Chapter 113: Terror in the Heart of the Mist

Luo Hanya opened the door to the room. Although the sky had already brightened, the corridor remained dim. He cautiously paced through it, noticing many details that had escaped him the previous night.

The corners of the corridor and the ceiling were thick with dust and cobwebs, filthy and dilapidated, as if no one had lived there for a long time—hardly the appearance of an inn. Yet this matched Luo Hanya’s expectations perfectly: a place haunted by ghosts. At the end of the corridor, he discovered a small door.

Behind the door was a small storage room, crookedly piled with heaps of tin foil and netherworld silver—items used for funerary rites—scattered haphazardly across the room’s corners, as if to consecrate anyone who entered.

Steeling his nerves, Luo Hanya rummaged through the dark room. Amid the piles of tin foil and netherworld silver, he made a new discovery: a corridor! Behind the small room lay another corridor. Only then did he realize how little he truly understood this inn. It was definitely not as cramped as it appeared; the space folded in on itself, concealing many complex corners within this small area.

Luo Hanya stepped into the winding corridor, tense and alert. The passage twisted and branched several times. Some dead-ended in small rooms; others abruptly ended in emptiness—nothing at all. The layers upon layers resembled a labyrinth.

The maze-like corridors looked identical, like a spinning wheel turning endlessly, making Luo Hanya dizzy and disoriented. A cold wind swept through, causing a single overhead light to sway continuously. Suddenly, he felt as if something was watching him from behind, sending chills down his spine. At that moment, he felt like a wild beast cornered by hunters at the edge of a cliff, awaiting the final net that would rip him apart.

An immense pressure weighed on Luo Hanya, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He remained frozen, waiting for the shadowy presence to reveal itself first. Yet, after a long while, there was no movement. Suddenly, Luo Hanya bolted forward, flung open a nearby door, and found a staircase leading downward. Hesitating only briefly, he gritted his teeth and plunged down.

Below the stairs was a strange little room, neat and seemingly well-kept—an entirely different scene from the corridor. The room was simple, consistent with the overall style of the Mist Inn but even more minimal: just a table and a bed.

As Luo Hanya surveyed the room, he suddenly shivered and excitedly took a few steps forward. There, at the head of the bed, lay a notebook! No wonder he felt such a surge of emotion. He took a deep breath, picked up the notebook, and leafed through several pages.

The notebook was well-made, with a wonderful tactile quality—soft, elastic, like animal skin.

It was a diary, chronicling someone’s experiences at the Mist Inn. Most entries were mundane, but on the last page, Luo Hanya found something valuable:

Day Nine.

It has been nine days since arriving here. The environment is quite pleasant, which seems to aid my condition. The weather is beautiful today. Arthur and I went swimming by the sea.

We swam with great joy; since arriving here, I have felt much more at ease. Memories of my early years came flooding back...

We swam for about half an hour. When I lifted my head above the water, the sky had darkened, and a gust of wind swept across the sea. Suddenly, a strange feeling gripped me—it might be the tide rising.

I looked back toward the shore and realized I had swum far out. The bay and cliffs were left behind. I saw the hillside dotted with graves and even caught sight of the Mist Inn itself. It was the first time I viewed it from the sea, but it was so distant that I could only see its lonely silhouette standing by the shore, perpetually shrouded in mist. Perhaps it is called the Mist Inn precisely because it is surrounded by fog year-round.

The time was growing late; it was time to return. I checked the time and swam back to the small cove with Arthur.

Suddenly, I heard a sound—like someone wailing?

My heart pounded wildly, and I felt helpless. What chilled me to the bone was that the wailing seemed to come from beneath the sea...

As I desperately swam back, suddenly a hand grabbed my ankle!

“Arthur, help me!” I shouted reflexively, swallowing seawater that made me dizzy. I gasped again, but the weight on my leg grew heavier. It felt as though that hand was pulling me deeper.

Arthur had already swum ahead, but seeing me in danger, he turned back without hesitation.

I kicked with all my might to break free, but it was useless. Darkness engulfed me as I was dragged into the black depths.

Then I heard Arthur calling my name. He plunged underwater and seemed to pry the hand off.

I felt my leg freed and flailed desperately with my hands. Soon I swam into the bay, carefully avoiding hidden reefs, and with my last strength, I reached the shore.

Finally, I could breathe fresh air again.

Words cannot describe my feelings then—was it extreme fear or intense exhilaration? At least I was still alive.

Gasping heavily, I collapsed onto the ground without concern for my dignity. Perhaps this is what it means to escape death.

After all, humans are still creatures of the land!

Then I realized Arthur had not returned. My vision went black, and I could only think, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur...”

I rushed to the shore, scanning desperately, but saw no sign of him. Suddenly, I felt a strange sensation behind me. Turning sharply, all I saw was the ancient cemetery sprawled over the hillside.

Rain had begun to fall, droplets wetting my eyes. Staring at the dark sea, I trembled, unwilling to approach.

Night was falling, dusk enveloping the ocean. The countless graves on the hillside seemed all too close. Reason—or perhaps the will to survive—forced me to stand. I hastily wiped my body and hurriedly dressed, feeling chilled to the bone. Thankfully, I regained some strength and ran desperately toward the Mist Inn.

“Arthur, I’m sorry... It’s my fault. I don’t ask for your forgiveness, but I promise to come every year to honor you. If I am still alive.”

“Arthur, please bless me to leave this place alive.”

The diary’s final handwriting was erratic and incoherent, as if the writer had encountered something terrifying. (To be continued.)