In September, Jiangcheng was as hot and stifling as a giant steamer. In the lifeless afternoon, only the cicadas’ cries tore at people’s eardrums.
At the far end of the old streets in the west of the city stood a lonely two-story building. Dead ivy covered its outer walls, and its pitch-black windows looked like empty eye sockets, staring fixedly at passersby. The sign above the entrance, which read “Terror House of Frights,” had been left to decay for years. It hung crookedly in the air, creaking in the wind as if it could fall at any moment and kill someone.
Inside, Lu Feng clutched several crumpled bills demanding payment, his brow furrowed so deeply it could crush a fly.
“Water, electricity, and this damn property tax...” Lu Feng slapped the bills down on the chipped reception desk, his knuckles turning white. “If I don’t open for business soon, I’ll be left with nothing to eat.”
