In the darkness, Song Ciwan's heart skipped a beat.
She was overcome by a horrifying sensation, as if she were enveloped in thick, viscous mud. Although her eyes could move, her ears could hear, and her mind was working, her limbs were stiff and heavy, impossible to move for the moment.
All she could hear were several sets of footsteps outside—soft, ghostly, and drawing closer.
The night wind blew through the village. In the darkness, it seemed as if there were countless pairs of eyes, countless voices—whispering, screaming, rolling, and howling.
But it all seemed so distant, as if separated by layer upon layer of gauze curtains and thick drapes.
Song Ciwan could only hear her own heartbeat growing more and more frantic. THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
The footsteps outside crossed the threshold, and a faint, acrid stench wafted in.
