Do you believe some things follow you for your entire life?
Not ghosts. Not vengeful spirits. Not something you can see or touch. It's something you know is there, but you can never explain it to anyone.
Like an invisible thread around your neck.
Every night at two o'clock in the morning, it tightens.
It doesn't hurt. It doesn't choke. It doesn't suffocate you. It just lets you feel it clearly—something is pulling you from behind.
It has pulled me for twenty years.
It took me twenty years to finally look back.
---
I was driving back to my hometown that night.
The navigation address was sent by my mom. I froze for a second when I typed it in. The village was called Xiliuying on the map, but when I was little, it was named Xiliufen—Willow Grave. They changed it later because the name sounded unlucky. It made no difference. The willows were still there. The graveyard was still there. Only the mounds had been flattened and planted with wheat.
I drove four hours on the highway, then another hour on the national road. By the time I turned onto the village road, it was completely dark.
There were no streetlights.
Wheat fields stretched on both sides. The winter crop had been harvested, leaving bare, empty ground that made people uneasy. My high beams cut through the dark, casting a pale white light. The cracks, stones, and dry mud on the road were all clearly visible, like a magnified old man's face.
Navigation: Three hundred meters ahead, please slow down.
I touched my neck unconsciously.
The thread was still there.
I couldn't feel it with my hand, but it was there. I could sense it starting half an inch below my Adam's apple, slanting diagonally toward the back left, disappearing into my neck. About two millimeters wide, like a thin string embedded in my skin. But the surface was smooth—no bump, no dent, no mark at all.
Only the feeling remained.
Every night at two a.m., it tightened. Like someone slowly pulling a rope from behind. Tug. Pause. Tug. Pause. It didn't hurt, but the sensation made every hair on my body stand on end. I knew it wasn't my own muscles twitching. Something else was moving.
It wasn't two yet, but it was already tight.
Tighter than usual.
Navigation: One hundred meters ahead.
I hit the brakes.
The car slowed. The high beams swept forward, and the shadows of two old locust trees at the end of the road emerged from the dark.
They were still there.
I stared at the trees, and my throat began to constrict. Not the thread—my actual throat. Something from my memories was squeezing me.
Twenty years ago, that same thread had been strung between those two trees.
I was ten years old. I had tied a thin nylon line, transparent and tight, at the height of an adult man's neck.
I waited a long time. It got dark. No one came.
Then footsteps approached.
But it wasn't an adult. It was a boy around my age.
He ran straight into it.
Not a scratch. A slice.
I can't remember the details. I only remember him falling. No crying. No screaming. Under the moonlight, the mark on his neck slowly turned red, then darker, as if someone had traced it with a red pen.
I tried to help him. I reached out, but he stopped moving.
His eyes were still open.
His mouth was still open.
But he wasn't breathing.
I turned and ran.
---
The car stopped in front of the two trees. Headlights shone on the trunks. The dead locust bark was cracked into pieces, like dead skin on an old man's hand. There was a shallow dent in the middle of each trunk—left by the nylon line twenty years ago. The trees were dead now, but the mark remained.
I stared at the dent. Something moved in the rearview mirror.
It wasn't my face.
I sat up straight, not daring to turn around. I watched through the mirror.
A boy was sitting in the back seat.
Around seven or eight years old, wearing an old blue jacket with a faded collar. His head tilted to one side. A deep, purple-black mark wrapped around his neck, like a centipede lying on his skin.
He smiled at me.
Not a creepy smile. Just a normal kid's smile—corners of the mouth lifted, eyes squinted. But paired with the mark, the time of two a.m., and the dead locust trees outside, it sent chills from my scalp to my soles.
He said: "Brother."
His voice was soft, as if coming from far away.
My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. I wanted to run, but the doors were locked. I pressed the unlock button twice. Nothing happened.
He said it again: "Brother."
I opened my mouth.
No sound came out.
He looked at me, head still tilted. The mark on his neck shifted with the folds of his skin. He raised a hand, touched the mark lightly with his fingertip, then lowered it. As if he wanted to ask something, but couldn't.
The rearview mirror was empty. The dashboard clock flipped to 1:59.
I turned to look at the back seat. Nothing. Only a layer of dust from the village road. No sign anyone had been sitting there.
The thread around my neck suddenly tightened.
So tight it felt like it would snap.
I touched my neck. Smooth skin. No mark. But the pulling sensation was clearer than it had been in twenty years.
Wind blew through the dead trees outside. Branches rubbed against each other, creaking, like someone crying… or laughing.
I started the car and kept driving.
