I was stupid, really stupid. I know to avoid haunted houses when renting, but who'd expect to run into something like this just taking my kid to an amusement park?
It was Children's Day, clear and cloudless. Among all the rides, Nian Nian immediately spotted the white horse.
The carousel — she'd been riding it since she was two, and now at six, it was still the only thing she wanted. We waited in line for about twenty minutes. I lifted her onto the platform. She picked a brown one with gold patterns on the saddle. I stepped back outside the rail and took out my phone.
The carousel turned. Nian Nian's ponytail swung back and forth, and she held up a peace sign every time she passed me. I took more than a dozen photos. When I looked down to scroll through them, I caught something in my peripheral vision.
The white horse.
It stood right behind the central pillar, its back to the entrance. A thick iron chain, as wide as a finger, wrapped around its belly several times, coiled up its neck, and ended at a padlock — locked to the base rail. Rust mixed with the white paint, sharp and ugly.
The strange thing was, its paint was newer than all the others. Shining white, fine mane lines, round bright eyes — as if it had just been repainted. The horses the kids were riding were all scuffed; some had chipped ears.
Why lock up the best?kept horse?
The carousel stopped. Nian Nian looked up and begged to ride again. I pointed to the long line behind us. She pouted, took my hand, and walked away. I circled around to the other side.
Up close, I could see thin red threads wrapped around several links of the chain — like strands pulled from red cloth, some faded to pink. The lock was old?fashioned, with a yellow talisman stuck on it, the cinnabar characters smudged.
"What's wrong with this horse?" I asked a nearby attendant.
He was in his forties, with a name tag that read "Old Zhou." He was helping a kid fasten the seatbelt. His hand paused, and he looked up at me.
"Nothing. It's broken." His tone was flat; he wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Broken and you lock it?" I smiled.
Old Zhou didn't reply. He went back to the belt, muttering, "Take your kid to another ride. This horse has nothing to do with you."
The more he avoided it, the more suspicious I grew. I stayed where I was. When he finished with that group of kids, I pulled out a cigarette and offered it. He waved it away, saying no smoking on duty. I put it away and nodded toward the white horse.
"Master Zhou, what's really wrong with that horse?"
Old Zhou glanced at me, then scanned the area to make sure no other tourists were watching.
"You really want to know?"
"I really do."
"You won't regret it after you hear?"
"It's just a horse. Nothing to regret."
Old Zhou fell silent for a few seconds, staring at the white horse. The carousel turned again, music tinkling. The white horse stayed still, the chain glinting dimly in the sun. Kids laughed loudly as they rode past on colorful horses.
But the white horse just stood there, quiet, like a prisoner who couldn't walk.
"That horse," Old Zhou began, his voice low, "used to be a little girl's favorite."
"Every time she came, she rode that one. She wouldn't take any other, even if she had to wait another round. Her mom brought her every weekend. The girl was pale, with two little braids and a red dress —"
"Then what?"
"Then one time," he paused, "she lost her grip. The carousel had just started, not even halfway around. She fell. Hit her head on the base. The edge was rubber, but it was old, worn through, and she hit the iron corner exactly."
My throat went dry.
"She didn't make it?"
Old Zhou shook his head.
"That horse couldn't be ridden after that. At first we blocked it with a fence and put up a 'Under Maintenance' sign. Later, we found out it was no use."
"Why not?"
Old Zhou fell silent again. The carousel stopped, and a new crowd of kids rushed to pick their horses. Not one child went near the white horse — not one came within two steps of it.
"Later a little boy, about seven or eight, climbed over the fence when no one was looking." Old Zhou took a deep breath. "The carousel went less than once around, and the boy started screaming. We hit the emergency stop and ran to pull him off. He was shaking all over. When we asked what happened, he pointed behind the horse and said —"
Old Zhou swallowed hard.
"He said, 'Someone's holding me from behind.'"
It was June, bright sun blazing. Cold swept down my back.
