"After that, I started secretly observing my dad, quietly noting his every word and action. His life was very routine. He'd head to the company early every morning. It's his business, so he could go whenever he wanted, but every day at 6 a.m., rain or shine, he'd leave. He wouldn't come back until it was pitch dark, clearly avoiding the family. And his behavior was odd—he barely talked to us. In his free time, he'd either practice calligraphy or watch Animal World."
"Animal World?" I couldn't help but chuckle.
"Yeah," Peng Gang said. "He's obsessed with animal shows, like Animal World domestically or National Geographic from abroad. Whenever animals are on TV, he sits up straight, completely engrossed, sometimes for hours. I don't get it—what's so fascinating about tigers and lions eating, mating, or drinking?"
I tapped the table, a bit lost in thought. What was this pattern?
"Does your dad have any other strange behaviors? Besides avoiding intimacy, watching Animal World, and being withdrawn? Honestly, Peng Gang, what you've described doesn't necessarily point to a problem. Men can go through a kind of menopause too—getting irritable or acting out of character at a certain age seems reasonable to me."
Peng Gang gave a small smile. "I'm about to get to the really strange stuff—borderline terrifying."
I opened my notebook and picked up my pen.
"That day, I decided I needed to confront my dad face-to-face. Sure, he'd been through a near-death experience, but that didn't give him the right to act recklessly and disregard others' feelings. I didn't tell him I was coming and went straight to his company. When I got to his office, he wasn't there. I asked his secretary, and she looked panicked, saying he was out meeting a client. I'm a suspicious guy, and I could tell she was lying. Then a thought hit me: with his personality changing so drastically, could he be keeping a mistress on the side?"
I raised an eyebrow. Peng Gang's suspicion wasn't unreasonable.
"Thinking of my mom, who's worked so hard to hold our family together, I was furious. She deserves better, even if she's not perfect. The idea of my dad having a mistress made my blood boil. I slammed the secretary's desk and yelled at the poor girl. She got the hint—after all, this was family business, and getting too involved wouldn't do her any good. Shaking, she finally admitted that every afternoon at 3 p.m., the boss goes to a private room to rest and insists on no disturbances."
Peng Gang shivered slightly, taking a sip of water.
"I was so impulsive, my head was burning. I forced her to take me there. As the boss's son, my word carried weight. The company's back door led to a hidden staircase in the office building. I knew it existed but had never used it. It's an emergency exit, but the building's been incident-free for over a decade, so it's been abandoned. The stairwell lights were mostly broken, and the stairs twisted downward, dark and eerie. The secretary refused to go, saying the boss always went down those stairs to what seemed like a basement. I didn't know fear then—just pure, reckless determination to confront my dad. I grabbed a flashlight from the office and headed down. The secretary grabbed me, nervously saying not to tell the boss she'd spilled. I waved her off, told her to mind her own business, and went down."
I blinked rapidly, urging, "And then?"
The staircase was incredibly dark, its end stretching into endless blackness. Peng Gang, flashlight in hand, steadied himself against the wall, carefully descending. No one had been there in ages; his hands brushed against thick dust. Glancing back, he saw his handprints clearly on the wall, sending a chill down his spine. Regret crept in—he'd been too rash. But going back would mean facing the secretary's mockery, so he pressed on.
Thankfully, his dad's company was on the fourth floor, so the descent wasn't too long. But in that silent, narrow stairwell, every second felt like torture, time losing all meaning. At the landing between each floor was a small, twisting platform piled with junk from who-knows-when—broken chairs, tables, lampless lamps, plastic bags, and woven sacks, all in a chaotic heap.
Between the second and first floors, there was even an old sofa.
Under the dim flashlight beam, the sofa looked ancient, its yellowed cover torn, springs and stuffing spilling out. That wasn't the worst part. What was truly horrifying was a large, sunken area on the sofa, shaped vaguely like a human body. Seeing this, Peng Gang nearly stopped breathing. He stood frozen on the stairs, legs numb, unable to move.
The flashlight's beam lingered on the human-shaped indentation for a long time before Peng Gang snapped back to reality. A strange thought hit him: could this imprint be from his dad lying there?
Who else would come to this creepy stairwell? Only his dad, probably. His mind conjured an image: his father, Peng Liang, lying alone on this dilapidated sofa in the dark, sleeping. Eyes tightly shut, face pale, like a corpse.
The more he thought, the more terrified he became. After a long pause, he decided to keep going and get to the bottom of this. He wasn't sure he'd have the courage to come back.
