Chapter 3: The Whisper of the Ghost

Qiao Yu’s heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts churning like a storm. The building manager’s words hung over him like a suffocating shadow, twisting the fabric of his previously ordinary life into something dark and surreal. The connection between the woman’s sobs and the tape recorder hinted at a hidden truth—one that reeked not only of tragedy, but of something more sinister. Perhaps the destiny of this old apartment complex had long since been entangled with secrets better left forgotten.

“Where’s the tape recorder?” Qiao Yu asked, his voice urgent. “Do you know where it ended up?”

The manager’s eyes flickered with unease, as if trying to dodge the question, but he quickly regained his composure. He sighed, lowering his voice.

“The recorder wasn’t damaged in the fire. In fact, it came out almost completely intact. It was stored here, in the management office—but no one dares to touch it anymore. Everyone knows there’s something... wrong with that machine.”

Qiao Yu felt a chill crawl down his spine. He could almost hear the cries trapped in that old device, still echoing through some fissure in time. It wasn’t just a machine—it was a relic of grief, maybe even of something supernatural. He stared into the manager’s eyes, realizing the situation was far more complicated than a tragic fire. This wasn’t about damaged property—it was about something that shouldn’t exist.

“Can I see it?” he asked cautiously.

The manager shook his head. “It’s no longer in my control. The recorder’s been locked away in the basement storage room. There's a sealed notice posted on the door. Only the building superintendent has the key. No one else is allowed near it.”

Qiao Yu’s heart sank. He was beginning to understand: this wasn’t just an unsolved mystery—it was a suppressed one. That tape recorder might be the only key to unlocking the truth, and both the manager and the superintendent were deliberately keeping it hidden. If he wanted answers, he would have to dig them out himself.

“Can you at least give me the superintendent’s contact information?” he pressed.

The manager fell silent again, as if weighing whether or not to betray something sacred. After a long pause, he finally relented.

“His name is Tang Xuan. He lives on the ground floor. But listen to me, Qiao Yu—don’t go too far. There are things in this building that none of us understand, and some doors... should stay closed.”

Qiao Yu gave a solemn nod. Despite the swirling questions in his mind, he knew there was only one path forward: he had to find Tang Xuan and uncover whatever truth he was guarding. Without wasting another second, he left the office and hurried down the stairs.

The hallway on the ground floor was dim and eerily quiet. When Qiao Yu reached the superintendent’s door, it appeared ordinary—just like any other door in the building. He pressed the doorbell.

A few moments later, it creaked open. Standing there was a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a face marked by years of anxiety. There was no surprise in his expression, only resignation.

“You must be Qiao Yu,” the man said in a gravelly voice. “Come in. We need to talk.”

Qiao Yu hesitated, then followed him inside. The room was sparsely furnished, nearly bare. A worn landscape painting hung crookedly on the wall, and the stale air smelled faintly of dust and old wood. Everything about the space felt weighed down by something unseen, something unspoken.

“Sit,” Tang Xuan gestured toward the couch. Once Qiao Yu sat, the man’s tone turned serious. “You’re here about the room upstairs, aren’t you?”

Qiao Yu nodded slowly. “And the recorder,” he said quietly. “I heard... the crying. From the room next to mine. I need to understand what I’m hearing.”

Tang Xuan’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. “You heard it?” he asked, almost in disbelief. “The woman’s crying?”

“Yes,” Qiao Yu confirmed. “It wasn’t just once. I recorded it. I even heard her say, ‘Stay away from me.’ That recorder... what’s the real story behind it?”

For a long moment, Tang Xuan didn’t answer. His face was heavy with reluctance, and Qiao Yu feared he might shut down completely. But finally, the superintendent leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

“It’s a sad story,” Tang Xuan began. “That room—the one that caught fire—wasn’t just any apartment. The woman who lived there... she died trying to save her child.”

Qiao Yu’s breath caught in his throat.

“She could have escaped,” Tang Xuan continued, his voice barely audible. “But she didn’t. She went back into the flames, screaming for her son. No one could stop her. By the time firefighters arrived, it was too late. They found both of them—burned, fused together by the heat. But somehow, among the charred ruins... the tape recorder survived.”

Qiao Yu sat frozen, the image searing itself into his mind. “So her voice... it’s still on the tape?”

Tang Xuan nodded. “Yes. Her voice, and her child’s. We don’t know how, but the tape recorded their last moments. It’s just crying. Desperate, haunting crying. No background noise. No flames. Just their voices, as if they were trapped in that recording, begging to be heard.”

“But why is it still playing?” Qiao Yu asked. “Why now?”

Tang Xuan’s expression turned grave. “Because it’s more than just a recording. That device—it's cursed. Every time someone gets too close to that apartment, or listens to the tape, the crying starts again. Some people say they see shadows in the hallway. Others feel like someone’s watching them. She’s still here, Qiao Yu. That woman—her soul never left.”

The room felt like it had gotten colder. Qiao Yu hugged his arms around himself, the ghostly sobs echoing in his memory. This wasn’t an accident. This was something unfinished—something the dead couldn’t let go of.

“She loved her child too much,” Tang Xuan murmured. “She died trying to save him. And now, she can’t move on. The tape—her voice—is her last anchor to this world.”

“Is the tape recorder still down there?” Qiao Yu asked.

Tang Xuan looked down at the floor, then gave a slow nod. “Yes. It’s in the storage room, under lock and key. No one’s allowed in. But even locked away, it still... calls out.”

Qiao Yu leaned forward, his voice steady despite the dread boiling in his chest. “I need to hear it. I need to understand.”

Tang Xuan looked up sharply. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for. Once you listen to that tape, once you open yourself to it—there’s no turning back. You might start seeing her. Hearing her. Feeling what she felt.”

“I’m not afraid,” Qiao Yu said, though the tremble in his voice betrayed him. “If she’s calling out, then someone has to listen.”

Tang Xuan studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he stood and walked to a cabinet. He pulled out a small, tarnished key and held it in his palm.

“You go down there, you go alone,” he said grimly. “I won’t follow. And if you hear her voice... don’t answer.”

Qiao Yu took the key with a shaking hand. He knew this was more than an investigation now. It was a descent into someone else’s pain—someone who had lost everything and was still crying for help from beyond the grave.

The door to the past had opened. And there was no telling what would come through once he stepped inside.