"The boy said when the horse turned, a pair of hands reached from behind and squeezed his waist tight. Cold and hard, like ice. He turned around — nothing. But the hands just held on, tighter and tighter, until he couldn't breathe."
"The boy was seriously ill afterward, high fever that wouldn't break. His family caused a scene several times. The park paid compensation, replaced the fence with a chain, and had someone come to look." He nodded at the talisman. "The one you see. After that, the horse was locked for good."
Nian Nian grew impatient waiting and tugged my shirt. I knelt down, picked her up, and turned to leave — but I couldn't help glancing back at the white horse. Its eyes were painted big and round, a white dot in the black pupil, like it was watching something… or waiting.
I hurried away with Nian Nian in my arms.
We played until about four in the afternoon. Nian Nian was exhausted and fell asleep on my shoulder. On the way to the parking lot, we passed the carousel. In the dusk, the lights on the roof flickered. The whole thing was quiet, like a sleeping music box. The white horse was still locked in place.
From far away, it looked different from the others — maybe because it was too new, maybe because the chain was too noticeable.
When we got home, Nian Nian chattered at dinner about everything she'd done that day. Suddenly she turned to me.
"Daddy, why doesn't anyone ride the white horse?"
My chopsticks froze.
"It's probably broken." I put a piece of meat in her bowl. "Eat quickly."
"It's not broken," Nian Nian tilted her head. "It's so pretty, prettier than all the others."
I patted her head. "Pretty things aren't always usable. Hurry up."
Nian Nian said "oh" and lowered her head to eat. But something felt off. Nian Nian never paid special attention to any one horse. But today she'd noticed it. Thinking back, she'd looked toward the white horse several times while we were in line, even tugging me that way once.
That night after bathing Nian Nian, I told my wife what I'd heard at the park. She put down her phone and stared at me.
"And you let Nian Nian ride that carousel?"
"I didn't hear the story until after she already rode." I forced a smile. "And that horse was locked. She rode a different one."
She frowned. "Don't go to that park anymore."
"Okay."
I had a dream that night.
In the dream, I stood in front of the carousel. Everything was pitch black except for the flickering lights on top. No music, no voices. So quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. The white horse was still in its place, chain and talisman still there — but it was moving. Not the whole carousel turning. The horse itself trembled slightly, as if something invisible was riding it and shaking hard. I tried to run, but my legs wouldn't move. I tried to shout, but no sound came out. Then I heard a voice — a little girl's laughter, broken, mixed with the carousel music.
"Mommy, I want to ride again."
"Mommy, push me."
"Mommy —"
The last note twisted. From a whine to a scream. The scream cut off suddenly.
My alarm woke me. My pajamas were soaked and stuck to my back. I told myself it was just a dream, but the voice looped in my head all day. I was distracted at work and messed up two numbers in the report. At noon, I searched the park's name online and found a three?year?old post — "Carousel accident at this amusement park, little girl fell to her death. Parents with kids be careful." Just a few lines, no details, poster account already deleted.
Right before I got off work, Nian Nian sent a voice message using my wife's phone.
"Daddy, I want to go ride the spinning circle again, please?"
My chest tightened. I replied: "How about we go somewhere else next time? Daddy will take you on the Ferris wheel."
The next few days were calm. Nian Nian asked to ride the carousel a few more times, but my wife distracted her with excuses. Kids forget fast; she stopped mentioning it after less than two weeks.
I thought I could forget it completely.
Until that night, two weeks later.
Nian Nian slept terribly that night. At around two in the morning, a scream burst from her room. I scrambled in and flipped on the light — Nian Nian was sitting up, hugging her blanket, face deadly pale, tears streaming down.
"What's wrong? What's wrong?" I pulled her into my arms.
She cried so hard she could barely breathe, her tiny body shaking. After a long while, she managed to stammer out a sentence.
"Daddy… someone held me."
My blood turned cold.
"What?"
Nian Nian buried her face in my chest, sobbing. "Someone held me from behind. So cold. I couldn't breathe. I tried to call you, Daddy, but I couldn't."