Past the first floor, he reached the basement. To his surprise, the stairwell was blocked with piles of debris.
This place was getting stranger by the second. But Peng Gang had a reckless streak. He held the flashlight in his mouth, grabbed the junk, and vaulted over it.
The stairs below weren't just dark—they were pitch black, the kind where you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Only the flashlight's faint beam cut through. He took a deep breath and descended slowly.
It was dead silent, maddeningly so. Near the bottom, he finally heard a faint dripping sound. At the end of the stairs was a rusty iron door, its surface peeling, with an upside-down "fortune" character pasted on it.
He gripped the handle, hesitating for a long time before gently pulling. The door, likely used often, opened smoothly without a creak. As it cracked open, music drifted out.
"Music? What kind?" I asked, engrossed, stretching my back.
"I can't describe it," Peng Gang said. "Soft piano, with high and low notes weaving together, like lounge music. You know what lounge music is?"
I scratched my head. "Not really, but I can guess—relaxing music, right?"
"Yeah. Picture yourself on a big sofa on a terrace facing the sea, spring flowers blooming. A sea breeze blows, you're holding a glass of wine, gently swirling, listening to warm, soothing music. That's lounge music."
"Was your dad listening to it? Oh, I get it—maybe he's under too much stress and hides in the basement to listen to relaxing music to unwind," I suggested.
Peng Gang looked at me. "Old Liu, sometimes something peaceful can turn terrifying in the wrong setting. Imagine walking into an abandoned haunted house and seeing a little girl in pajamas. How would you feel?"
"You mean…" I thought for a moment. "The music's nice, but in that environment, it becomes creepy?"
He pointed at me, nodding heavily without a word.
I got it. Before I moved, I lived in an old building where a neighbor's family were devout Buddhists. Once, I visited their home and was greeted by Buddhist chanting—"Namo, Namo"—and thick incense. The wife, dressed like a nun, sat in the living room tapping a wooden fish. Picture a fifty-something woman with a greasy, yellowish face, her eyes sharp with malice, chanting to Buddhist music and occasionally glancing at you with a strange look. That solemn, majestic Buddhist sound, in that setting, was downright unsettling.
"Keep listening, and you'll see why I was scared," Peng Gang said.
His curiosity had overpowered his fear. He cautiously pushed the iron door open and stepped inside. The space was vast and freezing, with a distant howling wind. Peng Gang didn't dare use his flashlight anymore, turning it off and following the sound toward a faint light. The glow was partially hidden behind a pile of dark junk, hard to make out.
His gut told him someone was there.
He crept toward the light. The music echoed through the vast underground space, accompanied by a warm, low male voice over the piano: "…Throughout the process, relax your body and mind… follow my voice and take deep breaths… as you breathe deeply, your body and mind will grow more relaxed…"
The voice was soothing, but in that setting, it carried an indescribable, sinister vibe—downright eerie. It was a kind of dread you couldn't articulate, like a stone lodged in your chest, goosebumps prickling your skin.
The man's voice faded, leaving only the piano, interspersed with faint chanting, like a group murmuring something indistinct.
Even I, just hearing this, felt my hands and feet go cold imagining the scene. My voice trembled as I asked, "Your dad didn't join some cult or secret society, did he?"
Peng Gang said, "You mean something evil…"
I nodded. "I've heard of doomsday cults abroad, preaching end-times stuff. Your dad went through death and the underworld—maybe he came back believing in something."
Peng Gang shook his head. "That's what Mr. Li thought too, but I don't think so. Let me finish."
He crept closer and finally saw what was happening. A portable lamp sat on the floor next to a speaker playing the music. And there was his dad, Peng Liang, curled up on a filthy blanket, its original color unrecognizable, reeking of decay. His dad lay with his back to the outside, hunched like a fetus, arms wrapped around his knees.
Peng Gang barely dared to breathe—this was too weird. He felt he'd stumbled onto a secret his dad didn't want known. Hesitating, he decided to leave. But as he turned, in the pitch darkness, he stepped on a broken jar, making a piercing "clang."
His dad reacted instantly, bolting upright, shutting off the speaker, and extinguishing the lamp. The room plunged into total darkness.
Peng Gang nearly suffocated, frozen in place, sweat beading on his forehead, his heartbeat deafening.
He could sense his father, sitting upright, unmoving.
In the darkness, father and son faced each other across the void, still as statues.