Have you ever woken up at exactly four in the morning?
Not from a nightmare, not from needing to pee. Just suddenly opening your eyes, as if someone snapped their fingers right next to your ear. Everything is pitch black. Your phone screen glows, showing 4:00. You stare at those four numbers, an inexplicable chill creeping over you for no reason you can name.
I never believed in this stuff before.
My name is Lu Ming, twenty-six years old. I work in operations at an internet company in Hangzhou. I switched jobs last year and got a raise, bringing my salary just over ten thousand a month. But renting a decent one-bedroom apartment in Binjiang would eat up a third of that. So I'd been sharing a place, splitting an old two-bedroom apartment with someone for a little over two thousand a month, utilities not included.
My roommate was Fang Lei, a former colleague. We got along fine, living together calmly for over half a year. In March this year, he started dating someone, and his girlfriend moved in. Suddenly, three people in a two-bedroom felt cramped. The bathroom had a morning rush-hour line, the kitchen was cluttered with her bottles and jars, and I even had to wear headphones to watch a football match in the living room. At the end of April, Fang Lei talked to me. He and his girlfriend wanted their own space, so I should start looking for another place.
I understood. Young couples need privacy.
During that time, I scoured every rental app—Beike, Ziru, 5i5j. Any one-bedroom near the Binjiang District Government within my twenty-five-hundred budget was already marked "rented." The rest were partitioned rooms: bed right at the door, window facing a dark shaft, lights needed even during the day.
One night in early May, I was browsing Xianyu aimlessly when I saw a sublet post.
The title read: *Furnished 1-BR Near Binjiang District Government, 1300 RMB/Month*. My first thought was scam. Even a studio in Binjiang cost more than that. But when I clicked in, the photos showed a fairly new renovation, private bathroom, small balcony, south-facing, good natural light. The poster was an individual account with a high credit score. The description said: *Urgent sublet due to work transfer, five months left on lease. Original price 2500. I'll cover 1200 per month, just want it rented quickly*.
Cover twelve hundred? How could luck like that fall to me?
Still, I sent a message. The reply came fast. The landlord called herself Sister Lin, the apartment was in Wenxin Renjia Community, and I could view it anytime.
I knew Wenxin Renjia. Right across from Longhu Tianjie, great location, less than a ten-minute walk to the subway. A one-bedroom there normally went for twenty-five hundred to three thousand. With her covering twelve hundred, I only paid thirteen hundred—practically free in Binjiang.
I booked a viewing that same night.
Sister Lin looked about thirty-five or thirty-six, short hair, simply dressed, speaking quickly with a northern accent. When she swiped the access card to enter the community, it took two tries. She muttered, "This stupid card always acts up."
The apartment was on the ninth floor, four units per stairwell. The wall tiles in the hallway were a little worn, the motion-sensor lights unresponsive unless I stomped my feet. Sister Lin unlocked the door, and I was surprised—it felt even bigger than in the photos. Living room and bedroom combined, around thirty square meters, light wood flooring, smooth emulsion paint walls with no cracks. The kitchen was to the left when entering, narrow but functional. The bathroom was next to the bedroom, with a glass partition separating the toilet and shower area. The balcony was enclosed, with a view of the community garden.
"Fully furnished. Air conditioner, fridge, washing machine—all bought new, not beat-up secondhand junk." Sister Lin tapped the AC remote. "If you rent, all this stays."
I checked. Everything seemed decent. The washing machine was LittleSwan, the fridge Ronshen—not high-end, but looked new. The bed was 1.5 meters wide, with a bamboo mat on the mattress. I lifted the mat; the mattress was clean, no suspicious stains.
I was already calculating: thirteen hundred a month, one month deposit plus three months rent, fifty-two hundred to move in. My current shared lease had two months left. I'd lose a thousand in deposit for breaking the contract, but I could get it back by subletting. Overall, way better than staying.
"Sister Lin, the price is so low… is there something wrong with the place?" I asked anyway.
She glanced at me, expression unchanged. "What could be wrong? I'm just in a hurry to leave. The company's transferring me to Shanghai. My lease isn't up yet. I'm losing twelve hundred a month just to cut my losses."
"I mean… is the apartment itself… normal?"
She caught my meaning and smiled. "You're asking if it's a haunted house? Don't worry. Nothing like that. I know all the neighbors upstairs and downstairs. Everything's normal."
I nodded and didn't ask further. When Sister Lin left, she gave me an access card and a key, saying to message her if I decided, and she'd send over the contract. I stood on the balcony looking down. Someone was walking their dog, kids running in the garden. Everything seemed normal.