My wife stood in the doorway, face pale. We looked at each other. Her lips trembled, and she mouthed two words — the horse.
Nian Nian lifted her tear?stained face and looked at me.
"It wasn't a dream, Daddy. I was still cold after I woke up."
I touched her back instinctively. The area from the neck down to the waist was noticeably colder than the rest — as if someone had just pulled icy hands off her.
That night, I brought Nian Nian to our bed, the three of us squeezed together. I stared at the ceiling until dawn.
I took the next day off. I dropped Nian Nian at my mom's, then drove alone to the east?city amusement park.
It wasn't the weekend, so few people. I headed straight for the carousel, the tinkly electronic music already audible from far away. The white horse was still there, chain and talisman still in place.
Old Zhou wasn't there.
A young guy was on duty, sitting on a plastic stool playing with his phone.
"Is Master Zhou working today?"
The guy looked up. "Old Zhou? He quit last week. Said he was going back to his hometown. Left in a hurry, didn't even collect this month's salary."
My heart sank.
While he wasn't looking, I circled behind the carousel and approached the white horse. It was even shinier than I remembered, the paint smooth and bright. The highlight in its eyes was too realistic — the whole horse looked ready to come alive. The chain dug tightly into its body, rust and red threads tangled, leaving dark red marks on the white.
"What are you doing?"
I stood up quickly. The young guy looked alert. I said I was just looking. He said sharply that tourists weren't allowed back there. I had to step back.
I sat on a nearby bench and watched the carousel spinning endlessly. Kids laughed and shouted on its back, going left and coming back right. The white horse stayed quiet in the shadow.
But as I watched, I noticed something was wrong — it faced a different direction from the others.
All the other horses faced the direction the carousel turned. But the white horse's head was reversed. It faced the center.
I remembered Old Zhou's words: the boy screamed after less than one full turn, saying someone was holding him from behind.
If all the other horses faced outward, but the white horse faced inward — then the rider's direction, the way they looked out, was opposite to every living child. A living kid riding it faced outward; they faced each other, and back to back. Those hands reaching from behind didn't come from outside. They came from between the horse and the rider — one facing inward, one outward, riding the same horse, moving opposite ways.
It was noon, the sun burning the ground white. I stood in front of the carousel and shivered.
That afternoon, I went to the park office to ask for Old Zhou's contact. The woman at the desk flipped through the roster and said Old Zhou's contract ended normally; no contact was left. When I asked about the white horse, her expression flickered, then she returned to a professional smile, saying the horse had mechanical issues and was temporarily out of use.
On my way out, I passed a security room. An old guard with white hair sat inside drinking from an enamel mug. I knocked, placed a pack of convenience?store cigarettes on the table, and pushed it toward him.
The old man glanced at the cigarette, then at me, and smiled. "Need something?"
"Uncle, how long have you worked here?"
"Eight years."
"So you know about the carousel accident three years ago."
He inhaled, then exhaled slowly. The old man looked at me through the smoke, eyes cloudy but sharp.
"Who are you?"
"Just a visitor," I said. "But my daughter has had problems lately."
Before he could ask, I told him what had happened to Nian Nian. The old man listened without speaking, ash falling onto the table unheeded. When I finished, he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and closed the door.
"How old's your kid?"
"Six."
The old man fell silent for a long time.
"Six. About the same age as she was."
I knew who he meant.
"How much did Old Zhou tell you?"
"That a little girl fell and didn't make it. Later a boy had an incident riding it. The park locked the horse."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
The old man nodded, then was quiet again before speaking. His voice was low and steady, like he'd told the story many times, but every word weighed heavy.
"The little girl's name was Xiaoya. Single parent. Her mom brought her every weekend. Xiaoya only wanted that white horse; she'd wait in line rather than take any other. Once it rained heavily and her mom said they couldn't come. She cried all day at home. When the rain stopped the next day, her mom brought her and let her ride three times before she smiled."
