heads together talking; and one with a single customer.
The solo diner was a man in his forties, dark blue work clothes, calloused hands—looked like a night taxi driver.
He came in around midnight, ordered a small personal pot, plate of lamb, and a bottle of baijiu.
I served him and went to attend other tables. College students ordered two more beers, couple wanted brown sugar rice cakes. When I returned, I heard noise at the solo diner's table.
He held his wine glass, said to the empty chair across: "Come on, cheers."
I passed by, paused.
No utensils, no cup on that empty chair—just a plastic chair, alone. The man held his glass over it, paused two seconds, then drank alone.
He set down the cup, picked up a slice of lamb, placed it on the empty plate across.
"Long trip today," he said, "Over a hundred kilometers. Tired. You eat first, I'll rest."
I stood behind the register watching him. He talked to thin air, tone natural—like dining with an old friend.
Chatted about earning, road construction, his son's exam scores—bits and pieces. Finally finished his wine, stood to pay.
"You" I hesitated, "Who were you talking to just now?"
The man froze, then laughed. "Oh, habit. My wife passed two years ago. We used to come here for hot pot.
After she left, when I miss her I come sit, set an empty seat, pour a drink, talk."
When he pulled out money, I noticed a red string on his wrist with a small copper coin.
"That red string"
He looked down, pulled his sleeve down. "Oh, my mom got it for me. Night shift work, for protection."
After he left, I cleaned the table. In front of his wife's empty seat, he'd left a slice of lamb—untouched.
When I reached for the plate, the lamb had bite marks. Neat, like someone had taken a bite.
I dropped the plate *clatter* into the sink, stepped back. The other tables were long gone, just me alone. Soup still simmering on low heat, gurgling.
I scanned the hall. Nine tables, thirty chairs. All empty now—but I wondered which chair might have someone I couldn't see sitting on it.
Next day I went to the City God Temple, found a street vendor selling talismans. The vendor was a thin old man with round glasses, looked at me and asked: "Young man, you're carrying something, aren't you?"
I told him everything. After listening, he took off his glasses, wiped them, spoke slowly.
"The nine-square rule—you didn't know, not your fault. But you did invite the guest. Invited means you must accompany. Seven days. Burning the ghost money won't help—you burned the money, but you still invited the guest. He'll stay."
"How do I make him leave?"
"Seven days. Don't have any contact with him during these seven days—don't look at him, don't listen to him, don't talk to him. If he calls, don't turn around. If he touches you, don't dodge. After seven days, he'll leave naturally."
"What if I do make contact?"
The old man put his glasses back on, looked at me. "If you do, he'll think you're willing to go with him. Then it won't be seven days anymore."
I thanked him, hung the talisman around my neck. The copper piece pressed against my chest, cool—gave me a little comfort.
From that day, I counted the days. First day, second day, third day.
It was hell.
Always felt someone following me on the street—turn around, nothing. At night, shallow indentations on the pillow, like someone had rested their head there.
Phone charger kept falling out of the socket. Once or twice I could say it wasn't plugged in tight, but every night? I couldn't fool myself anymore.
The shop was worse. Always smelled boiling meat mixed with chili oil and Sichuan peppercorns—but the pots weren't even on.
Occasionally heard dishes clink in the cupboard—*ding*, *ding*—like someone running fingers over them one by one.
Old Zhou looked at me more and more strangely. One day he pulled me into the kitchen, rolled up my sleeve, looked at my forearm.
"You been feeling cold lately?"
I nodded. Cold, especially the back of my neck and wrists—chilly, no amount of clothes helped.
Old Zhou said nothing, released my arm, went to the stove and boiled a kettle of water. Poured it into a big bowl, pulled a handful of coarse salt from his pocket, stirred, handed it to me.
"Take this to the dining hall, put it in the southeast corner. Don't look back—set it down and come back."
I did it. Carried the salt water to the southeast corner—where that table had sat—and placed the bowl on the floor. When the bowl touched the tile, I heard a soft laugh behind me.
Male voice. Low, short, right by my ear.
I spun around. Nothing behind me. The salt water surface rippled—circles spreading out, like something had just pulled a finger out.
That night after closing, I sat behind the register watching security footage. Starting from 10 PM, dragging through each frame. Customers coming and going, waiters serving—all normal.
Until 2:11 AM. Shop empty, half the lights off, hall dark. I'd fallen asleep on the table—only my head and shoulder visible in the frame.
Then in the bottom right corner, on the empty chair behind me—the seat slowly dipped. Like someone sat down.
I hit pause, stared at the indentation. It was an old plastic chair—would warp with use—but this indentation was too obvious, like actual weight pressing down.
I dragged the progress bar forward. I was still asleep on the table, the chair behind me maintaining the "someone sitting" indentation.
After about ten minutes, I rolled over in my sleep, face turning toward the camera. At that moment, the indentation behind me suddenly disappeared—the chair *snapped* back to its original shape.
I felt my hair stand on end. Grabbed my phone to call Old Zhou, but found an unread text from an unknown number. Three words:
"You saw it."
I stared at the text. No context, no signature. Local area code.
I tried calling back. Rang once, hung up. Called again—phone off.
That night I didn't go home. Turned on all the shop lights, sat behind the register until dawn.
Just before dawn, I couldn't hold on anymore, nodded off for a minute. Half-asleep, I heard that laugh again. Longer this time—like someone leaning close to my ear, laughing softly.
"Found you."
### 4
Seventh day.
