Rules of urban horror

At six thirty in the morning, sunlight filtered through the gaps in the heavy curtains, dispelling the chill of the night.

Molly rolled over beneath the covers like a tired little animal, curling into a ball and instinctively burrowing deeper into the blankets, hoping to steal another five minutes of sleep.

But the knocking outside sounded like an impatient debt collector, one knock after another, neither hurried nor slow, yet extraordinarily persistent.

Irritably, she grabbed a pillow and slammed it over her head, trying to shut out the world. She grumbled a few muffled complaints, every sound swallowed by the down.

The knocking stopped for three seconds, then stubbornly resumed.

Molly sat bolt upright, her hair an exploded bird's nest, half her gaze still lingering in her dreams. She looked around blankly-unfamiliar dark wooden furniture, tall windows, an old-fashioned cross hanging on the wall...

Right. She was not at home at all.

She dragged her feet over to open the door.

Lin Rui stood outside, neatly dressed, his expression as cold as if it had been frozen. "Do you know what time it is?"

Molly did not answer, instinctively raising a hand to rub her eyes.

Her short, half-shaved hairstyle had become a chicken's nest. Her loose cotton pajamas were as wrinkled as if they had been repeatedly trampled, the hem hanging slack around her hip bones, revealing two slender, smooth, delicate thighs.

She pouted, her voice still nasal from sleep. "...What time is it?"

Lin Rui did not answer her question, merely issuing a string of instructions in a businesslike tone. "Use the bathroom, wash up, and get dressed. Your mother will be here at seven thirty sharp to take you to school."

With that, he turned and left, his steps crisp, his retreating figure devoid of warmth.

"Hmph, why should I listen to you?" Molly pouted at the empty air again, puffed out her cheeks, and slammed the door with a bang.

She stripped off her pajamas in a few quick motions, tossed them onto the rumpled sheets, and padded barefoot into the bathroom. Lifting the toilet lid, she plopped down and stared into space with half-closed eyes.

The mirror directly opposite reflected her in perfect clarity: dark circles as heavy as charcoal strokes, lips so dry they were peeling white, and an air of "slapdash ugly duckling" dejection.

By the time she finally dawdled her way through getting dressed and entered the dining room, only the old priest remained at the table.

He was clumsily picking up a golden-fried spring roll with chopsticks and bringing it to his mouth. Slow though his movements were, it successfully reached its destination.

"Good morning, child!" The old priest smiled, creases gathering at the corners of his eyes. "Come try the breakfast Leon made."

A small stack of crisp fried spring rolls sat on the plate, with steaming soy milk beside them. The aroma of fried food swirled through the air.

Molly sprawled over the table and leaned her nose closer for a sniff. "You eat Chinese food for breakfast?"

"Leon's cooking." The old priest beamed. "Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, Japanese bento... I love whatever he makes.

"At my age, the grave isn't far away. Every different meal feels like an extra surprise from God."

Molly tugged at the corners of her mouth without answering. She glanced around. "Where's Leon?"

"He left at six thirty. Samantha drove over to pick him up and take him to set up the food truck in Central Park." A touch of sympathy entered the old priest's voice. "That boy gets up even earlier than I do every day. He works so hard."

"Oh," Molly said, her expression showing little change.

She reached out with her chopsticks, picked up a spring roll, and bit into it-the wrapper was fragrant and crisp, the meat filling tender and smooth. It tasted good.

Then she lifted the soy milk and gulped down more than half the cup. The warm, beany fragrance slid down her throat, finally dispelling a little of her early-morning weariness.

At seven thirty, Mrs. Anderson arrived by car, right on time. Once her daughter got in, she asked with a smile, "How was last night?"

"Pretty average." Molly pouted, then added after a moment's thought, "I think I had a nightmare. I dreamed about Leon.

"I can't remember what happened in the dream. All I remember is that he was devastatingly handsome, and he gave me a harsh lesson that scared me senseless."

Mrs. Anderson chuckled, taking no particular notice. "You have quite a good impression of Leon. Even scared senseless, you still remembered how handsome he was."

Molly smiled sheepishly, leaned sideways toward her mother, and wrapped her arms around her upper body. "I'm sorry, Mom," she said softly. "I'm not joining a gang.

"I thought it was cool before, but now I know I was being an idiot. That idea was stupid. Really, utterly stupid."

Mrs. Anderson's heart instantly blossomed with joy. As long as her daughter abandoned the idea of becoming a "delinquent girl," all her efforts would have been worth it.

The next second, Molly continued lazily, "How do I get that Leon to be my boyfriend? I want to take him to school and parade him in front of those bitches, dazzle their eyes blind."

