Chapter 22

The carriage stopped in front of a white villa.
Its location was…telling. The backyard bordered the swamp. Around it stretched an endless expanse of deep green water—at a glance you could barely tell where lake ended and marsh and grassland began, like a beautiful prison.
While Boyd turned to step down, Bo Li quickly checked the holster at the small of her back. Only then did her pulse settle a little.
As they approached the villa, a male servant saw them and came to answer the door.
He was tall and strong, wearing a vest over his shirt. A holster hung on his belt with the flap left open, exposing the nickel‑plated grip of a revolver.
Bo Li kept her face still as she looked at the gun. Her heart skipped twice.
Boyd noticed her gaze and soothed her softly. “Don’t be afraid. They won’t shoot us.”
At that moment, a woman came over—about fifty, stern‑faced, dressed in a plain but proper gown. She reached for Bo Li’s black cloak, as if to remove it.
Bo Li stepped back at once. “No, thank you. I’m…a little cold.”
The woman looked at Boyd.
Boyd said, “This is Mrs. Merlin. She won’t do anything to you. She only wants to make sure you aren’t carrying anything that might interfere with the mediums.”
He leaned in, close to Bo Li’s ear, smiling as he spoke. “Any sharp object—needles, hairpins, safety pins, scissors…none of it can go inside. Spirits may fear mediums, but given the chance, they will harm the living. To be safe, let Mrs. Merlin check in case you forgot a pin under your cloak.”
In an instant, a dozen plans flashed through Bo Li’s mind—like stepping forward, drawing her gun, pressing it into Boyd’s back, and demanding to leave.
But the servant stood right behind her. She’d never had professional training; her speed—draw, cock, aim, fire—wouldn’t be faster than his.
Lie?
She couldn’t think of a lie that would stop Mrs. Merlin from searching her.
Bo Li drew a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.
Better to be proactive than be forced to surrender the gun. Better to keep them guessing what other cards she still held.
With that thought, Bo Li smiled faintly and unfastened her black cloak, revealing a shirt and trousers underneath.
Everyone froze—men’s‑attire performers were nothing new, but a long‑haired woman in trousers was something they’d never seen.
Bo Li’s features were clean and delicate. She wore a wide‑brimmed ladies’ hat adorned with a white camellia‑like flower.
And yet she was dressed in a man’s shirt and fitted trousers—neck, shoulders, legs suddenly outlined in full view.
Boyd froze too.
He’d seen plenty of girls cut their hair and wear men’s costumes onstage. But those girls either carried boyish swagger—some even stuffed handkerchiefs into their trousers—or looked shy and ill at ease about wearing pants.
Bo Li gave him a different impression.
As if she’d been born to wear trousers. As if her posture were naturally frank and unbothered, untouched by anyone’s gaze.
Her composure was so open, so effortless, that Boyd didn’t dare look at her.
Bo Li removed her holster. “I don’t have anything sharp on me. Only this. Do you want it?”
Just as she’d expected: the calmer she looked, the less room Boyd had to make trouble. He only waved a hand and had Mrs. Merlin take the gun.
“Don’t worry. We’ll return it later,” Boyd said.
They went on. Beyond the villa’s front doors was a lavishly decorated corridor lined with oval portraits.
“That is Mrs. Healy,” Boyd said, stopping in front of one. The painted woman wore an ostrich‑feather hat, her expression composed and dignified. “The owner of the house.”
“She is a kind lady,” Boyd continued. “A great supporter of mediums’ work, and she allows us to use her home to receive honored guests.”
Bo Li understood.
The house had been scammed out of her.
They entered the drawing room. An old-style fireplace burned with coal, flames roaring so high the air felt almost stuffy.
More than a dozen women sat on the sofas. When Bo Li walked in, they all turned to look.
Some were young, some old. Some were dressed well, some poorly. Some smiled brightly. Some looked curious. Some were cold and severe.
Finally, the cold, severe medium stood and walked up to Bo Li.
She looked about thirty, plain-faced, wearing a velvet dress.
She circled Bo Li once, then suddenly leaned in and sniffed Bo Li’s collar, letting out a sigh.
“On you, I smell…” she said slowly, “a very evil presence. Miss Clément, a ghost has latched onto you. Your spirit is terrified—so terrified it has forgotten the way home. That is why you cannot return.”
Dusk deepened. The drawing room remained unlit; only the fireplace flickered, shadows surging and retreating like tidewater along a shore.
Bo Li thought the whole thing was a curiosity game.
It was so absurd she didn’t even feel like she was in danger—she only wanted to see how far they would spin it.
