Running was the Fatty's specialty. Back in the day, he'd once tucked Huai Yi under one arm and dragged the doctor along with the other, and still managed to escape right under a ghost's nose.
But this time, the Fatty felt a pressure unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The lantern was heavy, and cold—the kind of chill that seeped into his bones, as if it had been soaked in water for countless years. It seriously hampered his performance.
More importantly, a strange "pat, pat" sound came from behind him, like a slab of rotten meat being slapped onto a chopping board over and over. And it was keeping pace with him.
At the same time, a faint light shone from behind, carrying a warmth that was completely different.
The Fatty couldn't make sense of it. "What's going on? The lantern... The lantern's in my hand, isn't it? So what's that light behind me?"
Unable to stand the mystery, the Fatty glanced over his shoulder. That one look nearly scared the soul out of him. The Maid chasing him had transformed completely. Her whole body was bloated and pale from being soaked, her clothes stretched until they split in several places. Her rotten face was so ruined that her features were unrecognizable, and pus kept oozing from it. The stench shot straight to his brain.
"Pat."
"Pat."
Two legs as thick as small trees crossed and pounded along. Her knees didn't bend at all; each step slammed straight into the ground, splattering pus everywhere.
But what drove the Fatty to despair was that the ghost Maid was holding a paper lantern too. It swung as she ran, held by her rigid right arm—because her left arm was missing.
Her rotting mouth, gums bared, opened and closed as she made a