Navigation: Five hundred meters ahead, you will reach your destination.
This time, I did not look back.
---
It all started twenty years ago.
My hometown was Xiliufen—or Xiliuying, as they called it later. A small village, about thirty households, lined along a dirt road. To the east was a small locust grove; you could walk through it in three minutes. Beyond the woods was a dry ditch, and beyond that, farmland.
The woods were our playground.
We caught cicadas in summer, burned fallen leaves in autumn, stepped on snow in winter. But most of all, we played pranks.
Around that time, I became obsessed with trip lines.
I don't know if you played this as a kid. Tie a thin string between two trees, at ankle height or neck height. Someone passes by, gets tripped or scratched, jumps in fright, and can't figure out why. We hid nearby and laughed.
I was the worst at it.
Others used wool. I used nylon. Others tied it at the ankle. I tied it at the neck. Others picked thin gaps. I picked rough bark so the line would stay tight.
My dad kept having a red mark on the back of his neck. He'd grumble during dinner, saying some bastard had strung a line across the road. I felt proud, but didn't show it.
It was late autumn, around the end of October. The weather was cold, and it got dark early.
I didn't go home after school. I hid my schoolbag behind a haystack, then pulled a spool of nylon line from my pocket. I'd stolen it from my dad's toolbox—transparent, used for fishing nets, very strong.
I ran into the locust grove and chose two trees.
The same two old locust trees at the end of the road. They were the thickest in the woods, about three meters apart, just wide enough for one person to pass. I wrapped the line three times around the left tree, pulled it tight, walked to the right tree, stretched it straight, wrapped it three times, and tied a dead knot.
I adjusted the height.
At first, I tied it at an adult's neck level. But after crouching and thinking, I moved it up two fingers. When people get hit on the neck, they flinch and shrink down. I wanted the line to catch them right after they ducked.
At ten years old, I thought I was brilliant.
The line was set. Transparent, almost invisible unless you looked closely. I stepped back, squatted behind the haystack, and waited. While waiting, I felt strangely that the person I was waiting for would be short. The height of the line seemed already measured for a child. I pushed the thought away. I didn't dare think too hard.
I waited a long time.
The sky dimmed. Shadows of the locust trees stretched from east to west, long and black like snakes on the ground. Birds began to call in the woods—night birds, sharp, one after another, like weeping.
I started to panic.
Not from fear. My mom would be calling me for dinner soon. I hesitated to take the line down and go home, but I'd waited so long. If no one came, it would all be for nothing.
Just a little longer.
It became completely dark.
The moon rose, pale and dim, shining over the grove. Shadows blurred on the ground. My legs went numb from squatting. I shifted position.
That was when I heard footsteps in the distance.
Light, fast, pattering on the dirt road. Not the sound of an adult's heavy steps. Crisp, like someone running.
I ducked lower, only my eyes peeking out.
The footsteps grew closer.
I saw a figure running toward me, head down, face hidden. But I could tell he was shorter than me… no, about my height.
A kid.
I wanted to shout for him to stop.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. For some reason, my throat was squeezed shut. I tried to yell, but only air came out.
He hit the line.
No sound.
Not a single noise. The line snapped—not a loud pop, but a dull thud, like snapping a rubber band. He leaned backward, then fell straight down, like a chopped log.
The back of his head hit the ground. A deep, hollow thud. I've remembered that sound for twenty years.
I ran out from behind the haystack.
He lay on the ground, eyes open, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Moonlight fell on his face. I recognized him.
The youngest son of the Liu family.
His name was Liu Yang. One year younger than me, second grade. We didn't play much. He was quiet, kept to himself, head down when passing people. I only knew he lived on the west side of the village, and his father owned a small shop in town.
There was a line on his neck.
No, it wasn't a line. It was a gash. The nylon string had sliced into his flesh. Blood slowly seeped out, turning from bright red to deep red to purple-black, as if someone had painted a stroke across his throat.
I tried to help him.
I reached out. Then he stopped moving.
His mouth closed. His eyes were still open, but the light was gone. One second he was looking at you. The next, he wasn't seeing anything.
I knelt there, hand frozen in mid-air. I don't know how long.
Then I stood up and ran.
I left my schoolbag. Left the nylon line. Left everything. I ran out of the woods, onto the dirt road, back home. My mom asked why I was so late. I said I was doing homework at school. She didn't ask further.
I couldn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Liu Yang lying there, eyes open, mouth open, the mark on his neck turning red.
I got up and looked in the mirror.
Nothing on my neck. Smooth. Clean.
