Chapter Nine

Rainwater flowed down the eaves of the solitary house and gathered among the weeds, forming a small stream. As Steven stepped across the stream, Kelly dashed into the front door of the house and slammed it shut with a heavy thud. Since they were only steps apart, Steven clearly heard the sound of the lock sliding. He lunged up the porch steps and, without hesitation, kicked the wooden door.

The door swung open along its hinges, snapping inward with sudden force. But before Steven’s foot could even land, the door rebounded, striking back at him.

The lower half of the door splintered from Steven’s kick, while the upper half smashed against his face with a deafening crash.

“Ugh—” Steven clutched his forehead with one hand and his nose with the other, hopping backward. He wrenched his leg free from the shattered door, “Oh, damn!” His trailing foot missed the step, sending him flailing and tumbling down the stairs, landing flat on his back at the feet of Lanny and Zi’ang.

Both lowered their heads, silently gazing at Steven.

“It’s just tactics,” Steven muttered, clambering back to his feet and ascending the porch once more. “A demonstration, so you can see firsthand what Cot meant by ‘defensive measures’.” He drew his finger upward.

A blue light traced the hinges of the door. The door panel fell straight backward, crashing onto the floor inside.

“A childish measure,” Steven stepped into the house, but again, his foot never touched the ground—the fallen door abruptly stood upright, smacking him in the face and sending him tumbling down the steps in exactly the same manner as before.

Lanny looked at Steven, sprawled where he had landed moments ago. “Still tactics?” she said expressionlessly. “Playing with time reversal?”

Steven, furious, scrambled up and rushed toward the house with hands raised. He made a throwing gesture at the door.

Invisible force shoved the door panel deep into the hall, causing a series of loud bangs.

“If you’re unlucky enough to crush Kelly, let’s see how you manage to keep the story going,” Lanny muttered and strode inside first.

The entry hall was pitch dark. The air carried a faint dustiness.

Steven, last to enter, pressed a switch on the wall, but no light flickered on.

“So cliché,” Steven shook his head.

An orange orb of light rose beside Lanny, illuminating the surroundings.

The door panel had smashed into the sofa that once sat in the center of the hall, pushing half of it into the fireplace. Not far from the fireplace, a staircase led to the second floor, beneath which was a half-open door through which a corner of the kitchen was visible. A wooden stick protruded from the gap, suspended oddly in midair.

“Kelly!” Steven strode into the hall and shouted, “Trust me, you don’t want to stay here!”

“Should we split up?” Zi’ang asked. “Might help us find her faster.”

---

Hollywood horror movies teach you,” Lanny said, “that whoever says things like that usually won’t survive to the end.”

“No, no, that’s unfair,” Steven replied. “Because there’s no black guy on our team, so no matter what anyone says, the first to die can only be... Hey!” Suddenly, he pointed at the door to the kitchen and called out.

A scarecrow wearing half a headpiece appeared behind the door, its head tilted, missing one eye. Straw poked through its half-open mouth, making it look somewhat sinister. The stick serving as its arm, angled downward with the tilt of its head, nearly touched the floor.

“It wasn’t there just now, right?” Steven said.

Zi’ang threw a talisman at the scarecrow.

When the talisman touched its head, it ignited, producing a small flame. A few exposed stalks of straw caught fire but extinguished before reaching the roots. The scarecrow toppled forward, its stick arm propping it against the doorframe.

“About—that,” Steven looked at Zi’ang, drawing out the words, “I’ve seen you tossing paper scraps before. Can’t you channel spirits normally?”

Zi’ang opened his mouth.

“What’s your marker color?” Steven pressed on, giving no time for an answer. “Don’t tell me it’s green. Around here, green is military, belonging to that guy—what’s his name—Hermil.”

“Heimel,” Lanny corrected. “Hermil is the old man selling hotdogs outside the guild’s back door.”

“Uh, what’s a marker color?” Zi’ang asked.

Steven stared at Zi’ang for several seconds, then nodded meaningfully. “Kelly! Please come out now!” He raised his head and called loudly, “I really don’t want to play some haunted house game with two clueless troublemakers!”

“We mark our spirit channeling locations with different colors,” Lanny explained, “to prevent collision of consciousness.”

“Oh!” Zi’ang exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. “So that time on the rooftop...” He didn’t finish, instead gesturing toward the kitchen door.

At some point, the scarecrow had vanished.

“If I told you ‘don’t look back,’ would you get excited and throw paper at my face?” Steven scoffed, pressing the button on his headset communicator. “You’re Dylan, right? Any changes in consciousness around us?”

Dylan didn’t respond immediately.

“Hey? Dylan?” Steven called.

“Ah! Sorry! Sorry!” Dylan’s voice came through. “Some weirdo showed up and tangled with me for a while.”

“Weirdo? Who?” Steven asked.

---

Military personnel, apparently someone important,” Dylan replied. “Mr. Midhof called him ‘Colonel Taka’ or something.”

“My—dad?!” Steven exclaimed dramatically.

“Is that... an exclamation, or a statement?” Dylan wondered. “Oh, right, about consciousness changes, let me explain briefly. My machine can pinpoint spirits and display their hosts directly. I just uploaded the house’s structure—thanks to the guild’s archive. Strange, though, that the archive had blueprints for this old house. As for consciousness changes, yes, as soon as there’s a change, I can locate it and tell you what the host is. But, to detect changes, we have to wait for something to... change...” His voice trailed off.

“What nonsense,” Lanny said. “We’ve encountered several moving objects, so we wanted to ask if you could detect spirits nearby.”

“In theory,” Dylan paused, “they’re not spirits, but spirit-channeling targets. A spirit is consciousness with a non-living host, possessing independent thought. Spirit-channeling targets are objects altered by channeling abilities. Take the candlestick you saw earlier—if it’s a channeling target, it moves because the channeler changed its kinetic energy. Once channeling ceases, it falls to the ground.”

“My god, this guy...” Steven rubbed his forehead. “Shut up, shut up!” he snapped, “Let me ask again—are there things around us trying to kill us?”

“I’ve been answering that,” Dylan replied. “To detect consciousness change, something has to happen—movement, light, heat, etc. If such change occurs and isn’t too faint, my machine will detect and locate it.”

“Understood,” Steven said sarcastically. “So I have to get stabbed first, then you’ll yell, ‘Careful, that knife moves!’”

“Wait a moment, Dylan,” Lanny said, “Isn’t the candlestick the containment host?”

“I can only say it’s possible,” Dylan answered. “Ordinary spirits don’t randomly manipulate objects. Channeling reduces total consciousness, and spirit consciousness isn’t regenerative like yours. That suicidal man—Donald, right? He was just a university maintenance worker, so his spirit should be ‘ordinary’.”

“Why not just measure total consciousness?” Steven asked. “The higher, the stronger the spirit, right?”

“Basically correct,” Dylan replied, “but measuring also requires the spirit to act.”

“What’s the candlestick’s total consciousness?” Lanny asked. “Is Amelia safe alone?”

“God, that weirdo distracted me—I forgot.” Dylan said, “I’ll check now. But even if the candlestick is just a channeling target and the real spirit remains in the house, I doubt it can do much to you. Channeling two objects at once is just as impossible as multitasking.”

“Can you see Amelia?” Zi’ang asked.

“She’s been tangling with the candlestick,” Dylan said. “But just minor moves, they haven’t really started fighting.”

“All this time?” Steven said. “So our recent ordeal was a slap in your face.” He stepped through the kitchen door.

Somewhere in a shadowed corner, a wooden stick began scraping against the wall, making a faint scratching noise. Sawdust fell away, and the tip of the stick gradually sharpened into a point.