"The accident was on a clear day. Children's Day. Xiaoya wore her favorite red dress. The carousel went less than halfway around. She either lost her grip or turned to talk to her mom. She leaned and fell. The rubber edge on the base — right where the white horse was — had worn through, exposing the iron corner."
The old man closed his eyes.
"Her mom was standing right outside the rail. Saw the whole thing."
I said nothing. I couldn't.
"After that, her mom fell apart. She came to the park many times, knelt in front of the white horse crying until security dragged her away. Then one day she stopped coming. The urban village where she lived was being demolished. She moved away. No one knows where."
The old man brushed the ash off his sleeve.
"After that, the horse started causing trouble."
"I wasn't there for the boy; Old Zhou handled that. But I've seen other things." He stood and walked to the window. "Have you ever seen the carousel at midnight?"
"No."
"I have. More than once. On night patrol, I'd hear it — a little girl singing, light and floating. I shined my flashlight over there: nothing. The sound stopped. But as soon as I walked away, it started again."
"Early this year, I was on night duty during a big wind. The security room window wasn't closed tight; the wind woke me up. I looked out — the carousel was turning. It was supposed to be powered off, but it was turning, slowly. Someone was sitting on the white horse. Couldn't see the face, but they wore red clothes, legs swinging on either side of the belly. The white horse, chain and all, was turning slowly with the base."
"I ran over right away. The carousel had already stopped. But on the white horse's saddle, there was a red hair tie. The next day I went over with an excuse; it was still there. The kind little girls use for braids. The day after that, it was gone."
The old man finished the last of his tea.
"That's it. Believe it or not."
"The horse's head faces a different direction from the others," I said. "Did you know?"
"I know. It wasn't always that way. It faced outward like all the others when it was new. After the accident, the park fixed and repainted it, but no matter how they mounted it, the head turned inward. They'd install it facing out; by the next day it twisted back. They tried three or four times. The maintenance crew got scared and never touched it again."
The old man paused.
"People later said Xiaoya was looking for her mom. When she rode, she faced outward. After she fell, she kept looking toward the last place her mom stood."
"Old Zhou suggested tearing it out and replacing it before he left. No one dared. Afraid worse things would happen. So it's just locked, with a talisman, left like this day after day."
I stood up, my head buzzing.
"Better go home and forget this. Don't bring your kid back here. Especially not the carousel."
"Thank you," I said. "One last question — what year was the Children's Day accident?"
The old man looked up at me. Something unreadable lay in his cloudy eyes.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of his enamel mug.
"It hasn't been three years yet. She was taken two summers ago."
I stumbled out of the security room.
Nian Nian was six. Two summers ago, she'd been four. That was when four?year?old Nian Nian started saying she was afraid of the dark, that someone was under her bed, waking up screaming at night that someone was holding her. I'd always thought it was normal — kids get scared, have nightmares, mix up fantasy and reality. But lining up the dates hit me: Nian Nian had been saying someone held her from behind for nearly two years. Only this time, she'd described it clearly: cold, can't breathe.
Before, she only cried, said she was scared, said someone was there. She couldn't say who or what. We thought it was nightmares, comforted her, and moved on. This time she remembered — two arms wrapping around her from behind, clear as day.
I stood in the amusement park square. The sun blazed down, but cold seeped from my bones.
Then I realized something. Everyone talked about the girl and her mom, but no one said what happened to the mother afterward. Only that she moved away and never came back. A single mom who watched her daughter die in front of her — just vanished?
I suddenly remembered the red hair tie the old man mentioned. A dead little girl couldn't have left her own hair tie on the saddle. Someone else put it there. Only one person would remember that kind of hair tie — her mom.
Her mom had come back.
Maybe climbing over the wall late at night. Maybe sneaking in when no one was looking. Leaving her daughter's hair tie on the saddle, like placing flowers on a grave.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through several local groups. Finally, I found someone. He asked if I was a reporter. I said no, my daughter had been disturbed by the white horse, and I wanted to find the girl's family. The dialog showed "typing" for a long time, then the message popped up.
"She's dead."
