A "cunning" story every day, allowing you to experience the scratching sound in the refrigerator at three o'clock in the morning, the hand tugging at the corner of the clothes under the seat of the last bus, and the bloody figure of the ancestral jade Perry. When you think that daily life is a safety barrier, the elevator in the story will stop at a non-existent floor at midnight, the mirror will swallow half of your face when you turn around, and the name of the recipient on the takeout order may be the missing person you saw in the news last week. Every word is a prelude to an ice pick pricking your neck. After reading this, remember to check under the bed - the moonlight is turning your shadow into another human form.
