Every night, just as Wang lay down on his bed, the murmuring began.
At first, it was faint—soft enough to be mistaken for a dream slipping in too early. A low sound, like someone whispering from another room. Then came the giggles.
A child's giggle.
It happened every night.
Sleep became impossible. His body would stiffen beneath the blanket, eyes wide open in the dark, listening. The sound always came from somewhere above, somewhere close. Convinced it was the tenant upstairs, he decided to confront her the next morning.
When he knocked on her door, she opened it with a polite smile.
"There's a child making a lot of noise at night," he said, trying to sound calm. "It's been disturbing my sleep."
The girl blinked—then laughed softly, confused.
"A child?" she repeated. "I live here with my parents. We don't have a child."
The smile on her face didn't waver. But something in his chest sank.
"Oh," he muttered, nodding without understanding. He turned and left, his mind spinning.
Then where is the sound coming from?
Or am I imagining it?
That evening, as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, the building felt unusually quiet. Too quiet.
He reached his door and wrapped his fingers around the knob.
That was when he heard it.
A child's laughter—clear, sharp, right behind the door.
His hand froze.
Goosebumps spread across his skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He pulled his hand away, closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe.
It's just your imagination, he told himself. You're tired.
He inhaled deeply, then twisted the knob and stepped inside.
The house was empty.
No movement. No sound.
Still, his heart raced as he scanned the room, expecting to see a thief, a shadow—anything. But there was nothing. He stood there for a moment, breathing too fast, then collapsed onto the sofa and rubbed his face.
Silence.
When he closed his eyes—
A child began to cry.
Before he could react, the crying turned into laughter again. Sharp. Mocking.
He shot to his feet.
Fear wrapped around him like a tightening grip. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned his thoughts. The sound was faint now, distant—but unmistakable.
It was coming from the old room.
The room that had been locked for years.
A Do Not Enter board still hung crookedly on its door.
His feet moved before his mind could stop them.
How could a child be there?
No one goes inside that room.
His hand hovered over the door handle. Hesitation pulsed through him, but he swallowed it and pushed the door open.
Dust exploded into the air, swirling around him. He covered his nose and stepped inside. The room smelled of decay and forgotten time. Each footstep echoed, hollow and lonely.
Then he felt something brush against his foot.
He looked down.
A child's toy lay on the floor—a small figure holding a monkey.
He stared at it for a moment, then slowly knelt and picked it up.
The toy laughed.
A sharp, mechanical giggle filled the room.
His eyes widened. He screamed and threw it away.
The toy hit the floor—
—and began to cry.
Tears streamed down his face as panic took over. His legs gave out. He fell backward, crawling away, breath coming in broken gasps, sweat soaking his clothes.
The crying stopped.
Soft giggles replaced it.
The toy began to crawl toward him.
Slowly.
Dragging itself across the dusty floor.
Laughing.