Chapter 001: The Ghostly Supper

Before you read my story, I must clarify three things.

First, I am not a "good person" in the conventional sense. My friend who studies psychology even suspects that I have antisocial personality disorder. Everything I write here cannot be judged by traditional standards of good and evil, so do not attempt to bind me with your moral codes.

Second, I do not believe in ghosts or deities, nor do I worship them. Although the things I have experienced are strange and terrifying, they have nothing to do with the supernatural.

Third, for sensitive matters, all names of people and places have been changed.

My name is Fang Han. I once studied criminal investigation for several years at a prominent police academy in the capital, specializing in trace evidence. Later, I was framed and expelled for some unsubstantiated reason. I can still recall the look of triumph on the face of the one who set me up as he watched me leave. Later on, I saw that same person leaving a hotel with my girlfriend from the academy.

After that, I changed my contact information and drifted through society for many years.

If not for special reasons, I would never have attended the police academy. Such a useless place could never accommodate someone like me. As for what those special reasons were, I will mention them later.

After leaving the academy, I met many people, most of whom would be considered villains by conventional standards.

The story I want to tell begins with a case you can easily find online: "The Ghost Delivery Order."

The incident actually took place in the winter of 1998, not 1989 as the internet claims, and it happened in the port district outside the mainland. There are many versions of the story online, but what I am about to share is what you do not know.

By then, I had been away from the police academy for years. I sent four people to the port district to bring someone back for me.

This person had been in prison with my father. After my father died, I had been searching for him. For years there was no news, but this time, I finally found his trace in the port district.

What I did not expect was that the four brothers I sent vanished shortly after arriving. A full week later, one of them, Old Nine, came to see me in person, bringing news that shocked me.

He told me that all the brothers were dead.

I asked in astonishment how they died. He hesitated for a long time before uttering just two words: "Possessed."

When he said this, Old Nine hung his head, his voice cold and chilling.

I had no time to ask more; Old Nine turned and fled, telling me that the incident would soon be reported and that he was only giving me advance warning.

But the truth is, the case was not widely reported at the time; it only surfaced as a rumor on newly established forums like Tianya. I tried to find Old Nine, but failed. Two days later, I was notified as a person of interest to assist in the investigation in the port district. Only then did I learn the details of the whole case.

Four days earlier, the port district police had discovered four male corpses, including Old Nine, who had come to warn me two days before. All died in an old apartment building. At first, I did not believe it, since I had just seen Old Nine recently, but after seeing the bodies, I was certain.

It was winter, so the decomposition was not severe, but the livor mortis was pronounced—at the stage of infiltration. Considering the low temperature’s effect, I estimated their time of death to be about a week earlier. The police did not tell me the cause of death, but from the color of the livor mortis, I could guess.

The bruising on all the bodies was bright red. Normally, livor mortis is dark purple-red, but with carbon monoxide poisoning, carboxyhemoglobin causes bright red coloring. Old Nine and the others had likely died from carbon monoxide poisoning.

There were no wounds or bleeding, but I later heard that the scene had countless bloody handprints on the walls, all made from the victims' own blood and with their own fingerprints.

The person who called the police was a restaurant owner, and his account was chilling.

A week earlier, his restaurant received several consecutive delivery orders from the same phone number. At first, the restaurant’s deliveryman brought the food, but the recipient never opened the door fully—only a crack, enough to pass out cash and take the food before shutting the door.

There was nothing unusual at first, but that night, when the owner was counting the money, he found a hell bank note among the bills.

He angrily scolded his staff, demanding to know who was playing a prank, but no one admitted to it. The boss, being kind-hearted, let it go. However, the next night, the same thing happened: another hell note among the cash.

When he asked again, a staff member finally mentioned the strange behavior of the customer opening the door only a crack when receiving food.

On the third day, the restaurant received another order. This time, the owner decided to deliver it himself. When he arrived at the old apartment, the door opened just a crack as expected, and a thin, bony hand extended with money.

The owner said the hallway was eerie, and the sight of that hand unsettled him. After confirming the money was real, he quickly left. But that night, while counting cash, he again found a hell note.

Frightened, the owner called the police. They arrived and broke down the door, finding four bodies around a mahjong table in the rented apartment.

Forensic examination confirmed my estimate: the victims had been dead a week. Even more astonishing, their stomachs contained fresh food—rice, noodles—the very same dishes delivered from the restaurant over the three days.

After death, the digestive system ceases to function rapidly. Based on the undigested state of the food, the forensic doctor concluded that the food had entered the esophagus and stomach post-mortem.

Everyone involved was shocked, and the media caught wind, spreading rumors of the "Ghost Delivery Order" throughout the port district.

There were other things the police hesitated to make public. It was said that in the days after the victims’ deaths, neighbors frequently heard the clatter of mahjong tiles late at night. Residents across from the apartment even saw four shadowy figures moving behind the window at night, their gestures resembling a mahjong game.

The police also found the victims’ fingerprints on the hell notes received by the restaurant owner. The restaurant closed temporarily. Some fortune tellers claimed that money from the dead is different from that of the living, which is why the bills turned into hell notes. This terrified everyone at the restaurant, and they all began burning incense and praying for safety.

These four people were the ones I sent to the port district. Once their identities were confirmed, the police in the port district immediately coordinated with the capital’s police and brought me in. Accompanying me was a police officer in his early thirties named Chen Fan, who clearly did not want to be there, grumbling incessantly and treating me with open hostility.

On my first day in the port district, I spent the entire day at the police station—apart from seeing the bodies, I was questioned by the police.

I did not tell them I had seen Old Nine alive just two days earlier. The case was already strange enough; I feared that if I gave them this information, the police would dismiss the supernatural elements without proper investigation. The fact that I sent them to find someone and they ended up dead was likely connected to the person I was seeking, so I chose to conceal this information.

I had already prepared a cover story: I told the police the four men were sent to shop for me. They found nothing suspicious and let me go, but warned I could be summoned at any time.

Chen Fan, the officer who came with me, was assigned to keep an eye on me. He worked for a division in the capital and was doing well, but I had not met him before. That night, we stayed at a guesthouse near the station. I told Chen Fan I wanted to go out for a walk and a cigarette. He didn’t bother to watch me closely, but kept my ID and wallet before letting me go.

Once I was sure he wasn’t following, I called Luo Feng, a close friend I met after leaving the academy. He was a leader in a local syndicate, well-established in the port district and, in recent years, active on the mainland—he even started a company in the capital, drawing attention from the police, though they lacked evidence against him.

When I called, Luo Feng was in Canton City on business, which was close to the port district. Upon hearing I’d been dragged there, he immediately asked what had happened.

I told him the four I sent had been killed.

Luo Feng was furious, demanding to know who did it and insisting he would send men to settle the score. He was so loud I could hear the hiss in the phone receiver.

It was impossible to explain everything over the phone, so I told him to come to the port district as soon as possible and bring some men.

After hanging up, I got my bearings and made my way to the restaurant involved in the case. It was located in North New Territories, not far from the station and the guesthouse, and was called Chaoyang Café (later renamed Chao Yong Café). The tea restaurant was not in a remote area, and though it was not late, there were few pedestrians near the entrance. On closer look, anyone approaching the restaurant would take pains to detour around it, some even climbing over guardrails.

Like an outsider, I approached Chaoyang Café. As rumored, the place was closed, its doors plastered with yellow talismans.

I heard a strange noise, so I circled to the back door. Sure enough, the sounds were coming from there.