I lucked into renting an old guesthouse at the end of an alley. The rent was absurdly cheap.
The landlord was nowhere to be seen when I signed the lease. Instead, he had left behind just three rules:
If you hear laughter and play in the hallway after midnight, don't open the door.
If someone outside the window calls your name, don't answer.
Never, ever let the mirror in your room face the bed.
I thought they were ordinary superstitions about an old house and paid them no mind.
Then, on my first night there, I heard footsteps in the hallway, even though I was the only tenant in the whole guesthouse.
In an old portrait on the corridor wall, five twisted girls stared at me with smiles on their faces.
I dug out the rental contract and found that two dark-red characters had somehow appeared beside the signature: Death Road.
You follow the rules of the rental agreement.
They follow the rules of the Death Road.
I saw the girls' fading figures, and I saw my own shadow among them.