Old Zhou came early, cleaned the kitchen, splashed salt water on the corners. When he finished, he walked to me—face more serious than ever.
"Last day today. Close early tonight, go home, sleep. Don't go out, don't open windows."
"Is he still here?"
Old Zhou looked at me. "Your talisman's still cold—means he's still here. After midnight tonight, seven days up, he should leave.
Don't provoke him, don't look back, don't answer anything you hear. Just get through tonight."
I nodded. The copper piece against my skin was still cold—ice cold, not normal metal temperature, like touching a piece of ice.
I opened as usual during the day. Lots of customers, kept me busy enough to forget. At 9 PM, I closed early, pulled down the shutter, went back to my apartment.
First thing: check all windows. Locked. Curtains drawn. All lights on in living room and bedroom. Turned on the TV, some variety show, volume up.
I sat on the sofa, legs drawn up, staring at the screen.
10 PM. 11 PM. 11:30 PM.
Getting sleepier, eyelids heavy. People laughing on TV—sounds distant, blurred.
I drifted off, only the TV noise and occasional car passing outside.
Then the TV went silent.
I jolted awake. Screen black, remote on the floor. Living room dead quiet—even the fridge hum had stopped. I sat frozen, heart pounding, mouth dry.
Heard sounds from the kitchen. Faucet turned on—*whoosh* water running into the sink. Then dishes clinking, chopsticks pulled from the holder.
Then the sound I knew best hot pot broth boiling—*gurgle gurgle*, *gurgle gurgle*.
I sat on the sofa, motionless. Coldness at the back of my neck growing stronger—like someone standing behind me, leaning down, close to my head.
"Food's ready."
That voice right behind my ear. Male, low, with a laugh. I stiffened, nails digging into my palm.
"Not eating?"
The TV screen suddenly lit up. But it wasn't the variety show—it was my shop's security feed.
The dining hall camera, pointing at the window table. The nine-square copper pot on the table, red broth boiling. Eight seats empty—the inner wall seat had someone sitting there.
I could only see the back of his head. Short black hair, wearing dark gray clothes, holding chopsticks, picking food from the grid. He took a slice of meat, blew on it, then tilted his head.
The angle showed me half his face. Skin very white—white to the point of blue—mouth curved up, smiling.
Then he turned around.
On screen, he faced the camera—faced me. That face was mine.
My own face was smiling at me.
"You invited me," the "me" on TV said, "You don't eat, I'm lonely by myself."
I snapped. Jumped off the sofa, ran for the door, fumbling with the handle. Twisted once—wouldn't turn. Twice—still stuck. I pulled hard, door wouldn't budge, like locked from the outside.
The voice behind me got closer. Right behind me, so close I could feel breath—cold, hitting the back of my neck.
"You dropped food into my grid—didn't you want to invite me to eat?"
I remembered Old Zhou's words. Don't look back, don't answer. Seven days up, he leaves. But had I already made contact? I saw him.
The him on TV saw me. He talked to me, I heard him.
I pressed my forehead against the door, closed my eyes, bit my lip. Don't look back, don't speak, don't see. Just hold out until midnight, just—
"You saw me." The voice whispered in my ear, breath tickling my earlobe like winter wind through a collar, "Seeing counts."
A hand touched my shoulder. Cold, seeping through my T-shirt into my skin—like a frozen meat slice just pulled from the fridge. The hand pressed down gently.
"Come with me."
My talisman suddenly burned—like a red-hot iron. I cried out, tried to grab it, pulled my hand back instantly—it was that hot, blister forming on my palm.
At the same time, the cold on my shoulder vanished. The door *clicked* open. I stumbled forward, falling onto the hallway carpet. The door slammed shut behind me.
I lay there gasping. The blister on my palm was bright red, throbbing with pain. The talisman was still hot, but cooling down.
I touched the copper piece—it wasn't cold anymore, just normal room temperature for metal.
I got up, didn't dare go back in. Wore slippers, ran downstairs. Empty street, streetlights casting yellow light, my shadow alone on the ground.
I stood under the streetlight, spun around—only my shadow.
2 AM, I took a taxi to the shop. Old Zhou was there, sitting on a kitchen stool smoking. He looked me over, gaze lingering on the blister.
"Over?"
I nodded. Throat too dry to speak.
Old Zhou took another puff. "Hand out."
I extended my hand. Old Zhou looked at the blister, frowned. "Burned?"
"Talisman burned me."
Old Zhou was silent a moment. "Talismans don't burn for no reason. It burned you to protect you—to block something."
"Did he leave?"
Old Zhou put out his cigarette, stood and brushed off his pants. "When you came in, I was sitting here—back door closed, windows closed. But I heard three knocks on the back door. Midnight's long past—who knocks at this hour?"
My back went cold again.
"He didn't leave," Old Zhou said, "You saw him. You saw him."
Old Zhou took the coarse salt from his pocket, sprinkled it at the shop entrance. Boiled another kettle of water, poured into a bowl, added salt, placed it in front of the back door crack. When he finished, he sat behind the register, lit a new cigarette.
"Find a real master," he said, "A proper one."
I leaned against a chair, blister on my palm throbbing. Variety show laughter still buzzing in my head. I remembered the ghost money before I burned it—had a small oil stain on the edge.
That oil stain came from the tender beef.
He ate it.
The extra piece of meat in the footage—half-cooked, with a raw center. I didn't understand then, but now I do. He ate half, left half.
Left half for me.
I looked down at my palm. In the center of the blister, there was a dark spot—shaped like a small, overcooked piece of meat.