On a rainy night, a "neighbor" moved in from 402 next door, dragging a bleeding sack.
At three o'clock in the morning, he knocked on my door. There were bits of human skin embedded in his fingernails, "curing the meat" with salt. I called the police in fear, but received a cold reply: 402's family committed suicide three years ago, and no one has lived there for a long time.
Witnesses that no one believed, the vacant haunted house, the cold touch remaining on the fingertips, and the quietly returned salt shaker mixed with dark red crystals...
When the administrator dodged and the old scavenger whispered the strange rules of "Don't open the door at night" and "Borrow things quickly," I was shocked to realize that this old building itself was a living tomb bound by invisible rules.
If you follow the rules, the price is unknown; if you break the rules, something unexpected will happen. Will the knock on the door ring again at three o'clock in the morning? How do I survive in the abyss of cognitive collapse?
