Chapter 68: Seeing Ghosts? The Actress’s Residence

At first, we waited for that person to appear, but it wasn’t until the footsteps grew so loud, as if they were right behind us, that we realized something was amiss. We spun around, only to find no one there—not even the little ghost knew where the sound was coming from.

The lights in the underground garage flickered more violently, and soon, they went out completely. The entire garage plunged into darkness. Chen Fan grew anxious because the footsteps continued to echo, sounding as though someone was walking right beside us.

He asked what we should do. I regained my composure and said, “Don’t panic. Go get the flashlight from the car.” Chen Fan fell silent and fumbled his way toward the vehicle. The darkness of the garage was unnerving; I could barely make out the little ghost’s silhouette beside me. Before Chen Fan could retrieve the flashlight, another set of footsteps joined the first.

I turned to look and saw the little ghost had vanished. Immediately, I realized the extra footsteps belonged to her. I chased after the sound, calling out for her not to run, but she didn’t reply. She moved swiftly, accustomed to the darkness, while I struggled and soon lost her trail.

The garage became eerily silent again; the footsteps faded, and I could only hear my own breathing. As anxiety set in, a beam of light shone from behind. Chen Fan, breathing heavily, caught up and handed me a flashlight. I cursed under my breath, then together we searched for the little ghost throughout the garage.

There were plenty of parking spots and many cars; we scoured every corner, calling out for the little ghost, but she didn’t respond. Chen Fan grew anxious. After a few more calls, she finally replied, and I followed her voice. Soon, I spotted her behind a car.

She was standing there, and when the flashlight’s beam hit her, I saw she wasn’t alone. A man with long, disheveled hair was sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall as if in a drunken stupor. Up close, I noticed he was clutching a bottle, and the heavy scent of alcohol surrounded him.

Chen Fan cautiously approached the drunk, and after confirming he was breathing, finally relaxed. He asked if this man had made the footsteps earlier. I shook my head; the alcoholic smell was so strong that it was unlikely he was merely pretending. In his state, he couldn’t have produced those footsteps.

When Chen Fan tried to rouse him, the drunk suddenly jerked his head up. The flashlight illuminated his face, making him look frightening—his unshaven cheeks covered in stubble, eyes wide and bloodshot.

The man grunted drunkenly, and Chen Fan stepped back. Wearing his police uniform, Chen Fan hadn’t expected such hostility. He drew his baton and was about to question the man when the garage lights suddenly came back on.

I could finally see the man clearly. He was filthy and looked destitute. As the lights brightened, he staggered to his feet, muttering incoherently. I couldn’t understand a word. He stumbled toward the exit, nearly falling with every few steps.

I watched his retreating figure, and Chen Fan was about to intercept him when his cell phone rang. The shrill ringtone echoed through the garage. As Chen Fan answered, I noticed the drunk suddenly shudder. He looked around in terror, as though searching for something.

In the end, the man fixated on one spot. I turned to see what he was staring at—a dark corner of the garage. I directed the flashlight there, but saw nothing. Yet, the man’s reaction was as if he’d seen a ghost; with a terrified scream, he bolted, stumbling and frightened.

After hanging up, Chen Fan cursed, “What’s wrong with that drunk? Some homeless alcoholic, probably.”

I replied, “This man might be more complicated than he seems. Call the local police and see if we can follow him and investigate.”

My suspicion stemmed from a glimpse of an expensive watch on his wrist. It was clearly not something a poor man could afford, yet he was reduced to squatting in a garage—something didn’t add up.

Chen Fan acted immediately.

The call had been from the agent of actress Z, who complained about not finding us. We walked back toward our parking spot, and I asked the little ghost why she had run off again. Her answer nearly scared Chen Fan out of his wits: “There’s a ghost here.”

Chen Fan almost dropped his phone. The little ghost’s words, combined with the strange flickering lights and mysterious footsteps in the garage, sent chills down our spines. I pressed her for details, but she could only say she felt there was a ghost, without explanation.

Frowning, I pondered her words. Before we knew it, we reached our original spot, where Z’s agent was waiting—a man in his forties with golden dyed hair, sunglasses, and flashy clothes.

Impatient, he introduced himself by his English name, Charleong, and said we could call him Charlie. His accent made it clear he was a native of the Hong Kong region. After a perfunctory handshake, he led us to the garage elevator. The elevator swayed, and I glanced at Charlie, asking if he knew about the recent power outage in the garage.

Charlie paused and responded, “Another outage?”

I smiled, “Mr. Charlie, what do you mean ‘another’?”

His expression turned uneasy. He explained that lately, people had often complained about the garage lights flickering. He said little more, but his demeanor told me something was wrong with this place. Remembering the drunk, I asked Charlie if he’d seen him in the garage.

Charlie waved dismissively, annoyed, and admitted he had—he nearly ran him over while parking.

The elevator doors opened, and Charlie led us outside a room. Several large men in black suits stood guard, clearly bodyguards. They demanded identification before letting us in, and Charlie insisted as well.

After Chen Fan presented his credentials, Charlie finally allowed us inside, but cautioned that Z’s schedule was packed and she needed rest, granting us only twenty minutes for our conversation. Charlie, chattering and effeminate, fit the popular stereotype of male agents.

Upon entering, a heavy scent of incense filled the air.

The room was unlit, though daylight still lingered outside, and the curtains remained drawn. Chen Fan muttered about how gloomy Z’s home felt. The house was spacious, and in the living room, I spotted a Buddha amulet on the table, with an incense holder and three freshly burning sticks.

Actress Z was not in the living room. Chen Fan complained, “We had an appointment—what’s with the diva attitude?”

He knocked on the bedroom door, but after a long while, Z didn’t come out. As he knocked louder, I picked up the Buddha amulet, recognizing the style and script as Thai. The rumors were true—Z often visited temples, prayed for blessings, and collected Buddha amulets, a common practice in Southeast Asia.

Returning the amulet, the little ghost suddenly opened the cabinet beneath the table and pointed inside.

I glanced in and saw, sitting inside, a child...