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墨書 Inktalez
Lin Yan had not slept all night. The light was on, and he sat with his back to the wardrobe, holding his phone, its battery already low and flashing red. He hadn’t opened the wardrobe door again; that thing inside remained silent.
He dared not move, fearing that if he turned around, he would see those black slits still staring at him, like something without eyes yet capable of piercing through his gaze.
As morning approached at six o'clock, the light entered the room at a slanted angle, more off-kilter than the day before. He watched the shadows on the floor shift, as if waiting for a verdict to be rendered.
“I want to move out,” he said to the air. His voice echoed within him, not absorbed by the space but rather mimicked by it and thrown back at him.
He packed quickly—his backpack, laptop, toiletries. When he lifted his suitcase, the sound of its wheels turning was dry, as if they were scraping against some soft tissue rather than gliding over the floor.
As he opened the door, he hesitated for a moment—the doorknob felt cold, as if someone had just gripped it.
Dragging his luggage down the stairs, the sound was different from usual. Typically there would be echoes and vibrations from the iron handrail, but today all he could hear was his own breathing and the damp sound of the suitcase wheels rolling over the edges of the steps. It was as if there was water present, yet invisible.
When he reached the first floor, he noticed something was off—the structure of the stairs was wrong.
He had originally come down from the third floor and should have only descended two flights. But today, he found himself walking down five floors, six floors; his legs began to ache slightly while the overhead light remained unchanged. With each step down, more paint peeled from the walls like cracked skin revealing a grayish-white underlayer.
He stopped and looked back; the staircase stretched endlessly above him. Lowering his gaze to the ground floor revealed layer upon layer of stairs repeating in a continuous structure, as if some space were replicating a familiar exit illusion based on memory.
Lin Yan pressed against the wall; it felt warm and slightly sticky. He pulled his hand back, fingertips coated with a nearly transparent slime reminiscent of old photo adhesive.
He began to run upward, sprinting back to what should have been the third floor in his memory, only to find that the door number had changed.
Each floor’s door was identical: deep gray paint with a red frame and a slightly low doorknob. There were no resident labels, no shoe racks, mailboxes, or electric meters. The entire floor felt frozen in time.
He muttered under his breath, "What the hell..."
"This is not hell," a voice emerged from the wall behind him, resonating as if from deep within a cavern rather than from a throat. It sounded like it was speaking human language, but there was a slight delay between each syllable, as if it had to think through the phonetics before forcing the words out with its tongue.
Lin Yan turned around; there were no cracks in the wall, yet the voice continued, "You shouldn't have opened the door."
He took a few steps back, cold sweat clinging to his neck. He dared not ask who it was. He feared that to ask would be to acknowledge that this thing was "talking to me."
"That door was made by you. Not me. I am just..." The voice paused for a few seconds, "just a tenant."
"You... live here?"
"You let me live here." The tone held no hostility, even carrying a hint of innocence, as if mimicking a child's syntax. But the more it sounded like that, the more it felt like an eerie form of teasing.
Lin Yan found himself speaking, "What exactly are you?"
The wall emitted a slow, subtle sound, like breathing. "I am nothing. I am that thought of yours while you are here."
Lin Yan was at a loss for words. It felt as if he could hear something smaller than sound sliding around in his mind, like wet paper being torn away piece by piece.
He turned and ran upstairs, disregarding the path this time. He just kept running, thinking that he would surely return to that original room, at least where there were walls, doors, and a wardrobe—those familiar oddities.
He burst through the door to the third floor again, finding it unlocked and swinging open automatically. Breathing heavily, he closed the door behind him and looked around.
The room appeared exactly the same, with the desk, chair, bed, and wardrobe all in their original places.
But when he glanced out the window, he was met not with the street or the building across from him. Instead, there was a mirror. Outside the window was a perfect reflection of his own room: a desk, a bed, and himself sitting in a chair.
The Lin Yan in the mirror smiled and slowly raised a hand, making a "shh" gesture towards him.
Behind him, the wardrobe creaked ominously.
The door opened.
When it opened, the sound was not that of metal scraping as a lock turned, but rather like skin being stretched and torn—soft, moist, as if some flesh had grown too long within the walls and finally pushed out a passageway.
Inside the wardrobe was as dark and soft as last night, resembling a breathing cave. The scent was no longer one of decay but something intimate—like an old shirt that felt familiar, a blanket that had been embraced, or a hidden corner from childhood.
Lin Yan stood at the doorway; his hands remained still, but his feet moved of their own accord. He stepped inside. There were no lights; his phone had long since died. The darkness was not merely an absence of light but a texture—a thick blackness that enveloped him completely, slowly dissolving even his thoughts.
