Chapter 103: Something Terrible Has Happened!

When Zhu Zihao mentioned that this invincible sea-view mansion was haunted, I almost spat out my drink with laughter. I pointed at Cha Wenbin and said, "Then it’s a coincidence, because this man here specializes in catching ghosts."

"A master?" He hurried over to Cha Wenbin, looked him up and down, then pinched his chin and leaned over to me, whispering, "He doesn't look like one."

I chuckled, "We don’t call them 'masters' where we’re from; you should call him 'Daoist Master'."

"Are you really a Daoist Master?" He still couldn't believe that someone of his own age could be a legendary exorcist. In Hong Kong, those with knowledge of Feng Shui were highly sought after. Although this place had been a British colony for a century, ancient Chinese customs remained deeply rooted. People here valued tradition, and most households kept altars to deities. Places like the Wong Tai Sin Temple, for instance, were said to be unfailingly responsive, with a level of incense burning that mainland temples could hardly match.

Cha Wenbin nodded politely at Zhu Zihao and asked, "May I come in and have a look?"

It wasn't until we were inside and Cha Wenbin pulled out a compass that the skeptical look in Zhu Zihao’s eyes finally calmed. He whispered to me, "How good is this great immortal—I mean, this Daoist Master?"

"See for yourself," I said, nudging him intentionally. "Since we’re friends, just give him a nice red envelope when it’s over."

"Of course, of course, that’s a must. Hiring a Feng Shui master in Hong Kong costs tens of thousands, but I’m a bit short on cash right now." Seeing his distressed expression, I said casually, "Just pack up twenty or thirty thousand; that’ll suffice."

Zhu Zihao gritted his teeth and said, "As long as he can fix it, thirty thousand it is!"

I felt a surge of secret joy. If I had known, I would have brought him to Hong Kong sooner; this was way better than selling scrap. I was planning to let Cha Wenbin just fudge his way through it, but after Cha Wenbin lowered his head and circled the living room, his expression turned somber.

Sitting in the garden, the three of us gathered, and Cha Wenbin started, "Who built this house? Who was the first owner?"

"My grandfather was with the Kuomintang. Legend has it he bought it from a British designer when he first arrived here, about sixty or seventy years ago. My father was born in this very house. Strictly speaking, my grandfather was the first occupant. So, Daoist Master, is this house haunted?"

Cha Wenbin asked, "What makes you think this house is haunted?"

"It’s been a long time," Zhu Zihao continued. "It was haunted even when I was a kid. My old man said that whenever I came here, I would cry; I was only three or four then, so I don't remember much. They supposedly hired a master back then, but he just said I wasn't suited to live here and suggested moving out. Later, my father took me and my mother to Causeway Bay."

"You call that haunting? You’re being a bit too..."

"Please continue," Cha Wenbin interrupted me, signaling for Zhu Zihao to go on.

"My grandfather had four concubines, all of whom were married into this house, but none of them left behind any descendants." Seeing my strange look, Zhu Zihao quickly added, "It wasn't that he was incapable; the children just died shortly after birth. They say over ten infants died in total. My father was his only son, but he wasn't born here. And the concubines? They all ended up dying in this house, too—and they all hanged themselves in the same room. That room is still boarded up with iron sheets to this day; no one is allowed inside."

"Which one?" Cha Wenbin asked.

Zhu Zihao stood up and pointed, "The one on the far west side of the third floor."

I looked up. One of the windows on the west side was covered with thick layers of paper, and the eaves were covered in creeping ivy. A massive pomelo tree stood to the west, its branches obscuring half of the wall. After what Zhu Zihao said, I actually started to feel it—it really did fit the atmosphere.

"The west wing hanging room? Brother Zihao, you’re telling me a story from the 'Strange Tales of a Chinese Studio' now."

"Young Master Xia, because of the rumors, several groups of buyers have walked away. A while back, I was negotiating with a wealthy businessman from Singapore. We settled on thirty million Hong Kong dollars, and he even paid a deposit. But after he spent one night here, he fled the next day without even asking for his deposit back. Now, the rumors have spread; it’s known as a 'murder house,' and even at thirty percent of the market price, no one dares to touch it. I came here myself to stay for a few days to squash the rumors, and since you were coming anyway, having more people around makes me feel a bit bolder..."

