On a rainy night, the gray bricks and tiles of the courtyard flicker in and out of view with every flash of lightning, like countless eyes watching from the darkness. It’s the third day since I moved in, and dark red stains have appeared once more on the mottled screen wall, forming the words “Get out of here.” But this time, the stains don’t fade. They snake toward the old stone gatepost in the corner of the courtyard. I crouch and touch it with my fingertips, and a bone-chilling cold rushes through me. In the echo that follows, I see a blurred image: a pair of hands gripping an old man’s throat, with the courtyard’s central well behind them. The bloodstains aren’t a warning. They’re a plea for help. I jerk my head up, rainwater and blood soaking the cuffs of my trousers. This isn’t the work of an evil spirit. It’s murder. And as a warding-object master, I have to solve the mystery.