Before moving in, I went to the property office to ask about parking. The lady at the desk checked my unit number, clicked around on her computer, no unusual expression, and said above-ground parking was first-come, first-served. I casually asked if the apartment had any history. She said no, just the previous tenant moved out, and the landlord had been renting it out normally.
I asked who the previous tenant was. She said she didn't know—that was handled by the agent.
I thought I was just being paranoid.
On Saturday, May 18th, I moved. I didn't have much stuff—one suitcase and two large woven bags. I hired a Huolala truck, and it fit all in one trip. Fang Lei helped me carry things down. Before leaving, he handed me a bag of marinated chicken feet his girlfriend made, telling me to help myself. I transferred him two hundred as compensation for breaking the lease; he hesitated then accepted.
After settling into the new place, I looked at the spacious bedroom and private bathroom and felt much better. Thirteen hundred for this? I was definitely winning.
That night I ordered takeout, took a shower, and lay on the sofa scrolling through my phone. Steam still lingered in the bathroom, fogging up the mirror. I wiped it casually and saw my reflection—healthy complexion, looking good.
Everything was normal.
I found the smart scale at the very bottom of the wardrobe.
The day after moving in, I was putting seasonal clothes in the bottom drawer. Under some old newspapers was a white cardboard box printed with *Yolanda Smart Body Fat Scale*.
I assumed Sister Lin left it. The box was a little old, edges frayed. Inside was a round white scale, glass surface, silver electrodes, looking about seven out of ten new. Underneath lay a Type-C charging cable and a thin manual.
I flipped the scale over. A QR code on the bottom read *Download App to bind device*. I figured I was planning to buy a scale anyway—why not use this one? Sister Lin said all appliances were left for me, so this counted too.
I scanned the code and downloaded an app called *LightWeight*. Signed up, added the device, and it connected via Bluetooth instantly. The interface was simple: a large circle showing weight in the middle, with BMI, body fat, muscle mass, water percentage, bone mass, and BMR below. I stepped on barefoot. The screen lit up, numbers flickered, then settled at 65.2 kg.
The app synced the data. Under my name, a new log appeared:
May 19, 2024, 14:23, 65.0 kg.
Everything was normal.
I placed the scale by the bathroom door and weighed myself after every shower, like checking steps on a smartwatch—a daily habit. The first week was uneventful, just ordinary life: work, eat lunch with colleagues downstairs, order takeout or cook noodles at night, sleep in on weekends.
The changes started in the second week.
It was Friday. I got home late from work. By the time I showered, it was almost midnight. I stepped on the scale out of habit and froze when I looked down.
It wasn't my weight.
The numbers flickered, then stopped at 35.8 kg.
I thought the scale was unbalanced. I bent down, pressed each of the four feet, made sure it was level. Stepped on again. This time it settled at 65.0 kg. Normal.
Probably Bluetooth interference or poor contact. I didn't think much of it.
The next morning, I used the toilet then stepped on the scale to check my fasting weight. The screen lit up, numbers jumped, and stopped at 35.6 kg.
Again.
I knelt down and wiped the surface, thinking dirt might be messing with the sensors. But it was clean—no fingerprints, no dust.
I stepped on and off three times. Every time it showed around 65.1 kg—except the first try, which read the thirties.
I started to feel annoyed. I opened the app to check for firmware updates. Scrolling through device settings, I saw something off.
Under *History*, the past seven days were listed:
May 19 — 65.2 kg
May 20 — 65.3 kg
…
May 25 — 35.6 kg
Wait.
I weighed myself once a day, sometimes twice, but never more than one log per day. I clearly remembered only weighing once on the 24th and 25th, at night after showering. But the app showed records that didn't match my memory at all.
Not just the timestamps—the weights were wrong too.
I tapped into May 24th's details: 65.0 kg. Not 35.8 kg.
So where did the 35.8 kg log come from?
I backed out and looked again. The two entries of 35.8 and 35.6 were not under my profile. They had a gray default avatar and the name *Guest*.
There was a second user on the app.
I never added anyone else. The scale was bound only to my account. Logs should only appear when I weighed myself—unless someone else stepped on it, and the scale detected a different weight profile and created a new user automatically.
But I was the only one living here.
I stared at the gray avatar for over ten seconds, uncomfortable but quickly rationalizing: maybe the sensors glitched, unstable readings tricked it into thinking two different people weighed in. Smart devices bug out all the time, right?
I swiped left on the Guest entry and tapped delete. A prompt appeared: *Deleted data cannot be recovered. Confirm?* I pressed yes. The log vanished.
I thought that was the end of it.
But the next day, a new log appeared.
May 26, 4:02 AM, 35.5 kg.
