We called the cops.
They showed up fast—faster than I'd ever seen them move. Homicide was big league, and they rolled in with a full crew: forensic techs dusting for prints, crime scene investigators snapping photos, a medical examiner in a white hazmat suit carrying a cooler. They brought power tools, too—saws and crowbars that whined and clanged as they tore the wardrobe off the wall, then chipped away at the brick and concrete behind it.
We all stayed to watch. Every last one of us—me, Jake, Pete, Leo, even Mr. Hu, his face ashen. We stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, our eyes glued to the wall as it crumbled piece by piece, until finally, they hit something solid. Something that wasn't stone or drywall.
It was a woman. How long she'd been there, no one could say for sure—but it had been years. Her body was mummified, dried out by the cement, her skin pulled tight over her bones. The only thing that gave away her gender was the clump of brittle, straw-like hair still clinging to her scalp. When they lifted her out on a stretcher, the stench hit us like a punch to the gut—rot and mildew and something sweet, sickening, that clung to your skin and wouldn't wash off. I gagged, my throat burning.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the clothes.
She was wearing a black dress. A long one, floor-length, the fabric faded but still recognizable. And on her feet—peeking out from under the hem, scuffed and cracked but unmistakable—were a pair of red stilettos.
Jake and I collapsed to the floor, our legs giving out from under us. Pete and Leo bolted for the bathroom, retching so loud their gagging echoed down the hallway. I followed them, my stomach heaving, and threw up until there was nothing left but bile. It wasn't just the stench, or the sight of the mummy. It was the realization—cold, hard, and impossible to ignore.
We'd seen her. We'd talked to her. The girl who knocked at midnight, asking for Li Xiumei. She wasn't a hallucination. She wasn't a prank. She was a ghost. A ghost wearing the same dress she'd been buried in.
Mr. Hu lost his mind. He screamed at us, his face purple with rage, calling us murderers and frauds, yelling so loud he woke up the neighbors. He cursed our families, our business, our entire lives, and no amount of police intervention could shut him up. I couldn't blame him, not really. We'd sold him a house with a corpse in the walls. A haunted house. A death trap.
But we were victims, too. We hadn't known. We'd checked the records, talked to the seller, even had the cops do a walkthrough. No one had a clue. As real estate agents, we had a duty to disclose—but you can't disclose what you don't know.
The police couldn't take our statements with Mr. Hu screaming in the background, so they herded us into squad cars and drove us back to the station. We spent the rest of the day there, answering questions, signing forms, staring at the walls while our brains tried to process what we'd seen. By the time they let us go, the sun was setting, and we were exhausted—bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.
But we couldn't go home. Not yet.
Mr. Hu wasn't done with us. He'd filed a complaint, demanding two things: a full refund of the house, and $200,000 in damages—for the renovations, for the therapy bills, for the pure, unadulterated terror we'd put him and his wife through.
The refund was a no-brainer. The seller was already in custody, being questioned about the body, and there was no way a judge would let this sale stand. We'd give the Hu's their money back, plus our commission. No fight there.
But the $200k? Jake refused to pay a dime. It was a fortune—enough to sink our brokerage, to put us out of business for good. The police had already cleared us of any involvement in the murder; we were just two schmucks who'd sold the wrong house at the wrong time. This was a civil dispute, not a criminal one, and the cops passed it off to the local precinct to mediate.
So we went from the homicide unit to the small claims office, sitting across a table from Mr. Hu and his wife, who glared at us like we'd personally killed the woman in the wall. The mediation dragged on for hours, going in circles—he yelled, we apologized, he yelled louder, we offered a token settlement, he refused. By the time we left, it was dark, and the only thing we'd accomplished was making Mr. Hu angrier.
"I'm suing you!" he shouted as we climbed into Jake's car. "I'll ruin you! You'll never sell another house in this town!"
Jake didn't say a word. He just gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and drove. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, the windows rolled down, the cold night air whipping through the car.
"My grandpa always said I was cursed," he muttered finally, his voice hollow. "Said I'd never make it as a businessman. I laughed at him. Now I wish I'd listened." He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "If this lawsuit goes through, we're done. I'll have to close the shop. Maybe two."
I didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. We'd walked into a nightmare, and there was no way out. The murder was behind us—literally—but the lawsuit? That was just beginning.
I went home that night, stripped off my clothes, and scrubbed my skin raw in the shower. I could still smell the rot, still see the outline of the body in the wall, still hear the girl's voice in my head. I collapsed into bed, exhausted, and fell asleep instantly, grateful to be in my own house, my own bed, far away from Maplewood Estates.
No more knocking. No more sleepwalking. No more ghosts.
It was over.
Or so I thought.
The knocking started at midnight.
Sharp. Steady. Rap-rap-rap.
I jolted awake, my heart hammering, my body covered in cold sweat. For a second, I was back in the master bedroom, back in that house, the smell of rot thick in the air. Then I blinked, and saw my ceiling, my posters, my lamp. I was home. Safe.
So why was someone knocking at my door?
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I didn't dare move, didn't dare make a sound. The knocking continued, slow and deliberate, like the person on the other side had all the time in the world.
Finally, I worked up the courage to call out, my voice shaking so bad I could barely recognize it.
"Who's there?"
The knocking stopped.
A moment passed. Then, a voice—soft, hollow, familiar—floated through the door, right into my living room.
"I'm looking for Li Xiumei," it said.
"Is she home?"