Chapter Seven: Out of the Body

The hand that drooped over Wang Hou’s shoulder could hardly be called a hand anymore.

Its flesh and blood were so mangled that it was truly shocking, as though some corrosive liquid had melted it away. The skin on each finger had fused together, the muscles and blood vessels had turned to pus, as if coated in a gelatinous, bloody glove…

My mouth hung open, unable to utter a word.

Very soon, Wang Hou sensed the strangeness on his shoulder. He glanced sideways at the hand resting upon him.

When he finally saw it clearly, he collapsed to the floor. This six-foot-tall man had been utterly conquered by his own fear.

In truth, Wang Hou could hardly be blamed. For the “thing” standing behind him was indeed unspeakably terrifying!

His three friends now stood beneath the flickering, ghostly light of the restroom, their bodies dripping with some unknown liquid.

Their sudden appearance had caught both Wang Hou and me completely off guard.

With no alternative, I mustered my courage and shouted, “What do you three want?”

At this moment, the man in the middle began walking toward Wang Hou, his voice drifting eerily, “I can’t accept it! Why did only the three of us have to die? Wang Hou… why is your luck so good? You have someone watching over you, you’re blessed…”

As he spoke, the owner of that grotesque hand slowly raised his head, revealing his true face—a face without human skin.

Both Wang Hou and I, as if by agreement, fainted from fear…

When I awoke once more from terror, dawn had already broken, and the sunlight on my skin felt almost scorching.

I was stunned to discover that I was not in the kitchen, nor the restroom, but in the dormitory bed at the inn.

My mind was a jumble, but soon I recalled and pieced together the events of the previous night, especially the vivid memory of Wang Hou’s terrified face.

Yet the images of his three friends, and what occurred in the restroom, were entirely blurred in my mind; as time passed, I found myself quickly forgetting many of the details.

I had no idea how I had returned from the restroom to the dormitory, nor did I know whether Wang Hou had managed to escape that “funeral feast.”

All of it, in the tranquility of the morning, seemed like nothing more than a dream!

“A dream?” I suddenly murmured to myself.

Just then, inspiration struck. Perhaps what happened last night really was nothing more than a dream.

How I hoped that was all it was, that it was only an absurd nightmare born of longing for my friends and my old unit.

To prove this idea to myself, I leapt out of bed and, risking all propriety, dashed to the women’s dormitory where the waitresses stayed.

Amid their shrieks, I found Xiao Hong—the only other person who had experienced the events with me.

When I woke Xiao Hong from her sleep, I received an unexpected answer.

Bleary-eyed, Ye Xiaohong told me that after closing at eleven last night, she had been on duty in the lobby the entire time. She hadn’t seen anyone in a black suit, hadn’t seen me, and hadn’t left the lobby at all.

In other words, she had seen nothing.

“Was it really just a dream?” I exclaimed joyfully, and, ignoring the odd looks from others, I hurried to the kitchen, and from there straight to the restroom.

To my delight, there wasn’t the slightest evidence in the kitchen that I’d been cooking; it truly seemed that last night had been nothing but a dream!

For the first time in days, a radiant smile appeared on my face.

Humming a tune, I packed my things in the dormitory. Once everything was in order, I left the hotel and headed straight for the bus station.

I planned to return to my village, rest for a while, reconnect with old comrades, and then make long-term plans.

But just as I had taken no more than ten steps from the inn’s entrance, a man suddenly stopped me in my tracks.

In the sunlight, I looked up at his burly figure and froze in shock.

It was my comrade, Wang Hou!

“Tian Buer! Brother!” Wang Hou shouted as he hugged me, sobbing like a child, to the point that I felt a touch of revulsion.

I thought to myself, cry if you must, but must you snivel like that?

Wang Hou clung to me, crying for quite a while, before, under the curious gaze of passersby, insisting that I let him treat me to a meal—claiming I had saved his life last night, and demanding to drink with me.

So, I had no choice but to postpone my return home, and with this emotional Wang Hou, found a random restaurant. We sat down face to face.

No sooner had we sat than Wang Hou was still wiping his nose. Unable to stand it, I pointed at him and complained, “Aren’t you too old for this? Where’s your military bearing? Why do you burst into tears every time you see me? Are you trying to curse me?”

But in truth, I knew Wang Hou was a tough man. If it weren’t for something truly terrifying or moving, he would never cry like this.

And I was puzzled—how did he find me? It was as if he knew exactly where I worked. Could it be…

As I speculated anxiously, Wang Hou told me about the bizarre events of his previous night.

After leaving the military, Wang Hou had partnered with some old acquaintances to start a vegetable transport business.

However, his three partners thought the profit from hauling vegetables was too low, and that chemicals would bring in faster money.

But Wang Hou disagreed. Since they were new to the trade, he insisted on sticking with the safer cargo. Transporting chemicals required special permits—permits Wang Hou couldn’t obtain—and he had no wish to earn money against his conscience by smuggling.

Thus, their business philosophies clashed.

But what Wang Hou hadn’t expected was that, seven days prior—while his father was suffering from a heart attack—his three friends secretly took on a private job without telling him. They were to deliver two truckloads of chemicals to Tianjin Port. By the time Wang Hou learned of it, they had already departed.

What happened next played out just as I’d guessed in my dream.

Their truck crashed on the highway. His three friends never returned; not only did they fail to earn money, they lost their lives as well. The chemicals burned them so badly that their fingers fused together and their faces were scalded beyond recognition.

In short, their deaths were tragic.

For the past seven days, Wang Hou, as the company’s legal owner, had been overwhelmed—selling the fleet, paying fines, and barely managing to settle his friends’ affairs.

Last night, downcast, he drank heavily at home and slipped into a drunken sleep, only to have a nightmare much like mine.

In his dream, his three partners were still alive. Clad in black suits, they said the delivery was done and invited Wang Hou to dinner.

They came to the very restaurant where I worked.

But when Wang Hou, having drunk too much during the meal, excused himself to use the restroom, I suddenly appeared, urgently telling him, “Run! Don’t eat at the funeral feast—those three friends want your life!”

As I spoke, his three friends also entered the restroom.

Then, to his horror, Wang Hou watched as his friends began to rot away bit by bit, all the while repeating, “Wang Hou is lucky, he has someone to protect him,” and so on. The scene was so chilling that Wang Hou screamed in terror.

Finally, he awoke from the nightmare, and the first thing he did was rush to the restaurant he’d seen in his dream, to see if I was really working there.

That’s how we met at the inn’s entrance.

After hearing his story, I was speechless.

Never could I have imagined that my first reunion with an old comrade after leaving the army would be in a dream—and not just any dream, but one haunted by vengeful spirits!

“Alas!” Wang Hou sighed. “In this crash, I lost everything. Yet even as ghosts they won’t let me go. To think I went into business with them—human hearts… No, ghost hearts…”

He trailed off, and I looked at his ashen face, knowing this incident had struck him to the core.

So I patted his shoulder and gently consoled him, “How can you take a dream for real? Besides, you stood up and took care of their affairs. If anything, they should be grateful to you, not out to take your soul.”

Just then, the waiter brought the food I’d ordered: two bowls of rice, a plate of stir-fried greens, a dish of peanuts in aged vinegar, and two bottles of beer.

“Eat something. It’s all behind us now.”

But as I spoke, Wang Hou stared at the simple meal before us, an odd expression flickering across his face.

He didn’t pick up his chopsticks—he merely pointed at the food.

“What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with the food?” From the look in his eyes, I sensed a nameless fear.