But I knew something was there.
Not a cut. Not a scar. A feeling. Like someone had traced a red-hot wire over my skin, not quite touching, but the spot burned with sensation.
From that day on, the thread was around my neck.
---
The village exploded the next day.
Liu Yang's mother cried for the entire day. Everyone in the village could hear her. It wasn't the fake crying on TV. It was raw, heart-wrenching wailing, until her voice went hoarse, then kept going, like an injured animal.
My dad came home and asked if I knew anything.
I said no.
He said Liu Yang was dead in the locust grove. A cut on his neck, like he'd been strangled. Police came, checked the scene, found no rope, no line. Only marks on two trees, as if something had been stretched between them.
I said I didn't know.
My mom glanced at me. Said nothing.
The police left. The conclusion was an accident. Maybe he'd been scratched by a branch while running. Maybe he fell and hit something. No line was found. No one was blamed.
The Liu family moved away.
His mother couldn't stand it. She cried at every tree in the village. His father closed the shop, and the whole family moved to town.
I thought it was over.
But the thread wasn't.
On the first night, at two a.m., I woke up to the feeling around my neck. Not pain. Pressure. Like someone pressing a finger to my throat. I touched it. Nothing.
The second night. The third. Every night, same time.
Sharp as an alarm clock.
I told my mom my neck felt uncomfortable. She looked. Said it looked fine. I held it under the light. She checked again and again. Said I probably had heat rash.
I said no.
She said it was just rash. She put powder on me.
It didn't help. At two a.m., it still tightened.
I stopped telling her. It was useless. She couldn't see it.
I tried everything.
Pillows higher. Sleeping on my stomach. Hiding under the covers. Sleeping with the light on. Nothing worked. The thread tightened when it wanted to, no matter where I was or what I did.
At ten years old, I didn't understand what it meant. I was just scared. Waking up alone at two a.m., touching my neck in the dark, feeling nothing but knowing everything was there.
I grew up. Moved to the county. Went to high school. University. Worked in the city. I thought the farther I ran from the village, the looser the thread would become.
It didn't.
Distance meant nothing.
In the city, two a.m., it still tightened. In hotel rooms during business trips. In hotels abroad.
I tried drinking until I passed out. Still woke up at two. I tried sleeping pills. Still felt my body react. My brow furrowed in my sleep. My hand automatically clawed at my neck.
Once, I got drunk and woke up in the middle of the night with my nails digging into my neck, drawing blood.
Blood ran down my skin. But no wound at the thread's position. Clean. Not a single drop touched it.
I sat on the floor and cried for a long time.
Not fear. Despair.
You don't know what it's like. An invisible thread on your body. Not part of you, but you can't get rid of it. It reminds you every day. Reminds you of that night. Reminds you of that boy. You can't run. Can't hide. Can't prove it exists to anyone.
Because you can't touch it.
You can feel it. But you can't touch it.
Like feeling someone watching you, but tearing the whole house apart and finding nothing.
---
I went back to the locust grove once.
I was twenty-two, just graduated, unemployed, lost. I thought maybe if I returned and cut the line, it would end.
The woods had changed a lot.
Most trees were cut down for firewood. The few remaining were dying, yellow leaves, mushrooms growing on trunks. The two old locust trees were still there—but dead. Bark fallen off, pale gray, like two bones sticking out of the ground.
I stepped closer. The dent in the trunk was still there.
Twenty years. Trees dead. Mark still there. Like a scar carved into bone.
I took out scissors and cut between the trees.
Nothing.
The air split and closed. Nothing happened.
I tried again, at the exact height of the old mark, cutting from left to right. The blades met only air. No resistance. No sound. No feeling of a line breaking.
I stood there, holding scissors.
Then I knelt between the trees and cried.
As I cried, I touched the thread. It was still there, tight, pulling. But no matter how I cut, pulled, or tore, it remained.
Cutting empty air, I finally understood.
The thread had long grown into my heart.
It wasn't on the trees. Not on my neck. It was somewhere I couldn't reach, but it told me every day it was there.
---
I lived badly during that time.
No job. Lying in my rental room all day, not going out, not seeing people. Waking up at two a.m. to the thread, lying awake until dawn. Then lying again until dark.
My mom called and asked how I was. I said fine, found a job. She said good, don't tire yourself.
I hung up and cried again.
Not sadness. I knew I deserved it.
I didn't call the police. Didn't shout for help. Did nothing. I ran.
Ran for twenty years, from Xiliufen to the county to the city to overseas. Everywhere I went, that thread was tied around my neck. It wasn't Liu Yang pulling me. I was pulling myself.