“What ghost?” Bo Li asked. “And what does it have to do with me going home?”
“Your spirit told us,” another medium said, rising. Someone beside her handed over a sheet of paper. She smoothed it flat on the table and beckoned Bo Li over, guiding her to hold a fountain pen together with her.
“Now close your eyes. Picture your home. Then feel the spiritual energy in the air… We will enter the spirit realm with you and speak to your spirit. It will tell us the ghost’s true name.”
Bo Li almost laughed. So they really thought she was a fool.
It was the same trick as the ‘spirit-writing pen’: several people hold a pen together, ask lurid questions, and in a fear-soaked atmosphere someone inevitably grows unsteady and unconsciously nudges the pen, leaving “supernatural” marks on the page.
Bo Li shrugged, stepped forward, and clasped the pen together with the medium.
What made her heart drop wasn’t the pen moving—it was that Eric’s gaze returned.
She had no idea where he was, but his attention pressed down hard on the place where her hand and the medium’s hand met.
At the same time, the drawing room window flew open without warning. A blast of cold wind rushed in, and the temperature plunged.
The mediums assumed one of their companions had done it. They exchanged approving looks and subtle nods.
Bo Li had no time to watch them.
She was trying to locate Eric.
Every flicker of flame, every tide of darkness in the room could have been his moving shadow.
Had he seen the letters she’d left?
If he hadn’t—would he think she was in on it with Boyd?
And if he did…what would he do to her?
The medium shut her eyes, lips moving in a mutter, and began “writing” with Bo Li’s hand.
Her strength was shocking. Bo Li couldn’t even pull the pen the other way on purpose.
“Relax, relax—” the medium cried in a theatrical cadence. “The ghost is taking form! We will write its evil name!”
As she spoke, the nib dragged across the paper: a stroke, a slant, a stroke, another.
Eric’s gaze grew heavier.
The pen scraped the paper, and his gaze scraped the back of Bo Li’s hand. Stroke by stroke, it carved a clear—
“E!” the medium shouted. “The first letter of the ghost’s name is E—”
The other mediums crowded in to stare at the “E.”
Boyd stepped closer too, murmuring into Bo Li’s ear, “I have never seen such an evil ‘E.’ This ghost must be a malign spirit.”
Bo Li didn’t hear him.
Eric was still watching her.
His gaze traveled slowly upward along her skin—from the back of her hand to her neck, then to her earlobe.
Under that stare, Bo Li’s heart went wild. The back of her hand grew hot, numb, burning with a sharp sting.
The chill climbed all the way to her ear, tightening her scalp.
Maybe the last few confrontations had given her confidence. Now she didn’t feel danger so much as…thrill.
Perhaps because she’d already done everything she could—she had proof enough to defend herself.
She didn’t know how this would end, but she kept thinking she could play it as planned—
Use this to earn his favor.
The nib moved again with a faint scratch. The second letter appeared, made in a single line: R.
The medium shivered, as if she truly saw a ghost. “E…R… We’re seeing the outline of the evil spirit!”
Bo Li’s mind drifted.
A voice rose inside her: *Do you really think you can earn his favor?*
He is uncontrollable. So far, every clash between you has been reactive. You’ve never truly guessed what he wanted.
But she had written him letters. Left them in the room.
*Do you really think he’ll believe you?*
He isn’t the original hero. He isn’t the musical’s hero. He doesn’t kill for love. He is the protagonist of a horror film—his job is to make slaughter, and everyone around him, including you, is prey.
But horror protagonists rarely talk to their victims, and she had made him talk—made him speak freely, even warmly.
*Haven’t you noticed?*
Even when he speaks, the way he looks at you is still the way a starving beast looks at food.
Bo Li jolted.
Cold wind streamed in. The fire in the hearth leapt violently.
At Boyd’s signal, the other mediums came over and joined hands in a circle around them. “This ghost is more evil than we imagined… Don’t worry. The spirit realm will grant us strength. We will protect you…”
The nib kept moving. In the dark, on the white page, the third letter appeared: I—then the fourth: K—
erik.
Eric.
“Eric…” the medium proclaimed loudly. “The evil spirit’s name is Eric! I smell Satan in the ink. That means he is not a true spirit—only a man who traded his soul to Satan in exchange for a demon’s power… I have never seen anything so strange. He is still alive, yet he has killed countless people. His every movement is like a ghost’s. Listen to me—you must leave him, or there will be blood…”
The show had reached its end.
Bo Li tried to pull her hand away. “What if I don’t?”