Cheng Yuantao fumbled along the side of the massage chair for a while before finding the round button. The machine let out a weak, wheezing groan — like someone half-dead being forced to gasp for air — then finally began to operate reluctantly. Airbags slowly inflated, squeezing his calves, the pressure as soft as an eighty-year-old pinching his legs. Even so, the brand-new, shiny massage chair right across from him sat empty. He never thought about switching.
It wasn't because he had some moral code. He simply hated wasting the six yuan he'd already paid.
Six yuan for twelve minutes. Every Sunday at two o'clock, he dropped his son Chengcheng off for painting class on the third floor, then waited in the lobby downstairs. Two shared massage chairs stood side by side — one orange, one gray. The orange one had a dark brown stain on the leather, like vomit never properly cleaned. Cheng Yuantao always picked the gray one.
The first time he sat down, he just wanted a place to rest. Besides the two chairs, the lobby only had hard plastic stools. He scanned the code, paid six yuan, and planned to close his eyes for a minute. But before the massage ended, he fell asleep.
When he woke up, the screen read: Massage completed. Thank you for using our service. He had no idea how long it had been stopped. All he remembered was a dream — most details vanished the second he woke up, leaving only a strange feeling: like he'd been searching for something in the dream… or like something had found him.
He brushed it off. Waiting for his kid's class to finish was just dead time anyway. Sleeping through it was fine.
The next Sunday, he sat down again. And fell asleep again. Same dream. Third week too. He thought it was a little weird, but only a little. He wasn't about to stop sitting just because of some fuzzy dream. Six yuan wasn't free.
Things started going wrong around the fourth or fifth week. He sat in the gray chair, scanned the code as usual, and the second the airbags inflated, his eyelids turned heavy as lead. Later, he realized that sleepiness wasn't tiredness creeping up. It was like someone flipped a switch on the back of his head — snap — and his consciousness just shut off.
The dream was the same as before, but this time, he remembered more after waking.
He dreamed he stood at a crossroads under a grayish-white sky, too dim to tell if it was dawn or dusk. The buildings around were old, peeling to reveal dark red bricks. No people, but all streetlights were on, casting a sickly orange glow. He looked down and found himself holding a slip of paper with four characters written on it:
Don't sit down.
He stared at the words for a long time, then a nameless fear coiled in his chest. Someone was watching the back of his neck, their gaze cold against his skin. He tried to turn around, but his neck was locked stiff.
The massage chair's timer ran out. The airbags hissed and deflated. He jolted awake.
The lobby was normal. The reception girl was scrolling her phone. A delivery man parked his scooter outside. Sunlight spilled onto the tiles by his feet, warm. He sat there until his heartbeat calmed.
"Piece of junk even hypnotizes you," he muttered. He stood up, stretched his shoulders, and blamed it on too much overtime.
The following week, he avoided the massage chair on purpose, dragging a plastic stool into the corner to play on his phone. But Chengcheng's class ran thirty minutes late. His eyes stung from staring at the screen. In the end, he caved. He told himself it was just a nap and a dream — no big deal.
He barely hesitated before scanning the code.
The airbags squeezed his calves. His eyes slammed shut. The sleepiness hit fast and hard — not drowsiness, but blackout-level exhaustion.
The dream returned: same crossroads, same gray sky, same orange streetlights. But this time, he noticed a person across the intersection. Blurry, like seen through frosted glass — no face, no clothes, only a standing silhouette. The figure stood under the lamp, motionless. In the dream, Cheng Yuantao called out:
"Who are you?"
The figure didn't answer. It just raised one hand.
Then he woke up.
He was soaked in cold sweat, his shirt sticking to his back uncomfortably. He sat frozen on the chair, staring at the dark brown stain on the orange massage chair across from him. It suddenly looked less like a stain… and more like the outline of someone lying on their side.
"Father Cheng?" the reception girl called. "Chengcheng's class is over."
He answered, but his legs felt weak when he stood.
After that, he began forcing himself to remember every detail of the dream. Every Sunday afternoon, he sat in the gray chair, dragged into the dream by that unnatural drowsiness, standing under that gray sky, watching the blurry figure across from him.
