A cold deeper than the mountain air seeped into my bones. The flimsy walls of this derelict house, which had seemed like a marginal improvement over the open ruins, now felt utterly useless, as protective as tissue paper against a hurricane. The barricaded door was a joke. We were exposed, vulnerable, mice huddled together while the serpent coiled nearby, waiting.

  Time stretched and warped in the suffocating stillness. The silence in the room was a heavy, tangible thing, broken only by the ragged rhythm of my own breathing, the occasional, almost imperceptible whimper from Meiling under her blanket, and the horrifyingly vacant, wet sound of Xiao Zhang’s slack-mouthed breathing from his corner. The earlier adrenaline rush from my flight had evaporated, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and a gnawing hunger that twisted my empty stomach. But the thought of eating the dry, tasteless compressed biscuit felt repulsive, almost impossible, under the weight of this new, confirmed horror.

  My gaze drifted to my companions, trapped in their own private hells. Xiao Zhang hadn’t moved. He sat slumped against the wall, his head lolling slightly to one side. His eyes remained open, fixed on some point in the middle distance invisible to me, utterly devoid of recognition or thought. Occasionally, a muscle in his cheek would twitch, or a low, guttural sound would rumble in his chest, but otherwise, he was terrifyingly still, a statue carved from fear and madness. Had the "fox spirit" the old man mentioned already claimed his mind? Or was this simply the result of pure, unadulterated terror shattering his sanity? I couldn't know, and the uncertainty was another layer of dread.

  Meiling remained a huddled shape under the blanket in the corner bed. The whimpering had subsided, replaced by an unnerving silence. Was she asleep? Catatonic? Or simply listening, like me, to the oppressive quiet, waiting for the next inevitable horror? I didn’t have the strength, or perhaps the courage, to check. Seeing her vacant eyes again might push me further over the edge.

  My isolation felt absolute. Being physically near them only emphasized the vast chasm that fear had carved between us. We were three separate islands of despair, adrift in an ocean of encroaching darkness. The fragile hope of finding solace in shared company, the instinct that had driven me back here after fleeing the spring, had proven utterly false. There was no strength in numbers here, only shared vulnerability and the terrifying reflection of one's own potential fate in the eyes (or lack thereof) of the others.

  Driven by a restless energy born of terror and the inability to remain still, I forced my aching limbs to move. I couldn't just sit here and wait. I needed to do something, anything, to feel even a sliver of control, however illusory. I decided to examine the house more closely, perhaps find something, anything, that could offer a clue, a weapon, or even just a distraction from the crushing weight of our reality.

  I pushed myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. The floorboards creaked ominously under my weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the profound silence. I moved slowly, deliberately, my senses on high alert, straining to catch any sound beyond the room, any hint of movement in the fog outside the grimy windowpanes. The foul smell in the room – stale sweat, decay, and that underlying sweetish rot – seemed thicker now, clinging to the back of my throat like a physical entity.

  I started with the crumbling fireplace in the corner, its hearth choked with soot, debris, and what looked disturbingly like small animal bones, picked clean and grayed with age. I prodded the ashes cautiously with my wooden stick, hoping for… what? A hidden compartment? A forgotten relic dropped down the chimney? Only more dust, disturbed cobwebs, and the faint scent of long-dead fires rose to meet me. Nothing useful there.

  Next, the dilapidated wooden cabinet against the far wall. Its doors hung open on broken, rusty hinges, revealing warped, empty shelves. Inside, a few shattered pieces of crude pottery, thick layers of grime that felt greasy to the touch, and more cobwebs, heavy and intricate like macabre lace. I ran my gloved hand along the back, searching for loose panels, hidden drawers – anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. It was just an empty, forgotten piece of furniture, slowly surrendering to time and the damp decay, much like everything else in this cursed, godforsaken village.

  My eyes scanned the walls again, tracing the intricate patterns of water stains and patches of peeling plaster, searching for any hint of the strange symbols I’d seen at the shrine. Were there more hidden beneath the grime? More whispers etched into the very fabric of the building, waiting to be deciphered? I ran my fingers lightly over the rough, cold surfaces, feeling the dampness seep through my gloves, imagining the lives that had unfolded within these walls before the silence fell. I found nothing but decay and the lingering chill of abandonment.

  Then, my attention was caught by something under the rickety wooden bed where Meiling lay huddled like a frightened child. Partially obscured by deep shadows and thick, dusty cobwebs that looked undisturbed for decades, there appeared to be a loose floorboard. It looked slightly askew, raised just a fraction higher than its neighbors, as if it had been disturbed, perhaps recently, perhaps long ago.

  My heart, which had settled into a dull throb of dread, gave a hopeful, painful leap. A hiding place? Something deliberately concealed? Something left behind by previous inhabitants, or perhaps… previous victims?

  Trying to be as quiet as humanly possible, terrified of disturbing the fragile silence or startling Meiling from her catatonic state, I knelt down on the protesting floorboards. They groaned ominously under my knees, the sound echoing in the stillness. Meiling didn't stir, didn't even twitch. I reached slowly under the bed frame, my fingers brushing against something cold and metallic first – just an old, rusty bedspring, coiled like a dead metal snake. Then, my fingertips found the rough edge of the loose board. It lifted surprisingly easily, with only a faint scrape, revealing a dark, shallow space beneath, lined with packed earth and more cobwebs.

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  Holding my breath, my heart pounding against my ribs again, I shone my headlamp into the cavity, the beam cutting through the darkness.