Mrs. Anderson's newly relaxed brow tightened again. That young Chinese American man had excellent self-control. He did not seem the type to let sperm go to his brain.

The old priest waved from the little church's entrance, watching Mrs. Anderson leave with her daughter, his spirits lifting as well.

But the moment he turned around, that ease scattered as though blown away by a cold wind.

A police car sat at the street corner opposite the church, its red-and-blue roof lights lying quietly dormant, unlit.

Beside it was a white ambulance, its rear doors wide open, its engine humming low as though panting.

Officer Kane, who patrolled the neighborhood, stood with his hands on his hips, staring helplessly at the bulging black body bag on the ground.

Two body-recovery workers in protective suits moved with practiced ease.

One unzipped the bag while the other lifted the corpse by its shoulders. Stiff limbs slid inside the bag with a faint rustling sound.

The corpse was stuffed inside, and the zipper closed with a rasp. The stretcher folded with a click and was pushed into the vehicle. The doors slammed shut, sealing away that unsettling air of death.

"Kane." The old priest walked slowly over. "Another death?"

Kane turned, the perpetually taut lines beside his mouth deepening. "Good morning, Pastor Borg." His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "There's some good news. Want to hear it?"

The old priest's gaze settled on the slowly departing ambulance, the outline of the body bag swaying behind its rear window. He truly could not imagine what "good news" there could be in such a scene.

Kane continued without waiting, pointing down the entire street-including the cluster of dingy brick-and-stone buildings containing the old church. "Rents have gone up in this neighborhood.

"The reason is that insurance companies compiled last month's crime figures and decided public safety was improving.

"Burglaries fell by thirty percent, and street robberies were down twenty percent. Resident questionnaires showed people felt safer because there were fewer homeless people.

"So the insurance companies lowered accident and property insurance premiums in this area to encourage residents to buy coverage. The landlords caught wind of it and immediately raised rents by five percent."

The old priest's lips moved. Only after a long moment did he squeeze out a response. "...That really is good news steeped in black humor."

He lowered his head and glanced again at the shallow impressions left on the ground-where the body bag had lain moments earlier. "What caused it?"

Officer Kane lowered his voice, his gaze sweeping the empty streets around them as though afraid someone might overhear. "Pastor Borg, do you think God really manifests miracles? Or that demons really walk among us?"

The old priest froze. An absurd sense of unreality welled up in his heart-as one of God's shepherds, of course he believed in miracles.

But in more than seventy years of life, most of the "divine manifestations" he had witnessed had been coincidences, human nature, or placebos. He merely murmured a soft acknowledgment and said nothing more.

Kane had not expected an answer, either, treating it only as an opening to the topic. "Have you heard of urban horror stories? Or... midnight legends and such?"

The old priest was even more at a loss for words, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Over the past two months, there's been some speculation at the station that we haven't been able to verify." Kane's voice sank almost to a whisper.

"It sounds absurd, but we've combed through the surveillance footage and interviewed witnesses, and we still can't find a better explanation."

"You mean..." The old priest's tone grew grave as well. "Rather a lot of homeless people have died in the neighborhood?"

Kane nodded, his gaze complicated. "Yes. Normally, one or two deaths a month would still fall within expectations. But ten have died in the last two months.

"That's very abnormal.

"What's even stranger is that most of the deaths were deemed very 'natural' by the medical examiner-heart attacks, alcohol poisoning, hypothermia, drug overdoses...

"Even the most meticulous autopsies couldn't find signs of external injuries or poisoning.

"We checked the street surveillance and all the nearby doorbell cameras. No signs of violence, no suspicious people approaching.

"Nothing.

"Nothing at all.

"But everyone knows something's wrong."

The officer paused, looking toward the weathered cross atop the church's spire as if asking it for an answer. "So we can only put it down to urban horror stories.

"As though some irrational, supernatural set of rules exists, and once you trigger it, you get slain.

"Maybe I'm not describing it very accurately. Anyway, there are fewer and fewer familiar faces, yet public safety has somehow improved."

The old priest looked grave. "Familiar faces? Yes, fewer people have been coming to the church for aid lately. Quite a few have disappeared forever."

"Familiar faces" meant they had been hanging around the neighborhood a long time. "Hanging around a long time" most likely meant beyond saving, and being "beyond saving" made them liable to pose a risk to public safety.

And now the "familiar faces" had disappeared, and public safety was recovering.

The old priest remained silent for a long time. A breeze passed, lifting the dead leaves outside the church into little spirals before they fell again, like a soundless sigh.

He raised his head and looked toward the street that had once been crowded with beggars and drunks. Now it was somewhat more peaceful, with more passersby as well.

But what, exactly, lay hidden behind it all?