The figure came closer each time. First across the street, then on the crosswalk, then just three or four meters away. Still no face, but Cheng Yuantao could feel it smiling. Not a polite smile — the smile of something that had waited a long, long time… and was about to get what it wanted.
He didn't want to go to that mall anymore. He told his wife he wanted to switch Chengcheng's painting class. She said the teacher was great, and Chengcheng loved it. Why change? He opened his mouth, but couldn't explain. Say he had nightmares every time he napped on a massage chair? Even he thought it sounded ridiculous.
Saturday night, he locked himself in the study and typed the mall's name into his browser.
The results were boring: leasing info, sales ads, meaningless local news. He added the word "accident". One result popped up: an unexpected death in the first-floor lobby three years ago.
He clicked. It was a local forum post from October three years prior. Short description: a middle-aged man had died suddenly on a shared massage chair, found hours later. The chair was still running when he was discovered, airbags squeezing his stiff calves, kneading his cold body.
One comment said: "No wonder that chair got removed later."
Another replied: "It wasn't removed. They just replaced the cover and put it back."
Cheng Yuantao stared at the screen. His fingertips went numb, the tingling crawling up his wrists, like something cold was squeezing him. He thought of the two chairs: gray and orange. The dark brown stain on the orange one.
He thought of the blurry figure in his dream, standing with legs slightly apart, hands on armrests, leaning back.
Just like someone sitting in a massage chair.
That Sunday afternoon, he told his wife he'd take Chengcheng to class.
"You wanted to switch last week," she said.
"Not anymore," he answered.
He didn't want to go, but he had to confirm something.
At the mall, he sent Chengcheng up the elevator, then stood in the lobby staring at the two chairs. The gray one he always used. The orange one quiet beside it, the dark brown stain on the leather glinting dimly under the lights. He stepped closer to the orange chair, knelt down, and looked carefully.
It wasn't vomit.
He touched it. The leather texture was harder there, like liquid had soaked in and dried, fusing the fibers into something else.
He stood up and went to the front desk. A new girl, late twenties, sorted flyers. Cheng Yuantao cleared his throat.
"Excuse me. When were these massage chairs placed here?"
She glanced at him, then at the chairs, expression unchanged. "They were here when I started. At least two or three years."
"Always these two? Were they ever replaced?"
"I don't think so." She thought for a second. "There used to be three, but now only these two are left."
"Where did the third go?"
"No idea. Probably broke and got taken away."
Cheng Yuantao fell silent. The forum post said the man was found dead on the chair, hours later, machine still running. If they'd replaced the cover and put it back… was the gray chair he sat on every week that exact chair?
No. The stain was on the orange one.
He looked again. The stain was exactly where someone's head would rest. Dark brown. If a man died suddenly on the chair, body fluids wouldn't soak the headrest — unless fluid kept leaking from his mouth and nose, pushed upward by the chair's constant squeezing.
He forced himself not to think further. He checked his phone: one and a half hours until Chengcheng finished. He took a breath, stood by the gray chair for a moment… then sat down.
He didn't scan the code.
The forced dream drowsiness didn't come. He sat fully awake, feeling the cool leather beneath him, hearing the mall's soft background music. Nothing strange.
After a few minutes, he stood up and sat on the orange one.
The moment he sat down, the leather squeaked faintly — like something squirmed under him. He jumped up in fright, heart pounding. But nothing was there. Only the dark brown stain, right where his head had rested.
He didn't sit again. He walked to the smoking area and lit a cigarette.
He kept replaying the dream, the drawing figure. If this was connected to the dead man… why did it keep approaching? To warn him? Or to take him?
Another thought wormed into his head: he always dreamed on the gray chair. If he used the orange one… what would he see?
It was like a loose tooth. The more he avoided it, the more he had to check.
He put out the cigarette and walked back. He sat on the orange massage chair again.
He took out his phone, scanned the QR code on the armrest. The payment screen popped up. He stared at Confirm Payment ￥6.00 for ten seconds… then pressed it.
The chair didn't move.