Later, someone introduced me to a master.
Not some online fraud. An old man from a friend's hometown, who handled these things—sleep paralysis, midnight crying, whatever. People said he fixed it.
I didn't believe in it. But the thread left me no choice.
Master Chen looked at me for a while.
"This is not a ghost," he said. "This is an obsession."
He paused.
"He's been thinking for twenty years," he said. "Wondering if it was his own fault."
I left his place and sat in my car for a long time.
Twenty years. I'd been hiding. Running. Lying to myself that it was an accident, that I didn't know, that I didn't tie the line.
But Liu Yang? He never even got the chance to lie to himself.
He died. Then spent twenty years wondering one thing: How did I die?
I started the car and drove back to my hometown.
---
When navigation announced I'd arrived, I parked in front of my uncle's house.
The village hadn't changed much. Dirt road paved, but the houses were the same, just older. My uncle came out, said I'd lost weight, asked if I'd eaten.
I said yes.
I hadn't. But I didn't want to.
I sat at his place, listening to village gossip. Who died. Who had a stroke. Whose son made money. I nodded, listened, replied occasionally.
Then I said I was going for a walk.
Uncle said it was too late at night. Go tomorrow. I said I'd just walk to the village entrance, get some air.
I walked back to the two locust trees.
The car was still there, headlights on, shining on the trunks. I stood beside it, staring at the trees. Wind blew from the wheat fields, cold and dry, stinging my ears.
I touched my neck.
The thread was there.
Still tight.
I leaned against the car door and lit a cigarette. Halfway through, ash fell and blew away. I thought about what Master Chen said. About Liu Yang appearing in the mirror.
He called me brother.
He wanted to ask something, but didn't.
I finished the cigarette and lit another.
Halfway through the second, I heard footsteps behind me.
Light. Fast. Pattering. Like someone running.
I didn't turn around.
Footsteps grew closer. Stopped two steps behind me.
Then the voice, soft, distant.
"Brother."
I turned around.
Nothing.
Moonlight shone on the paved road. Empty. Not even a shadow. Wind blew through the dead trees, creaking again.
But the thread around my neck suddenly tightened.
So hard I could barely breathe.
I looked up at the trees. The dent in the trunk glowed pale in the moonlight, like an opened eye. I stepped forward. One step. Another. Stood exactly between them.
The wind stopped.
The crickets went silent.
The world went completely still. I heard only my heartbeat: thump, thump, pounding in my ears.
Then I heard another heartbeat.
Faint. Slow. Coming from underground.
I looked down.
A shadow on the ground.
Not mine. Mine stretched long under the headlights. This one was small, round, standing half a step behind me. The outline of a little jacket with a faded collar.
I didn't turn around.
I knew who it was.
I spoke, my voice rough, not my own.
"Liu Yang."
The shadow didn't move.
"I tied the line," I said.
As the words left my mouth, the thread loosened.
Not gone. Just… released. For the first time in twenty years, the tension eased, like a stretched rubber band snapping quietly.
The shadow moved.
It stepped beside me. In the moonlight, I saw the small shadow raise a hand and touch its own neck.
Then the voice, right next to my ear.
"I know."
Not accusation. Not anger. Just a soft, quiet statement.
"I just couldn't understand," he said. "I was running too fast. I didn't look. I kept thinking… maybe it was my fault."
I said: "It wasn't your fault."
"I tied the line," I said. "I moved it up two fingers. I squatted behind the haystack and watched you run. I didn't call out. I ran for twenty years and never told anyone."
With every sentence, the thread loosened more.
By the last sentence, it was gone completely.
The feeling was strange. Not vanishing. Unbinding. A string stretched for twenty years finally letting go, silently, without echo. Only emptiness where the pressure had been. So light I almost stumbled.
I touched my neck.
Smooth skin. No feeling.
For the first time in twenty years, I couldn't feel the thread.
The shadow on the ground slowly faded, faded, until it disappeared into the moonlight.
Wind blew through the dead locust trees again. Creaking. Crickets started chirping from the wheat fields.
I stood there for a long time.
Eventually I looked up. The moon had moved west. I took out my phone. Screen lit up.
Time: 2:00 a.m.
The thread was loose.
I didn't have to run anymore.
I walked back to the car, started the engine, turned around, and drove onto the village road. High beams cut forward, lighting the way.
This time, I didn't look back.
The rearview mirror showed nothing.
Only an empty road. Two distant dead trees.
And a night where I would no longer wake up at two o'clock in the morning.
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