Chapter 344: Bruce's Utter Disgrace
Second floor.
Allen pressed his ear to the guest bedroom door, eavesdropping on the sounds inside.
The ghosts all looked helplessly at the sneaky lunatic.
Overnight, he'd reached the lowest point of his afterlife—a devastating blow to his ghostly pride.
A once-feared earthbound spirit and a permanent resident of the haunted house had suffered utter humiliation the night before—his most disgraceful moment since becoming a ghost.
A radiant grin bloomed on Allen's face as he muttered, "Why do I feel like the poor cuckolded husband in one of those morality plays who comes home from work and catches his wife cheating?"
"..."
It was… an oddly specific analogy.
Clearly the perpetrator, and yet somehow he managed to portray himself as the victim.
At that moment, Allen took a step back, clearly about to kick the door down.
Of course, the ghosts were quite eager to witness the drama between Bruce and Moira.
After all, Moira's reputation wasn't exactly stellar—she often seduced the male tenants. Most of the other spirits preferred not to get involved with the complicated past of this ancient Greek woman.
Granted, she died in the prime of her life, around thirty, but as time passed, she now resembled a woman well into her seventies—yet still enjoyed meddling in others' families.
Bang!
The door was kicked open.
Before their eyes: Bruce and Moira tangled together on the bed. Upon hearing the door slam open, they hurriedly yanked the blanket up to cover their exposed bodies.
"You've got issues."
Bruce roared in fury, "I've put up with you long enough! Don't push me!"
Anyone would be livid if their intimate moment was interrupted like this.
Especially when you're in the middle of your proudest performance—sudden scares like that can cause… permanent side effects.
Allen spoke earnestly, "Luss, I don't want you making a mistake."
"I've told you a hundred times—don't call me Luss! I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne!" Bruce snapped, correcting him angrily.
"Got it, Luss."
Allen responded offhandedly, clearly unfazed. "I'm here to show you the truth."
Meanwhile, Moira clutched the blanket tightly and pressed close to Bruce's back.
But to Allen and the watching ghosts, the sight of a withered elderly woman cuddling up to a young man in his twenties was the very definition of moral collapse and human depravity.
Thankfully, Bruce couldn't see the crowd of spirits crammed into the guest room, watching like a live studio audience.
But what came next would likely be the most traumatic memory of his life.
"What truth?"
Bruce snapped, "You're insane! A complete lunatic! I don't believe a word out of your mouth!"
"Mhm…"
Allen answered calmly. He wasn't planning to waste any breath.
With a lift of his hand, a beam of white light burst from his fingers and enveloped Bruce.
Priest skill—Radiant Purification.
It could dispel any negative effect and grant immunity to debuffs for five minutes.
Bruce immediately felt a warm sensation wash over him. Glancing at himself and seeing no changes, he reached out to gently stroke Moira's hand to comfort her. "Don't be afraid. I'll protect you."
…Something wasn't right.
Moira's hand, which should have been smooth and supple, suddenly felt coarse and wrinkled.
He instinctively turned his head—and was confronted with a face full of sagging skin and white hair. Her cheeks had sunken from collagen loss, her eyes clouded like cataracts.
"Who the hell are you?"
Bruce froze, his brain short-circuiting.
"Bruce, it's me, Moira… You said you'd protect me for life," Moira replied in her usual pitiful, demure tone.
"..."
After several seconds of mental overload, Bruce finally came to his senses.
"Get the hell off me!"
He kicked his twilight lover off the bed.
His stomach churned violently as memories of their passionate kissing session flooded back. A wave of nausea overtook him.
Ugh…
He dry-heaved miserably.
Unfortunately, he hadn't eaten anything that morning—his stomach was empty, and all he managed to puke up was a bit of stomach acid.
At the same time, he looked up and saw the room full of ghosts staring at him with strange expressions.
Public humiliation.
A fate worse than death.
At that moment, Bruce felt completely exposed.
Bad news: he actually was completely exposed.
Good news: the ones who saw him weren't human.
"Luss, don't take it too hard. You didn't lose anything."
Allen consoled him, "Look on the bright side—most people get double the pleasure from more partners. You got triple the joy from triple the age."
"Aaaagh…"
With a wail, Bruce could no longer contain his emotions. He clutched his head and wept bitterly.
A seventy-year-old woman… older than his own grandmother.
"Poor kid's a little sensitive. Let's give him some privacy," Allen said as he ushered the ghosts out. He added a parting word to Moira, "Go comfort him like you would a grandson."
Waaaah…
Bruce sobbed even harder. He yanked the blanket over his entire body, trying to block out the reality that had just shattered him.
Back on the first floor.
Allen gathered the spirits.
There were still supernatural matters to resolve, but they hadn't done anything truly unforgivable—exterminating them would be a bit too extreme.
So Allen planned to get to the root of the haunted house problem.
"Who can tell me about the history of this house?"
Faced with Allen's question, the ghosts all looked at each other and nominated the reluctant Uncle Ban to speak.
Truth was, none of them really knew much.
All they had was a single clue: anyone who died inside this house would be trapped forever, unable to reincarnate.
"There's something wrong with the attic," said Violet bluntly. "We can't get in. It's like a mysterious force is keeping outsiders out. But living people can enter without issue. You'll have to explore it yourself."
"Alright, I'll check out the attic."
Allen rose to his feet and headed straight for it, the ghosts nervously trailing behind.
To be honest, they wanted release—not to be trapped here in endless repetition.
The attic, located on the third floor, was clearly long-abandoned; the stairs leading up to it were thick with dust.
Standing before the door, Allen turned to glance back at the crowd of ghosts crowding the stairs, all watching him anxiously.
"Come a little closer. I feel safer with you guys at the door."
The ghosts all shook their heads firmly. They'd already died once—no way they were risking it again.
Even if the tiger's up the mountain—they were definitely not climbing it.
"I'm the male lead of this book! I'm not even afraid of the idiot author, let alone some NPCs."
Resolutely, Allen turned the doorknob and strolled into the attic.
BANG!
Suddenly, the door slammed shut.
The ghosts downstairs all jumped—like their hearts had just been pounded with a sledgehammer.
"Spooked you, didn't I?"
The door reopened slightly, and Allen popped his head out, grinning. "Just trying to lighten the mood."
"..."
Clearly, their fears were misplaced.
They should've been more worried about what was inside the attic.
The door shut once more. The ghosts waited patiently outside.
Click.
Allen flicked the light switch beside the door.
A dim energy-saving bulb cast a gloomy glow across the room, making the atmosphere feel even heavier.
All around, the room was crammed with old furniture and household items—clearly used for storage.
"Ohayo…"
Allen muttered to himself, "I'm a soft, squishy, sweet-and-savory boy juice~ Is there any spooky monster who wants to bully me?"
No response, naturally.
Rubbing his chin, Allen pondered aloud, "Maybe my aura's just too strong—it's scaring off the ghouls."
"Step one of Allen-style exorcism: open the curtains."
With that, he walked over to the window and pulled the drapes aside, letting sunlight pour into the room.
The layout became clearer in the new light.
It was just a room full of unused tables, chairs, and a piano buried in dust.
The only thing remotely horror-movie-worthy was a covered painting.
Naturally, being the type who can't rest unless he's courting death, Allen yanked the cloth off without hesitation.
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