The courtyard of Xijiao Fright House loomed before them, its crumbling walls swallowed by shadow. Gao Ruxue traced a finger over a weathered wooden doorframe, her voice light with curiosity. “Three courtyards, east and west wings, a covered walkway… even the luozi pillars and ruyi doors. This place nails the old Beijing siheyuan vibe. The attention to detail’s impressive.”

Beside her, He Shan gripped his phone like a lifeline, his knuckles white. “Senior, we’re in a haunted house, not a museum. Could you dial down the architecture critique? My palms are sweating enough already.” His eyes darted to the swaying ghost banners overhead. “Let’s just find the exit. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Gao Ruxue scoffed, pushing open the door to the east wing. “Relax. It’s just props and actors. We’ve seen worse at the school morgue.”

“Prop? Actor?” He Shan’s voice cracked. “Since when do props make your hair stand on end? Or make you feel like… like something’s watching?”

“Parlor tricks,” Gao Ruxue said, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She stepped into the room, her sneakers crunching on scattered joss paper.

The east wing was a time capsule of decay. A wooden bed lay overturned, its quilt torn to shreds, cotton stuffing spilling like entrails. Above it, a length of white silk dangled from the ceiling beam—too high to strangle, too low to ignore.

“Smart,” Gao Ruxue murmured, crouching to inspect the drag marks on the floor. “They want us to think someone hanged themselves here. But the angle’s off. No blood, no nail marks. Just… theater.” She tossed the quilt aside, revealing a ragged cloth doll beneath. “A paper figure on a bed? Classic misdirection. No body, no clue. Disappointing.”

She turned to leave, but He Shan lagged, his gaze locked on the doll. “Senior… did that thing just… smile?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Gao Ruxue waved him off, but her pulse quickened. “Let’s check the main hall. If there’s an exit, it’ll be near the entrance.”

But the main hall wasn’t empty.

A lacquered coffin sat at its center, draped in red silk emblazoned with a bold happiness character. Kneeling before it, a dozen paper figures stared up with painted eyes—their faces twisted in grins, their names scrawled on their backs.

“Guests of honor,” Gao Ruxue muttered, her voice tight.

He Shan grabbed her arm, his touch icy. “We need to go. Now. That music… it’s been playing since we walked in. Black Friday. I’ve heard stories—people say it… changes you.”

Gao Ruxue froze. The song was familiar. A haunting melody, slow and discordant, weaving through the creak of the old house. “It’s just a track,” she said, but her hands trembled. “Haunted houses use sound to set the mood. Nothing more.”

But her eyes darted to the paper figures. Their painted gazes followed her. The white silk in the east wing swayed, though there was no breeze.

“Something’s wrong here,” He Shan whispered.

“I know.” Gao Ruxue’s voice was barely audible. “The exit’s not the point. This place… it’s not about scaring us with jump scares. It’s about making us doubt. The owner kept talking about ‘burial grounds’ and ‘cursed brides’ on the way in. He’s planting ideas. Making us fear what we imagine.”

He Shan swallowed. “So what do we do?”

“We finish the tour.” Gao Ruxue straightened, her jaw set. “If he wants us to panic, we’ll give him a show. But we don’t run. Not yet.”

Behind them, the paper figures began to sway.

The music swelled.

And the white silk in the east wing snapped taut.