Late at night in the old community, a strange children's song "Throw the Handkerchief" suddenly broke the silence, and the melody was as stiff as a piece of rusty iron. At some point, the tenants of 408 sent a scary suggestion to the owner's group: "Whoever leaves the handkerchief will die." This statement turned out to be a prophecy, and one after another tenants died mysteriously. The murderer pretended to use the deceased's mobile phone to pretend to count the number of residents in the group, but in fact marked the target for hunting. Staying at home, I huddled behind the door, listening to the undistinguished news from the owner group. The footsteps coming from the corridor were getting closer and closer. Every step seemed to step on my heartbeat. I could only hold on to the door handle, struggling to survive in boundless fear.
