(Time: Morning of the second day)

  The intrusion of that reckless couple was like a stone cast upon a dead lake; the ripples quickly dissipated. When their laughter and flashlight beams finally vanished into the overlapping ruins and heavy night, this dilapidated room, and indeed the entire Fengmen Village, was once again enveloped in that suffocating silence that seemed capable of swallowing everything. But this time, the silence felt different. It was no longer purely empty. Instead, disturbed by the brief burst of activity, it felt heavier, thicker, laced with a hidden, awakened resentment.

  I huddled inside the tent, gripping the half-meter wooden stick so tightly my knuckles turned white. Outside, the sky had turned completely black—the pure, light-pollution-free darkness unique to deep mountains. The moon and stars were obscured by thick clouds. Only faint, almost negligible ambient light occasionally filtered through holes in the roof or cracks in the windows, barely sketching the twisted silhouettes of broken furniture and walls, like phantoms lurking in the darkness.

  I couldn't sleep.

  Though my body screamed for rest, exhausted from the day's trek and high tension, my mind was stretched taut like an overwound violin string, hyper-sensitive to the slightest sound.

  Time flowed slowly in the darkness and silence. I strained my ears, listening for any stir outside the tent. The wind seemed to have died down; even the earlier whimpering through the empty houses had ceased. Occasionally, faint rustling sounds, perhaps from nocturnal animals, drifted from afar, only to quickly fade back into silence. Mostly, there was just that absolute, unnerving quiet that pressed down on the heart.

  I don't know how long I endured in that tense state. Hunger had long been replaced by fear and fatigue. I simply stared blankly at the void of darkness above the tent ceiling, my mind replaying the dilapidated scenes from the day, the eerie clearing with the wooden pole and scattered animal bones, and that fleeting, ghost-like children's song from dusk. And that noisy young couple—how were they now? Had they found shelter? Or... run into trouble?

  Just as my thoughts began to wander and my consciousness blurred with exhaustion, an extremely faint sound, like fingernails scratching against a wall—scritch, scritch—suddenly came from outside the tent, near the wall by my head.

  The hairs on my body stood on end instantly.

  The sound was very soft, intermittent, easily missed if one weren't listening intently. But in the dead silence, it struck my ears as clearly as thunder.

  I held my breath immediately, my heart threatening to leap out of my throat. All the blood seemed to rush to my head.

  Scritch... scritch-scratch...

  The sound continued, unhurried, with a strange rhythm. It didn't sound like rats or other small animals. It sounded more like... someone, or something, was outside on the cold brick wall, slowly, persistently scratching with fingernails, or some other sharp object.

  Fear washed over me like an icy tide, drowning my reason. I wanted to scream, to rip open the tent zipper and bolt outside, but my body was frozen, too stiff to move. I could only stare wide-eyed at the impenetrable darkness beyond the tent fabric, cold sweat trickling down my temples.

  The scratching sound lasted for perhaps a minute or two, then vanished as abruptly as it had begun.

  Everything returned to dead silence once more.

  But I knew, that was definitely not a hallucination.

  That night, sleep utterly eluded me. Like a terrified quail, I huddled in the corner of the tent, clutching that pathetic wooden stick, eyes wide open until dawn. The scratching sound didn't return, but the feeling of being watched, of being surrounded by some malevolent presence, clung to me like a shadow, tormenting me.

  When the first faint, greyish rays of morning light finally struggled through the heavy clouds and roof holes, spilling into the abandoned room, I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. I had survived. At least, I had survived the first night in Fengmen Village.

  In the morning light, the village seemed slightly less sinister than at dusk, but only "seemed". Thick fog still lingered in the mountain hollow, merely shifting from grey-black to milky white. The damp air was colder, carrying a chill deep into the lungs with each breath. The broken walls and ruins loomed indistinctly in the mist like the exposed bones of prehistoric beasts. Silence remained the dominant theme, punctuated only by the occasional crisp bird call, which sounded lonely and eerie, further emphasizing the desolation.

  I ate some compressed biscuits and drank some cold mineral water, regaining a little strength. Last night's fear still lingered, but I knew I couldn't let it paralyze me. I was here to investigate, not run away. Besides, I needed to familiarize myself with the environment quickly, find more clues, and perhaps... find that young couple to confirm their safety.

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  I organized my gear, leaving the tent and sleeping bag behind for now. Carrying only a small backpack with my camera, recorder, water, and a little food, gripping my trekking pole and the wooden stick, I stepped out of the dilapidated building that had sheltered (or imprisoned) me for the night.

  The morning fog was heavy, visibility still low, perhaps only twenty or thirty meters. The damp air struck my face, chillingly cold. I started exploring more carefully along the muddy main path of the village.

  This time, my gaze didn't just linger on the large-scale decay; I began focusing on the smaller details, the corners that might hide information.

