At three in the morning, a woman in red smiles and asks what floor you’re going to in the office elevator. A newly downloaded food delivery app mysteriously lists a restaurant called Yellow Springs Feast Hall, rated 4.9 stars but unknown to everyone.
On a dating site, the profile photo of your perfect match slowly reveals the outline of a fox in the moonlight.
Welcome to Urban Tales of the Supernatural.
Here, ancient spirits lurk in the shadows of the concrete jungle, using modern technology as their new disguises:
The top-tier star smiling sweetly in front of the livestream camera can’t wash away the true, aged face beneath her disguise, no matter how much makeup remover she uses.
The taciturn ride-hailing driver working late at night watches the meter tick up, but it isn’t counting money. It’s counting the passenger’s dwindling years of life.
A new neighbor in a luxury apartment brings over homemade cookies, delicious and tempting, but cold chains invisible to ordinary people coil around their wrist.
Desire swells beneath the neon lights, loneliness spreads through office cubicles, and ancient spirits have caught the scent of something more “delicious” than ever before. They take on human forms, slip into our Wi-Fi signals, squeeze onto the subway during rush hour, and thrive in every like and comment. What they trade isn’t gold or silver, but your time, your memories, and the burning obsession deep in your heart.
This isn’t a legend. It’s the other side of the lives we live.
When your phone screen glows faintly at midnight, a message from an unknown sender pops up:
“You have automatically renewed the Urban Tales of the Supernatural user agreement. Service period: for all eternity. Thank you.”
Shh. Perhaps the inhuman neighbor outside your door is listening.
Super beautiful, a great book