Peephole

Tong Nian returned to Shanghai with his fiancée, Yu'er, and moved into the Tong family’s old mansion—“The Black House”—which had stood vacant for many years. From the very first day they moved in, Yu’er felt a sense of dread creeping over her. Every door in the old house had a peephole installed backward, and a mysterious white cat roamed the premises like a ghost. From then on, Tong Nian’s personality became strange and terrifying; it was as if a demon had taken root within him…

Prologue Yake Safi woke at five in the morning, his jaw trembling slightly; he could almost hear his teeth chattering. As if he had just been rescued from drowning, he took several greedy, deep breaths, letting the cold dawn air fill his lungs. He opened his eyes slightly and saw that the window was inexplicably open. A gust of wind hit him squarely in the neck, and he suddenly felt as if someone were choking him. Yake remembered clearly that he had locked the window before falling asleep. He reached out with a slightly trembling hand and closed it again. Outside, the pale purple sky was gradually brightening; the night was drawing to a close, and the morning light would soon blanket the land of City S. Yake smoothed his disheveled, damp hair and found his forehead covered in beads of sweat. That damned dream—Yake replayed the nightmare he’d just experienced in his mind. For the past ten days or so, at this very hour, the same dream had been visiting his soul, tormenting him, consuming him. The Chinese man in the dream, wearing a strange smile, stared at Yake, extended his abnormally pale hand, and slowly pointed his index finger at Yake’s eyeball… Yake jerked his hands up to shield his eyes, no longer daring to recall that terrifying vision. Yet today, Yake still had to go see his Chinese friend, for this man was to be executed early this morning. In an instant, the image of that black house flashed before Yake’s eyes once more. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, so he immediately jumped out of bed, put on his Concession police uniform, and walked out the door. It was the streets of the French Concession in City S in 1936. The sky was just beginning to lighten. Yake shivered; the sound of his cold footsteps echoed along the deserted road, heard only by the leaves of the plane trees lining both sides, which sensed what lay hidden within his footsteps. Suddenly, a light drizzle began to fall from the sky, and Yake quickened his pace. At six o’clock in the morning, Officer Yake Safi entered the French Concession prison. Passing through a long, gloomy underground corridor, he arrived at a small room. Inside were several Chinese and French men, all wearing uniforms, their expressions stern and serious. “Has he woken up?” Yake asked his Chinese colleague. “Yes, he’s awake. Everything is normal. Shall we bring him out now?” Yake paused for a moment, then nodded slightly. A few minutes later, the people in the room heard the clinking of shackles. They all felt a bit tense, especially Yake. The door opened, and the jarring sound of metal clanging filled the air. Finally, Yake saw him again. The man appeared unusually calm, dressed in spotless, immaculate clothes; only the handcuffs and shackles served as a reminder that he was a death row inmate. Yake looked at his face with great reluctance. Suddenly, the man gave Yake a faint smile. Yake instinctively took a step back, but immediately realized this gesture had made him look foolish in front of his colleagues. It was Yake who had personally sent this man to prison, a feat that had made him the most famous inspector in the Concession. It was the condemned man who spoke first, however. Smiling, he greeted Yake in fluent French: “Yake, good morning.” Yake lowered his head, avoiding the man’s familiar gaze, and remained silent. “Is it today?” The condemned man seemed unusually composed. Yake hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded. The man continued, “I know—it’s today. Yake, is it raining outside?” His voice was soft, as if he were chatting about everyday matters. Yake couldn’t stand that tone. He cleared his throat and said in a stern, official tone, “Would you like something to eat?” A colleague placed a platter of sumptuous food in front of the death row inmate. The inmate nodded and said, “My last breakfast?” Then, raising his handcuffed hands, he asked, “Could you unlock them for me?” Yake hesitated for a moment, then carefully unlocked the handcuffs. The condemned man flexed his wrists and whispered, “Thank you.” Then he sat down in a chair and began to leisurely enjoy the meal. After finishing, he said calmly, “I’m full, thank you.” Another door opened, and several uniformed men surrounded the condemned man, leading him to the execution chamber. It was a sealed room; the cold walls seemed etched with some strange markings. Every time Yake entered this room to watch his prisoners’ executions, he would catch a peculiar scent—one left behind by the dead. Was it fear, or perhaps joy? In the center of the room stood a small gallows. The rope and noose were already secured, hanging from the crossbeam like a coiled snake ready to strike at any moment. No one urged him on; the condemned man walked up to the gallows of his own accord. He did not ask for a blindfold, but looked silently at everyone in the room. Then, he slipped the noose over his own neck. He said slowly to Yake, “We can begin.” Yake replied, “It is both the beginning and the end.” The condemned man, his neck already in the noose, seemed to correct him: “No, it is both the end and the beginning.” The word “beginning” was drawn out, its echo lingering for a long time. Yake didn’t have time to ponder the meaning of those words, but he still felt a chill run down his spine. At that moment, the trapdoor beneath the gallows opened. Yake suddenly felt sick; he rushed out of the room and pressed himself against the cold wall. Ten minutes later, his colleagues emerged from the execution chamber and told Yake that the man was dead. They asked if he wanted to go in and take a look at him. Yake shook his head; he never wanted to see that face again. At that very moment, a thought struck him: he had to leave this place, leave the city of S, go far away, and never return. For here lay the nightmares that terrified him—the man who had just breathed his last, and that black house. A month later, Yake Safi boarded the Princess Catherine, a passenger liner sailing from S to Marseille. After the Princess Catherine entered the Indian Ocean, someone saw a white man in his thirties leap into the sea in the dead of night, only to be swallowed up by the dark waves. When the ship docked at its destination, the Port of Marseille, among all the passengers, only one was missing: a former police officer from the French Concession in S City named Yake Safi.