"Devils?" The old woman was taken aback by the word, then sneered. "Aren't you people, who barged into someone else's home without permission and pretended to be service staff, the real devils?"
"Even so, that's still far more normal than imagining that your aunt is living with you," Zhang Heng said calmly.
"You're saying she was imagined?" Agatha was somewhat surprised, but the queen of mystery quickly realized the truth. "That's right. This manor only invited authors, and everyone had their own room. Since this room belonged to someone else, his aunt couldn't possibly be here too. That was the most reasonable explanation."
The old woman across from them fell silent the moment Zhang Heng said those words. It was as if someone had pressed pause; she no longer moved or showed any expression.
And once Agatha finished speaking, the old woman's figure began to fade, growing fainter and fainter until she vanished completely.
Yet after she disappeared, the gloomy, oppressive atmosphere in the room did not improve. Instead, it grew even stronger—so strong that the other authors living in the same building sensed it as well.
Some authors who already had mental issues were immediately dragged into depression by the atmosphere, terrible thoughts flashing uncontrollably through their minds. The pilot from earlier began pacing endlessly around his room. Fitzgerald crumpled up the love letter he had been writing and tossed it into the wastebasket, then sat on his bed with his head in his hands. Even Hemingway, who had always been so tough, looked several times toward the Hunting Rifle beside his bed, his expression constantly shifting.
Agatha, who bore the brunt of it, felt it even more intensely. Her expression changed. "How could this be?"
After a long silence, Zhang Heng said, "I may have guessed wrong before.