Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 68

“Boss?” Tim’s voice croaks out in the silence.
“Yes?” I reply, squinting to make out the dimly lit surroundings. We’re in a living room of sorts, an airy space that was
obviously the height of opulence, but due to the wear and tear of time and abandonment, has become decrepit and filthy.
Dust coats every surface, and the gilded sofas have been gnawed on by mice. Cockroaches and other vermin swarm around
our feet. Tim flinches as a mouse patters over his designer shoes.
Home sweet home.
“I told you! I told you, didn’t I? I knew something like this would happen! I knew it!” Tim bursts out screaming in
hysteria, his cries echoing around the chamber, “I warned you that the manor was haunted, and you bastards didn’t believe
me! Now we’re going to die here and – ”
His whines are quickly transformed into blood-curling screams with a snap of my fingers, a sound sharp and harsh that
pierces the silence. Spindly limbs wrap themselves around Tim’s writhing body, tightening until his skin turns dark purple.
The old stone mechanics beyond the walls begin to rumble as the ground beneath us rotates apart, the creature that is
choking Tim slowly rising from the floor. Bubbling venom starts to ooze from the pores of the creature, the liquid s eeping
into Tim’s clothes, into his blood. Tim’s cries come from deep within his chest, rabid, animalistic pleads that morph into
hoarse whimpers of agony. He claws at his chest desperately, trying to loosen the grip of the tentacles, but to no avail.
Soon, every guttural cough is sending a splatter of crimson red blood onto my clean white dress shirt as he begs breathlessly
for my help. I cock my head and wait impatiently for the whole ordeal to be over with, though I cannot deny feeling
surges of vindication and ecstasy watching this failure of a human get what was coming to him.
Eventually, his groaning dies down, and I look up to see Tim, his eyelids swollen shut and limbs dangling, hanging
motionlessly from the ceiling. Satisfied, I lower him to make a closer inspection of his body. I can barely make out his face
from the violent disfiguration, but from my recollection, he was a healthy and handsome young man. The perfect host.
I snap my fingers again, and torches ignite, illuminating the room. Shadows dance along the dimly lit walls, and the air is
filled with foreboding. With much effort and cussing in ancient Chinese in the comforts of my own home, I manage to
prop Tim’s body against the decaying marble pillar and wait, staring through the jagged cracks in the ceiling and watching
the silver moonlight cast its spell over the ritual. I take my assigned place before the pattern etched onto the floor boards
and consult the the roll of yellowed parchment before me and began my chanting, feeling the syllables flow out from deep
within me and entwine every fibre of Tim’s being. Soon, his body starts shaking and writhing violently, as if it has a mind
of its own. Black spots dance in my vision, a mocking reminder of the inadequacy of my 52 year old, diabetic host body,
and my intestines feel as though they're being forcibly pulled through the eye of a needle. I'd forgotten how physically
taxing this was. Dark figures start soaring overhead, their presence disrupting my concentration, but I maintain my balance
and press on, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead due to the exertion.
Eventually, the chilling July wind blows out the candles on the table and I am once again engulfed in darkness.
The ritual has been finished, and I wait in tense silence. Suddenly, I am pulled into a tight embrace, and when he finally
withdraws, Tim, or rather his body, is standing before me, clean and unwounded, with a wide, lop-sided grin plastered on
his face.
“Welcome home, brother Qin.”