He checked his phone: payment successful, countdown started. But the chair was dead. No airbags inflating, no rollers moving, no sound at all. He flipped his phone around, confirmed the money was gone, then leaned forward to check the power cord.
Sleepiness hit.
The same as before — a cold hand from behind covering his eyes, nose, and mouth. His consciousness snapped after two or three struggling seconds. The last thing he felt was the leather under his head… colder than anywhere else.
He stood inside a room.
Not the crossroads.
Small, ten square meters, white-painted walls, low ceiling — he could almost touch it. No windows, only a door without a knob. He pushed it. It didn't move. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant… and something else, the dull, stuffy smell of a room sealed for years.
He turned around. In the center of the room was a massage chair.
Gray. Exactly the same model he sat on every week.
Someone was sitting in it. Relaxed posture, legs slightly apart, hands on armrests, leaning back, face toward the ceiling, mouth half-open. Eyes half-lidded, pupils covered by a grayish-white film — like a boiled fish's eyes.
Cheng Yuantao tried to move. Couldn't. Not because he was held down — his body wasn't really in the room. He was a forced spectator, trapped watching.
The massage chair turned on. Airbags inflated, squeezing the man's stiff calves. Back rollers ground upward, clicking with every step — like crushing biscuits one by one. When they reached his shoulder blades, the body jerked forward, head dropping, chin to chest.
Then the head lifted slowly back up.
Cheng Yuantao saw the face clearly.
It was himself.
The eyes were empty, the gray film covering everything. His mouth hung open wider, as if screaming silently. The chair kept working: airbags squeezing, rollers grinding, kneading the body on the chair until it looked less and less human.
Cheng Yuantao tried to wake up. Couldn't. The dream wrapped around him like layers of plastic wrap, suffocating him, chest tight, heavy weight pressing down. It felt too real. He even felt the soreness in his spine from the rollers.
Wait.
That feeling wasn't from the dream version of him.
It was from his real body, sitting right now on the orange massage chair.
A chair he hadn't even activated.
He jolted awake, nearly throwing himself off the chair. His back slammed into the cushion with a dull thud. A heavy-set man napping on the gray chair beside him jumped, muttering complaints. Cheng Yuantao didn't apologize. He gasped for breath, staring down at the orange chair beneath him.
It sat quiet. The screen read: Massage completed. Thank you for using our service. Twelve minutes had passed.
He touched his back. His spine ached — not from exercise, but from something pressing along every vertebra. Sharp, clear, exactly like the dream.
His legs shook when he stood. He held the armrest for balance. His palm touched leather that was warm, like human body temperature. But when he first sat down, the chair had been ice-cold.
The heavy man was still staring at him, obvious disgust on his face. Cheng Yuantao ignored him, grabbed his phone, and hurried to the elevator. He checked the time: less than five minutes until Chengcheng finished. He leaned against the hallway wall, cold sweat breaking out again and again.
When Chengcheng came out, he held up a drawing: a family of three in front of a house, blue sky, green grass — a standard kid's painting. Cheng Yuantao took it, praised him, and led him downstairs. He didn't look at the massage chairs passing through the lobby. But he knew they were there.
Like two quiet coffins waiting for someone to lie down.
That night at home, his wife cooked in the kitchen. Chengcheng watched cartoons in the living room. Cheng Yuantao locked himself in the study and searched the mall's name again.
This time, he added "massage chair" and the year. Seven pages later, he found more in an old local forum thread.
The man who died was surnamed Deng, 42, an insurance salesman. It happened on a Saturday. He rested on the lobby massage chair and suffered a sudden heart attack, dying mid-massage. Few people were in the lobby; the cleaner thought he was a homeless man sleeping. Security only found him at closing time, nine p.m. — already stiff.
The post was from the day after the accident. Most comments said life was fragile. But one reply made his finger freeze.
"That guy sat there for at least three hours before he died. The chair never stopped. Imagine your body being kneaded for three hours after you're dead."
No one replied to that comment.
Cheng Yuantao closed the forum and typed:
What happens when a massage chair squeezes a corpse for a long time.