  It wasn't empty.

  Lying there, nestled amongst the dirt, desiccated insect husks, and thick cobwebs, was a small, leather-bound book. It looked incredibly old, ancient even. The dark leather cover was warped and stained with damp, cracked in places, the corners softened and rounded with age and handling. The pages, visible at the edges, were yellowed and brittle, looking as though they might crumble to dust at the slightest touch. It didn't look like a personal diary; it was thicker, more formal, perhaps a ledger, an old account book, or some kind of village record. Tied around it, holding it closed, with a faded, almost disintegrated red string was… a single playing card?

  My blood ran cold, the earlier chill intensifying into an icy dread that gripped my very core. Playing cards. The image of the scattered, mud-stained cards I’d found on the path yesterday flashed vividly in my mind. The cheap flashlight. The half-eaten apple. And now this.

  With trembling hands, driven by a compulsion stronger than fear, I carefully lifted the ancient book out of its hiding place. It was heavier than it looked, dense and solid. The playing card tucked securely under the faded red string was the Queen of Spades. Its illustrated face, though faded and grimy, seemed to stare up at me with a knowing, almost malevolent smirk. Was this connected to the cards on the path? Was it left by the same person? Who would hide an old book with a playing card under a floorboard? And when?

  I hesitated for a long moment, a sense of profound unease, a feeling of trespassing on forbidden ground, washing over me. Some deep, primal instinct screamed at me to leave it, to put the floorboard back exactly as it was, to pretend I hadn't seen it. Opening this book felt like opening another door to this village's suffocating darkness, a door I might not be able to close again.

  But the reporter in me, the desperate, clawing need for answers, for understanding, however terrible, won out. I had come too far, seen too much, to turn back now. With fingers that shook uncontrollably, I carefully, almost reverently, untied the fragile red string, which crumbled slightly in my grasp. I set the unsettling Queen of Spades aside on the floor beside me, its painted eyes seeming to follow my every move, and took a deep, steadying breath before carefully opening the ancient, leather-bound book.

  The first page was blank, save for some water stains and foxing. The second page held writing. The pages were filled with dense, spidery handwriting in faded brown ink, the strokes elegant yet somehow cramped, as if written by someone under duress or in poor light. It wasn't modern Chinese script. It looked much older, more complex, perhaps an archaic form from the Qing Dynasty, or even earlier. Many characters were unfamiliar, simplified versions perhaps, or local variations I couldn't recognize. The paper was incredibly brittle, thin and fragile, and small fragments crumbled away at the edges as I turned the first few pages with painstaking care.

  It seemed to be some kind of record, just as I suspected. Names appeared frequently, followed by dates – using the old lunisolar calendar system – and cryptic entries involving quantities of grain, livestock, timber, and sometimes… more disturbing items: bundles of specific herbs, jars of wine offered at the temple, repairs made to the shrine, and occasionally, chillingly, entries that simply read " Appeasement made" or "Offering accepted."

  My eyes scanned the fragile pages, my heart pounding with a mixture of dread and morbid fascination. I struggled to decipher the archaic script and the fragmented, often ambiguous entries. What kind of appeasement? What offering? Accepted by whom? Or what?

  Then, near the middle of the book, one entry, penned in ink slightly darker than the rest, the handwriting more hurried, almost frantic, leaped out at me, grabbing my attention like an icy hand.

  It mentioned a specific date, decades ago, possibly aligning with the rumored time the village was abandoned. It mentioned a "great drought" and "sickness." It spoke of the "great serpent" stirring in the spring, demanding a "heavy price" for rain and relief. It mentioned desperate pleas, failed rituals, growing despair, and finally… an appeasement. A sacrifice.

  The entry read, translated roughly in my mind: “…sky shows no mercy, earth cracks, sickness takes the young and old. The Great Serpent in the Spring is angered. Offerings of livestock are not enough. It demands a heavier price. The visitor from the south, the one who bore the mark… was given to the mountain this night. Rain followed by dawn.”

  A visitor? From the south? Bore the mark? Given to the mountain?

  A horrifying, sickening realization dawned, colder and sharper than any fear I had yet experienced. This wasn't just an account book or a village record. It felt like a logbook of this village's dark pact, its history inextricably intertwined with the monstrous creature dwelling at the spring. And it seemed… people had been sacrificed before. Outsiders. Visitors. People like me. Like Xiao Zhang and Meiling. Like the owner of those scattered playing cards? Was that the heavy price?

  Just as I was reeling from the horrifying implications of the entry, trying to steady my trembling hands and quiet the frantic pounding in my chest, a floorboard creaked loudly behind me.

  Not under my weight. Behind me.

  I spun around so fast I nearly dropped the precious, terrifying book. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to break free. The wooden stick I’d left leaning against the wall felt miles away.

  Xiao Zhang was no longer slumped against the far wall. He was standing, swaying slightly but definitely upright, in the middle of the dim room. His vacant eyes were no longer staring into nothingness. They were fixed directly, unnervingly, on me. On the book clutched tightly in my hand.

  And on his face, slowly, unnaturally spreading like spilled ink, was that same horrifyingly vacant, yet somehow chi-merized and utterly terrifying smile I had seen flicker across his features before.

  “She… told me…” he rasped, his voice a dry, papery whisper that scraped jarringly against the suffocating silence of the room. “She told me… you have something… that belongs to her…”

  He took a slow, shuffling, unsteady step towards me. The smile remained fixed, empty, yet filled with an alien, predatory intent.