A Lei dos Fantasmas
"Você acredita que existem fantasmas neste mundo?" A última pergunta do colega de quarto antes de saltar do prédio forçou Lu Jin Zhao a se envolver em um ciclo aterrorizante impossível de descrever. Uma pele de carneiro ensanguentada, uma passagem preta gravada com seu nome e pessoas vivas que desapareceram sem explicação — o armário número 504 da estação de trem de Yun Cheng tornou-se a entrada dela para a morte. Quando o trem estranho parou diante de Lu Jin Zhao, só havia uma opção para ela. "Se não embarcar, não há saída." A pele de carneiro em sua mão a alertava. Para sobreviver, Lu Jin Zhao embarcou no trem rumo ao inferno, entrando na fronteira entre a vida e a morte.
A Lei dos Fantasmas
Early spring.
The weather was warming, a perfect time for spring blossoms to bloom—if only Lin Zhao, Lu Jinchao’s college roommate, hadn’t suddenly leapt from the dormitory building and died that very day.
What made it worse was that the night before Lin Zhao’s fall, she had tightly grasped Lu Jinchao’s hand and asked some strange questions.
“Xiao Lu, do you believe ghosts exist in this world?”
“Whether you believe it or not, remember this—I am not trying to harm you.”
“I put something in locker number 504 on the underground platform at the train station. The code is 144.”
When questioned by the police, Lu Jinchao found herself unable to recall those odd words. Every time she tried to speak, it felt as if something was lodged in her throat, stopping her from continuing.
In the end, Lin Zhao’s death was ruled a suicide. Surveillance footage clearly showed her leaving the dorm late at night and climbing onto the rooftop.
Yet rumors among the students whispered that before jumping, Lin Zhao hesitated and struggled for a long while. The way she fell seemed strange, as though pushed by some unseen force.
But these were only rumors—no one dared claim they saw it with their own eyes.
At first, Lu Jinchao didn’t understand what Lin Zhao meant by “the thing” until she realized her own protective talisman was missing.
Calling it a “talisman” wasn’t quite right. More precisely, it was a keepsake left by her parents—a palm-sized piece of parchment made from sheepskin.
Unable to share Lin Zhao’s “last words” with
