Chapter 10: Biting the Tongue

Listening to He Qing speak to the empty air, Yan Yu couldn’t help but feel a surge of shock. It seemed this He Qing might know the truth behind Zhao Qingqing’s suicide.

Just then, a sinister wind swept through, chilling the equipment room. The yellowed bulb flickered, its light trembling and uncertain.

“The presence… Zhao Qingqing is here.” Yan Yu’s expression grew grave.

The seventh day after Zhao Qingqing’s death had just passed; she had become a vengeful spirit, able to exist apart from her comb. Even though Yan Yu had wounded her badly with blood from his tongue yesterday, she now appeared stronger than before.

He Qing, who had been kneeling and apologizing, suddenly stared straight ahead, terror flooding his eyes. He shuddered violently, as if cold water had poured over him from head to toe.

“A ghost—!”

He Qing screamed in panic, crawling frantically to the corner of the room, huddling there. The corner was a blind spot from Yan Yu’s vantage point at the window; he couldn’t see what was happening to He Qing. But he knew—Zhao Qingqing had appeared.

Even now, Yan Yu lacked the innate ability to see spirits; he couldn’t see Zhao Qingqing directly. Yesterday, he had only seen her because she revealed herself, deliberately trying to frighten him. Now, with Zhao Qingqing unwilling to let Yan Yu see her, his vision was blank. He could only hear He Qing’s unending screams inside the equipment room, unable to glimpse even a shadow of Zhao Qingqing.

“Damn it!” Yan Yu’s expression changed; he hurried to the door, ramming it with his shoulder, only to find He Qing had locked it tight.

“Damn it, knowing Zhao Qingqing has become a vengeful ghost, and still locking the door—does he want to die?!” Yan Yu couldn’t help but curse.

The screams from inside grew shriller, yet weaker. Unable to break the door open, Yan Yu shouted toward the room, “Zhao Qingqing, think carefully—if you kill He Qing, you’ll lose your chance at reincarnation. Even if you enter the underworld, you’ll be sent to hell for punishment!”

As his words fell, the screams inside suddenly ceased. The sense of oppressive gloom shrouding Yan Yu dissipated.

Yan Yu kicked the door open. It swung wide, and he rushed inside, finding He Qing collapsed in the corner, his hands locked tightly around his own throat.

His eyes bulged, bloodshot and nearly bursting from their sockets; his tongue stretched unnaturally long, like that of a dead dog; his fingers dug deep into the flesh of his neck. Had Yan Yu arrived a moment later, He Qing might have suffocated himself.

“He Qing!”

Yan Yu hurried forward, prying He Qing’s hands loose. He Qing managed to gasp for breath, his chest heaving like a bellows, breathing heavy as an ox.

“Zhao Qingqing… Zhao Qingqing…” He Qing shuddered again, repeating her name over and over.

“Calm down,” Yan Yu gripped He Qing’s shoulders, forcing him to steady himself. “Why did Zhao Qingqing come for you? What did she say?”

He Qing suddenly smiled—a chilling, unnatural smile. He bared his teeth and said, “Zhao Qingqing told me, if I won’t use this mouth… then I’ll never speak again.”

“What do you mean?” Yan Yu began, but He Qing clenched his teeth hard. Blood sprayed from his mouth and, with a sickening sound, a warm tongue fell to the floor.

He Qing had bitten off his own tongue.

A cold wind swept through, as if someone was departing from the equipment room. Yan Yu turned, catching only a vague shadow.

Zhao Qingqing was gone.

Blood filled He Qing’s mouth; after severing his tongue, he passed out.

“Damn.”

Yan Yu felt frustrated at the bloody scene, never expecting Zhao Qingqing to come seeking vengeance so soon after the seventh day.

Her purpose was clear: He Qing knew something, but refused to speak. So Zhao Qingqing forced him to bite off his tongue, condemning him to a lifetime of silence.

Yan Yu took out his old mobile phone, pondered for a moment, and dialed Master Cao.

“Hey, Master, you remembered me so soon?” Master Cao’s delighted voice came through.

“Call an ambulance for me—send it to the sports equipment room at Rongcheng No. 1 High School. Someone just bit off their tongue.”

“What? Why don’t you—”

“Enough talk.” Yan Yu hung up, not giving Master Cao a chance to ramble.

He had just arrived in Rongcheng and didn’t want to get entangled in too much trouble. If he called the emergency number himself, he’d surely be questioned later.

He Qing’s condition wasn’t life-threatening. Yan Yu tidied up the room, then left quietly, as if he’d never been there.

Yet his brow remained deeply furrowed.

He had only suspected Zhao Qingqing’s death was strange, but never imagined her resentment ran so deep—ghosts with intense grudges grow stronger after the seventh day.

Lesser ghosts, after the seventh day, might only cloud people’s minds, making them see frightening visions.

More dangerous ones, like Zhao Qingqing, could directly control a person’s thoughts—a terrifying power.

The most resentful spirits not only possess inexplicable abilities, but lose all reason, embarking on slaughter. Without intervention from someone skilled, disaster was inevitable.

“If Zhao Qingqing killed herself, her resentment shouldn’t be so strong—unless… something happened after her death.”

The only one who could resolve Yan Yu’s doubts was He Qing, but with He Qing incapacitated, Yan Yu couldn’t ask for answers, so he had to seek clues elsewhere.

He returned to the classroom. Soon after, as the bell rang for class, the sound of an ambulance echoed from outside. Many students craned their necks in curiosity until their homeroom teacher, Su Han, entered.

“Stop looking. A student got hurt during break, that’s all,” Su Han quickly dispelled their curiosity.

For the next two periods, Su Han handed out English test papers—one period for working, one for reviewing.

Yan Yu had no interest in the tests and couldn’t sleep. He gazed absently skyward, pondering Zhao Qingqing’s mystery.

Suddenly, he looked at his desk mate, Yang Xuefei.

Yang Xuefei had participated in yesterday’s events; she surely knew something about Zhao Qingqing. The information from her would surely differ from what Zhou Xiaowan had told him.

He gathered his thoughts and scribbled a note on the scrap paper: “Feifei, do you know Zhao Qingqing?”

He passed the note to Yang Xuefei.

She glanced at it, quietly crumpled it, and tossed it into the wastebasket beside her desk.

Yan Yu’s mouth twitched—did she really have to be so blunt?