I stared at those three words for a long time.
"Early this year. After moving, she rented a room on the outskirts. Never came out. The landlord smelled the odor and found her. Forensic said natural causes. Neighbors said she barely left the house after moving in, curtains closed all day. No one visited her."
I put down my phone, tilted my head back, and closed my eyes.
I'd been wrong.
I thought it was the dead little girl who couldn't let go, staying on the carousel. I thought finding her mom would help her rest.
But her mom was dead too. Died in a rental room, curtains closed, alone, undiscovered for days.
A six?year?old girl fell off the carousel, hit her head on the iron corner.
When she died, her mom's world collapsed. What followed was just waiting to be found. Waiting for the landlord to smell the rot. Waiting for a stranger to scroll across a old message.
I stood in the square, under the sun, feeling utterly stupid.
I went home. Nian Nian was already asleep at my mom's. My wife sat in the living room; one look at my face and she didn't ask anything.
That night, I scoured every piece of information I could find about the accident and aftermath. Bits and pieces, mostly three?year?old posts, almost all deleted.
The next day my mom called. Nian Nian was fine, ate two bowls of porridge in the morning. She asked if something was wrong. I said no.
Another day passed. I went to pick Nian Nian up.
She looked the same as usual. After getting in the car, she stared out the window, then suddenly asked:
"Daddy, did the sister's mom die too?"
My hand shook. The car almost skidded.
"What sister?" I pulled over.
"The sister who rode the white horse." Nian Nian turned to me. "She came to see me."
"When?"
"Last night. After I fell asleep."
"Did she talk to you?"
"Uh?huh." Nian Nian nodded. "She said her name's Xiaoya. She said she's been looking for her mom. She's been alone on that horse, waiting so, so long."
Nian Nian's voice was calm, not like she was talking about a dream. She copied Xiaoya's soft tone, light as the carousel music.
"She said her mom also wore a red dress. Just like her. Her mom brought her to ride the carousel every weekend. Then she fell down, her head hurt so bad, and when she woke up, she couldn't find her mom."
Nian Nian paused. "She said she went back to the white horse to look for her mom, but Mommy never came. She waited so long."
I stared at Nian Nian, my throat blocked.
"What else did she say?"
"She said —" Nian Nian thought for a moment. "She said thank you. Her mommy came to pick her up. Her mommy wore a red dress, pretty just like her."
Nian Nian opened her small hand.
Resting on her palm was a red hair tie. A little worn, faded, with small flowers carved into the plastic on both ends.
"The sister gave it to me. She said it was the one her mommy gave her. Now she's giving it to me."
Nian Nian looked up at me, clear and serious.
"Daddy, the sister said she waited so long. Now she doesn't have to wait anymore."
When I carried Nian Nian out of the parking lot, I somehow circled back to the carousel.
The white horse stood quietly in place. The chain lay loose on the base. The torn talisman had blown away somewhere.
But I noticed — the horse's head had changed direction.
It no longer faced inward. Just like all the other horses, it faced outward, toward the sunlight.
We never went back to that park. I kept the red hair tie in a small box. Nian Nian takes it out to look at sometimes.
One night, Nian Nian said to me: "Daddy, I dreamed about the sister last night."
"Mm?" I put down my book.
"The sister is with her mommy, riding the carousel. She's on the white horse, and her mommy is pushing her from behind. She's so happy."
"That's good."
Nian Nian turned around and suddenly asked: "Daddy, does everyone become a star when they die?"
I opened my mouth.
I thought about Xiaoya's mom's final days — curtains closed, never leaving the house. Died quietly alone in a rental room. Forensic said natural causes. But how old was she?
"Maybe not everyone becomes a star." I closed my book and pulled Nian Nian into my arms. "But some people do."
Nian Nian nestled comfortably in my chest and closed her eyes.
I looked out the window. The city lights were too bright to see stars. But I searched anyway.
In the far west, very low, two tiny bright spots lay close together.
They were next to each other.
They didn't have to wait anymore.