  I noticed that on the lintels and window frames of many old houses, besides the common, faded yellow paper talismans (mostly standard Taoist charms for home protection or peace), there were other, stranger materials and styles. Some looked like they were carved from dark wood chips, inscribed with crooked lines. Others seemed made from animal hide or tree bark, rough-edged, smeared with dried, dark red pigment that looked disturbingly like... bloodstains? The styles of these charms were also more bizarre, not conveying blessings of peace, but rather a sense of ferocity, warning, even curse. They were haphazardly nailed or glued to the walls, mixed among the paper talismans, creating an incredibly discordant and unsettling visual effect.

  Suppressing my unease, I carefully photographed these strange talismans with my camera, hoping to find some pattern or recurring motif.

  As I focused on photographing the dense array of various charms on a decaying wooden door, something caught the corner of my eye on the mottled stone foundation next to the doorframe. Were those... carvings?

  I immediately crouched down for a closer look.

  These weren't natural weathering marks, nor random scratches. They were... symbols, deliberately carved.

  The symbols were extremely peculiar, unlike any script or pattern I recognized. They weren't Chinese characters, nor any known ethnic minority script, nor common Western runes or alchemical symbols. Their lines were twisted, eerie, full of sharp angles and irregular curves, combining to form abstract yet malevolent patterns. Some resembled distorted eyes, others silent screaming mouths, still others abstract deformations of insects or reptiles.

  The carvings varied in depth. Some looked ancient, their edges blurred and worn by time; others were relatively clear, the cuts newer, as if carved recently. They covered the foundations, thresholds, even abandoned stone mills and mortars left in corners.

  My finger trembled as I gently traced one of the clearer carvings. The stone was cold and rough, the edges of the carving sharp enough to almost break my skin. An indescribable, chilling sensation seeped silently from my fingertip into my body.

  I snatched my hand back, a wave of nausea washing over me.

  What... what on earth were these? Cursed runes? Secret symbols of some cult? Or... marks left by something inhuman?

  I quickly took out my recorder, held it to the microphone, and described in a voice tight with suppressed panic: "I've found... some very strange carvings. On the walls, on stones, everywhere. They aren't writing, they're like... twisted symbols, looking very... evil. I don't know what they mean, but... they give me a very bad feeling. Very, very bad. These are different from the talismans, these carvings... feel older, and more... dangerous."

  Forcing myself to calm down, I began searching more purposefully for these bizarre carvings. I discovered they weren't randomly distributed. They seemed concentrated around specific buildings—like the few remaining stone pillars at the village entrance, the stones bordering the clearing scattered with animal bones, and... the walls of a building that looked larger and more dilapidated than the other houses, possibly an ancestral hall or temple.

  This building stood near the center of the village, even larger than the "school" where I had camped. Its roof ridge soared high, carved with faded auspicious beast patterns, though the head of one beast had broken off and lay in the rubble below. The main doors were vermillion red, but the paint had mostly peeled away, revealing rotten wood underneath. The doors were plastered with a dense layer of various talismans, more than anywhere else I'd seen, including those strange wooden and hide ones. Both door panels were shut tight, secured by a huge, rusty bronze lock.

  And on the mottled stone walls of this building, I saw the densest, clearest, and most disturbing carvings yet. They covered almost the entire wall surface, overlapping layer upon layer, old and new intertwined, as if people from different eras, driven by the same inexplicable impulse or fear, had repeatedly etched these twisted symbols here. Some carvings were centimeters deep, struck with such force it seemed the carver poured all their fear and hatred into the cold stone.

  Standing before this wall, seemingly covered in cursed whispers, I felt dizzy. The mist seemed to cling thicker around these carvings, the light dimmer. I even had the illusion that the twisted symbols were slowly writhing on the wall, shifting like living things.

  "What... what happened here?" I murmured, my voice dry.

  These carvings, these talismans, the clearing with bones and hair, last night's eerie song and scratching sounds... all clues pointed to a chilling possibility: Fengmen Village's abandonment was far more complex than just harsh environmental conditions. There had to be some dark, terrifying secret hidden here. And these whispers on the walls might be the key to unlocking that secret, or... a trap leading to madness and death.

  Raising my camera with trembling hands, I began frantically photographing the wall covered in bizarre carvings. I needed to document every detail, every symbol. I had a strong premonition that these things might be closer to the core truth of Fengmen Village than any written record.

  Just as I was engrossed in taking pictures, an extremely faint sound came from behind me.

  Like... someone stepping on dry twigs?

  I spun around violently, my heart nearly stopping.

  Behind me, the thick fog swirled, the muddy path winding away and disappearing into its depths.

  There was no one there.

  But that sound...

  My gaze locked onto the depths of the fog, my hand gripping the trekking pole slick with fresh sweat.

  Was it my imagination? Or... was something silently following me?

  Fear, like a cold viper, coiled around my neck once more.