He regretted it the second the results loaded, but he read anyway. Medical papers said: continuous external pressure forces blood and tissue fluid to shift, accelerating decay, causing abnormal deformation of the body. Simply put — the dead man's fluids were squeezed out, soaking into the chair's sponge and leather, fusing with it.
He closed the page, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes hard.
He told himself not to scare himself. Nightmares after reading news like that were normal. Backache? Everyone felt sore after napping weirdly on a chair. Yeah, that's it. He repeated excuses in his head for half the night until he almost believed himself.
He almost believed it for five days.
Day six was Friday. He came home late from overtime. His wife and son were asleep. After showering, he lay down and checked his phone. One unread message in the painting class parent group: schedule changed — Sunday class switched to Saturday.
Tomorrow.
He put down his phone and closed his eyes. His mind spun in the dark.
He had to go back tomorrow. Wait in the lobby again. Only two massage chairs and some plastic stools. He hadn't touched either since the dream on the orange chair. But they were there, unavoidable.
He turned over, burying his face in the pillow. Sleep wouldn't come. Every time he nearly drifted off, the image flashed: the dark brown stain on the orange chair, glinting dimly under the light.
He still went the next afternoon. His wife asked why he looked so terrible. He said he slept badly. He dropped Chengcheng off, walked past the massage chairs, and headed straight for the smoking area. He smoked three in a row, his throat dry and bitter, before walking back.
All the plastic stools were taken. An old man played videos aloud. A woman talked about braised pork. The reception girl was on the phone, her voice drowned out. The lobby was noisy.
Cheng Yuantao leaned against the wall, scrolling his phone. His eyes stung. He'd barely slept four hours. Tiredness crashed into him. He yawned, eyelids heavy. He shook his head, forcing his eyes open.
"Sit down for a while."
A voice said suddenly.
He looked up. The old man was gone, a stool empty. But the voice hadn't come from there. It was too close — like someone whispered directly into his ear.
He turned to the two massage chairs. Gray empty. Orange empty. The dark brown stain looked… bigger than last time.
No.
He stared. It wasn't his imagination. The stain had been an irregular oval. Now a thin line extended downward, like liquid had soaked further into the leather.
He stepped back.
"Sit down for a while."
The voice spoke again. Clear this time — coming from the orange massage chair. But it didn't sound human. Flat, neutral, no warmth — like a pre-recorded message playing automatically.
He stared at the chair's screen. Black, unpowered, no lights.
"Sir?" The reception girl had hung up, looking at him confusedly. "Are you okay? You look terrible."
"That massage chair," Cheng Yuantao pointed at the orange one, his finger shaking. "Do people ever sit on that one?"
She glanced at it and shook her head. "Not really. The gray one gets used a lot."
She paused, then added quietly: "Actually… that one almost never gets used. I don't know why."
Cheng Yuantao's hand dropped.
She looked at him, then at the chair, her expression shifting slightly — not fear, but awkwardness, like she knew something but didn't want to say it.
"What is it?" he pressed.
"Nothing much." She hesitated, voice lowering. "Some coworkers say it sometimes makes noises at night. Not working sounds. Just… hard to explain."
"What do you mean hard to explain?"
"Like airbags inflating and deflating." She seemed uncomfortable herself. "But the lobby's powered off at night. Plugs are pulled."
Cheng Yuantao didn't ask again. He turned to the elevator, fingers still trembling. When he reached the third floor, Chengcheng wasn't out yet. He leaned against the wall and opened his browser.
He typed the mall's name, plus four words:
Noises at midnight
His fingers froze when the results loaded.
A two-year-old post from the same forum. Title: Mall massage chairs turn on by themselves after closing — caught on camera. The video link was broken, but the text remained. The poster was a night security guard. He heard the chairs running several times while patrolling, but they stopped when he approached. He hid a phone to record. The footage made him quit the next day.
He didn't write what he filmed. Someone asked in the comments. He replied with one line.
Cheng Yuantao stared at it, palm dripping sweat.
"No one was sitting on the chair. But the airbags were inflated. Like something invisible was sitting there."