When I heard that, I realized what was going on. So that was why he was being so polite. I grabbed Cha Wenbin and turned to leave. "Come on, Wenbin, let’s go to a hotel. I’ll take you to overlook Victoria Harbour instead, away from this grandson-of-a-turtle."

Zhu Zihao scrambled to stop me. "Hey, hey, Young Master Xia, didn't you say he was an expert..."

I held up one hand. "Fifty thousand!" Seeing him hesitate, I kept walking. "Forget it, let’s just stay at the hotel."

Zhu Zihao stomped his foot and gritted his teeth. "Fine, fine! Fifty thousand it is! But it’s agreed: you must guarantee it’s sorted out!"

I glanced at Cha Wenbin, whose mind seemed completely detached from our conversation. I told Zhu Zihao, "Don't worry, leave it to us."

The villa was in a classic Republic-era style, painted entirely white. Inside was a grand hall with pale yellow marble floors. The furnishings were exquisite, with various wood carvings and strange stones arranged in a well-balanced layout. To the east was the dining room, with a small door leading to the kitchen.

On the west side were two rooms, reportedly once for the servants. At the very back, a spiral staircase led directly to the second floor, with ceilings over four meters high—a true hallmark of a wealthy family. The furniture inside was all made of rosewood, and the chandelier above sparkled as if embedded with diamonds. One could tell the owner had truly poured his heart into this place.

Cha Wenbin said, "May I go upstairs to have a look?"

"Of course, this way." Zhu Zihao led the way. On the corner of the second floor, several old portraits hung on the wall—women of considerable beauty. Zhu Zihao explained these were his grandfather's concubines. The last photo, however, showed a woman wearing a veil; he said that was his grandmother.

"My grandmother passed away less than a year after my father was born. After that, no one was ever allowed to stay in her room. See? That one there." Zhu Zihao pointed to the room on the east side of the second floor facing the sun. A rosewood door with brass trim remained tightly shut. Judging by the layout, this was indeed the finest room in the house.

"They say my grandmother was exceptionally beautiful when she was young, and that beauty was passed down to me." Zhu Zihao began to boast after only a few words. To be fair, he was quite handsome—what people would call a "mixed-race" look today, especially with his deep-set eyes and sharp bridge of the nose. I had always suspected he wasn't purely Chinese.

"I noticed her photo was veiled. Why?"

"I don't know. That’s the only photo of her. I have no idea what she looked like; I’m just repeating what my grandfather said." Zhu Zihao tugged at the door handle. "It won't open. It hasn't been opened for as long as I can remember. I’ll probably have to replace the door once a buyer comes."

"That’s simple." I had learned lock-picking from Fatty, and this kind of antique lock only had one core. Even I could handle it. I found a steel wire and tinkered with it for a moment. With a "click," the lock turned. This feat earned me endless praise from Zhu Zihao, who kept asking if I had a history in the underworld.

The moment I opened the door, a wave of moldy air hit me. It was clear no one had entered or aired the place out in decades; it was no different from an old, buried grave.

"Creak." I took a step inside, and the floorboard snapped in two. The ceiling had long since collapsed, and the room was in total disarray, covered in cobwebs. Yet, I could vaguely make out a bed, a vanity, a bookshelf, and a few chairs—a simple setup.

Zhu Zihao covered his nose and urged me, "Let’s go, let’s go. There’s nothing to see here; the haunting isn't in this room."

I turned to leave but caught a glimpse of a picture frame by the bookshelf. Although it was covered in a thick layer of dust, it looked strangely familiar, triggering an impulse in me to go over and take a look.

"Wait, I want to go in for a second. Any objections?"

Zhu Zihao said indifferently, "Suit yourself. I’m just worried about getting your clothes dirty."

I carefully navigated through the debris of the collapsed ceiling. For some reason, I felt as if something in this room was guiding me. I couldn't put it into words, but the feeling was incredibly vivid.

As I wiped the dust off the glass cover, my hands shook, and my heart raced. Unable to suppress my excitement, I shouted, "Cha Wenbin! Something’s happened—something big!"

Cha Wenbin was measuring the second-floor living room, but he rushed in immediately upon hearing me. When he saw what was under the glass case, I am certain his expression was exactly like mine.

It wasn't a photograph—it was a painting!