Chapter 7 — Footsteps On The Ceiling

After he said that sentence, his smug look finally appeared, his eyes flashed coldly.

"Do you know what's the most interesting thing? Last night when they turned over your blanket, I almost thought it was a bad thing. But when the truth was laid out in front of our eyes, people may not believe it. Some said it was the devil, some said you were unlucky, some thought you were pretending to be a god or a ghost. People... only believe what they want to believe."

As soon as he finished speaking, the hallway outside was completely silent. It was so quiet it was like before a storm. The police were standing right outside the door. But they haven't rushed in yet. They are waiting. Wait for more complete evidence. I tightened my grip on the handrail and continued to ask:

“What evidence does Tran Vu Ninh have in your hand?”

Chu Thanh narrowed his eyes.

“You ask too many questions.”

“I can't run anyway.” I looked at him. “Let me die clearly… is that okay?”

He looked at me for a few seconds, as if confirming whether I had given up or not. He laughed again.

"She took pictures of me doing shady books and kept a copy, planning to use it to force a divorce." he said lightly. “Women who don't know things... only push themselves into a dead end.”

“So you beat her, locked her up, and wanted to drag her to death?”

“I left medicine, I left water, why do you call it dragging to death?” His voice also carried a bit of discomfort as if he had been wronged. "It's because she keeps trying to hide. Every time she struggles, the sound gets louder. To cover up those sounds, I also have to work hard to create a 'disease' for her."

My fingers were clenched to the point of numbness.

“You are disgusting.”

The smile on his face faded.

“Do you know what I hate about you the most?” He bent down, the flashlight shining straight into my eyes. "It's this look. It's like you guys... are already stuck in the mud but still trying to act cleaner than anyone else."

“People like me?” I looked straight at him.

"Disabled and sick people cannot survive without others." His voice was very low. "You girls are easy to control. Because everyone assumes your words are not trustworthy, your emotions are unstable, what you see, what you hear... is not necessarily true."

Each word felt like a slap in the face. Over the past two years, the looks of pity coated with politeness, the kind words coated with contempt... now suddenly took on a clear shape. It's his face. Outside the door, there was finally a very soft metallic sound. Chu Thanh was startled and turned his head. The next second, the door was kicked open, and strong flashlights simultaneously shone in.

"Police! Don't move!"

Chu Thanh's face changed, he turned and rushed towards the tea table where the phone was. I prepared in advance, immediately grabbed the glass cup on the table and threw it at him. There was a "bang" sound, and the glass shattered right next to his hand. He jerked back in surprise. Two police officers immediately rushed forward and knocked him to the ground. The flashlight rolled away, the beam of light sweeping across the ceiling and floor, like panicked eyes. Chu Thanh is still struggling:

“Why are you arresting me? She has mental problems, she—”

“Recording, calls, cameras are all there.” The young police officer squeezed his hand, his voice cold. “Chu Thanh, try saying something else.”

My chest heaved violently, my hands were still shaking. But I didn't look at him. I looked up at the ceiling. The technician and two other policemen set up tools and directly pried open the door to check. Screws fell, clattering on the floor. When the plasterboard was pulled away, a musty, stuffy smell that had accumulated for too long came over go out. Everyone in the room paused for a second. That smell was a mixture of drugs, sweat, mold... and blood. Then someone shouted:

“There's someone inside!”

My heart jumped into my throat. The flashlight beam shined into the space so narrow that even an adult could hardly turn around. Inside, a woman was convulsing. Her hair was tangled, her face was thin and deformed, her wrists and ankles were scratched to the point of tearing the skin. On her body was a set of dark blue pajamas — identical to the fabric I had just picked up in the powder. The light made her squint her eyes, making a weak breathing sound from her throat.

“Call an ambulance!” someone shouted.

Several people immediately climbed up and carefully took her out. She is so light it's scary. As light as a thin blanket that has been soaked by the rain and then dried. As she passed me, she suddenly moved slightly, raised her thin hand, and held my wrist tightly. The grip was surprisingly strong. I bent down to look at her. Her lips were chapped, her breathing was ragged, but her eyes were fixed on my face, as if confirming something. Then she whispered, almost inaudibly:

“You… aren't the first…”

I was stunned. She still wanted to say something, but didn't have the strength, her eyelids closed, and she was carried away. Chu Thanh's face was gray at this time. Like the outer layer of skin can no longer cover the rottenness inside. When he was being led away in handcuffs, he still struggled and turned his head to look at me. For the first time, his eyes no longer had any false dignity. Only brutality remains… and a bit of late panic. I looked straight at him and slowly smiled.

“The end of the footsteps,” I said, “is not a ghost.”