He felt himself descending, his feet pressing against a soft surface that could have been carpet or skin. The walls felt alive; with each touch, they would slightly undulate as if something behind them was gently responding to him.
He didn’t know how long he had been walking when light appeared ahead—a thin sliver of brightness cutting through the pitch black like a wound. He reached out to push it aside.
Inside was a room.
It was his original room.
The same bed, the same table, the same position, but everything had changed. The walls were damp, with vines growing like neural synapses. On the table lay a stack of photographs, all featuring Lin Yan's face: him sitting, him sleeping, him bathing, him staring blankly at a screen—each one impossible to have been taken by himself.
"I kept these for you."
The voice reappeared, this time so close it felt like it was whispering in his ear. Lin Yan turned his head to see something sitting in the chair—it was "him," but the face was blurred, like a photograph that had been soaked in water, only the outlines of his features barely discernible.
"Who are you?"
"I've been living here for a long time. Even before you arrived." The tone was unhurried, even polite.
Lin Yan took a step back, wanting to escape. But the wardrobe had vanished; the wall had become a sealed membrane, preventing any return to the original space.
"You are not me."
"I am not you, but you are a part of me." The blurred version of himself slowly stood up, movements heavy as if wearing wet clothes. "This place is not meant for humans; it is meant for those who inhabit it."
Lin Yan did not understand. He wanted to scream, but his throat could not produce a sound. His vocal cords felt as if they had been removed and hung behind the door.
"Everyone who enters leaves something behind: skin, voice, preferences, bad temper, the face of someone waking up at dawn." He pointed at the photographs. "We all live here; we just take turns playing each other. You did well this time."
"You’re insane... I—I am not..."
"You used to say that too."
The blurred face smiled, the mouth stretching wide, like a seam pulled open with thread.
"Only back then, you woke up earlier."
Lin Yan knelt down, beginning to realize that some of his memories were slipping away. His mother's face, the last time he went out, his job, his identification code... it felt as if someone was gradually hollowing out the back of his mind.
"You are now the master here," the voice said.
The wall began to change; the originally smooth surface gradually bulged, cracked, and unfolded into a new door—not a wooden door, but one made of skin, wrinkled and full of holes, resembling a uterine structure.
"The next one is coming soon," the voice said.
Lin Yan looked down at himself—his palms had changed shape, fingers elongated, skin yellowing, veins surfacing beneath. He wanted to cry but had no tears; he only felt himself slowly sitting back down in that chair.
A mirror appeared. He saw himself in it, sitting in the center of the room, expressionless, waiting for the door to open.
From within the wall came the familiar sound of a door opening; someone entered with luggage, saying, "Is this the room on the third floor? The landlord said not to move the wardrobe—"
Lin Yan opened his eyes.
He smiled.
Her surname was Jiang; she was twenty-seven years old, a night school English teacher with fair skin and prominent shoulder bones, slightly hunched. The day she moved in was a rainy evening; the slanting wind blew through the alley and turned her umbrella inside out. She dragged her suitcase up to that old building, her shoes slippery from the wet ground, each step making a "pop" sound as if the stairs were sighing softly.
The door was open. The landlord hadn't come; she checked the key in the door several times—no need to push hard; it opened by itself.
The room was clean, much tidier than she had imagined. The walls were gray, the light bulbs emitted a warm yellow glow, and the floor felt slightly soft underfoot, carrying a faint scent of herbs that was not overpowering. She opened the window, and the building across the way appeared shrouded in mist, obscured from view.
She liked this tranquil place. No one asked her questions, no one demanded anything from her, and even the mobile signal was weak, as if it were telling her, "Just take a moment to be still."
She walked over to the wall and noticed a dark wooden wardrobe. It was unusually large, resembling a fixed pillar that occupied the entire wall. She tried to open it—there was no handle, and the doors were tightly sealed, her nails unable to find a gap. Stepping back, she squinted at it, feeling as if there were slight indentations on the doors, as if someone had gently scratched them.
"Don't touch it," she whispered to herself, recalling what the landlord had said over the phone.
In the evening, she organized her belongings, placing books on the shelf and setting her laptop on the table. She turned off the lights and drew the curtains, preparing for sleep.
As she lay down, she heard a faint "crack," like something getting stuck or perhaps someone stifling a yawn. She glanced up at the wardrobe; it remained still.
She chuckled softly to herself, "Don't overthink it."
But she didn't notice that beneath her pillow lay a yellowed note with slightly curled edges, inscribed with a single line:
"If it starts mimicking your voice, do not respond."
She dreamt not at all that night. Meanwhile, within the wardrobe, someone sat quietly. There was no sound, only low breaths—one after another—like they were memorizing her frequency.
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