When I woke up and saw it, I lay stiff in bed for a long while—not scared, just confused. The timestamp was 4:02 in the morning, and I'd been asleep the entire night.
I was sure of it.
I don't sleep well, sensitive to noise. Something dropping upstairs could wake me. If someone had gotten up in the middle of the night, walked to the bathroom, and stepped on the scale, I would have noticed. Especially since the scale was in the hallway right next to the bedroom, less than three meters from my bed.
But I heard nothing.
It was Sunday, no work, so I had plenty of time to figure this out. I removed the scale's batteries, reinserted them, reset the device. I went into the app settings and turned off *auto-detect user*. I even moved the scale to the bedroom door, where I could see it from bed.
Afterward, I sat on the sofa and reasoned: maybe Sister Lin used the scale before, and her data remained in the cache, syncing occasionally due to unstable Bluetooth. Even though she moved out, the scale still stored her profile, appearing as Guest when the connection flickered.
That made sense. Sister Lin didn't look heavy. Thirty-five-odd kilograms was very light, but everyone's body was different. Maybe she was petite.
I messaged Sister Lin, asking if the scale was hers. Two hours later she replied with one word: *Yes*. I asked if she ever had weird data issues. She said no, then stopped replying.
Whatever. It was just an old scale. I could just buy a new one.
But I didn't. Not out of laziness. Because that night, something happened that shifted my feeling toward the scale from "annoying" to something else entirely.
I had a dream that night. I stood below an old residential building, looking up. People leaned out of every window, staring down, but I couldn't see their faces. I tried harder and harder, but only grew more blurred. Then I woke up.
The room was dark. The AC indicator light was the only glow. I turned over to sleep again, and my peripheral vision caught the scale by the bedroom door.
Its screen was on.
Not the dim backlight of standby, but the bright white light of an active weighing. Numbers flickered on the display, as if something was standing on it.
I stared at the screen, mind blank.
The numbers jumped, then settled.
35.3 kg.
The screen stayed lit a few more seconds, then slowly dimmed and turned off completely.
I turned on the light, walked over, and knelt to inspect. The surface was empty, clean. I ran my finger over the glass—it was cold. I stepped on. The screen lit up, showed 65.0 kg, then turned off. Everything functioned normally.
I didn't sleep again that night. I leaned against the headboard smoking cigarette after cigarette, watching the sky outside fade from deep blue to pale gray to white.
At around 4:10 AM, I heard footsteps in the hallway—high heels, clicking from the elevator, passing my door, fading toward the stairwell.
People coming home late at that hour wasn't strange.
But after that, things got worse.
Guest logs appeared every single day, sharp at 4:00 AM, give or take two minutes. The weight kept dropping: 35.5, 35.3, 35.1, getting lighter each time.
I tried everything. Pulled the batteries. The Guest log still appeared that night after reconnecting, as if the scale had its own permanent power source. I put the scale in the closet. Next morning, the log was still there, the scale untouched deep inside. I put it back in its box, shoved it into the balcony storage cabinet, and piled junk on top. Still, the log appeared. The scale hadn't moved.
It didn't need someone to step on it to record a weight.
Or maybe… it wasn't measuring a *person*.
I searched online: *smart scale auto logs extra user*. Most results were technical issues—Bluetooth interference, sync conflicts, app cache errors. People said their scales recorded pets, or kids playing created profiles, or uneven floors gave crazy numbers.
No one mentioned a specific reading of 35 kg.
I noticed a pattern: Guest's weight dropped consistently, by 0.2 to 0.3 kg each day. That didn't seem like random error. It felt like someone was deliberately, slowly losing weight.
The thought sent a chill down my spine.
I don't believe in ghosts, never have. My parents are middle school teachers in our county town; I was raised on materialism. But some things aren't about belief—they're about whether you can explain them.
I needed to find out where this scale came from.
I called Sister Lin. This time she answered. The background was noisy, like a train station or mall. I asked where she bought the scale. She said she couldn't remember, maybe JD.com. I asked if it was new or used. She paused, then said new.
"Sister Lin, when you used it, did it ever log data on its own?"
Silence for a few seconds. "Lu Ming, what exactly are you asking?"
"I just think the scale is acting weird. I wanted to know if you had the same problem."
She said no, then said she was catching a train and to message her later.
After hanging up, I felt she was hiding something. But I couldn't prove it.
Monday afternoon, I took half a day off and went to the property office. It was the same lady as before, around forty, surname Wang, glasses, friendly-looking. I asked about the previous tenant. She said it was private information and couldn't be disclosed.
I said I just wanted to return something the former tenant left behind—a white smart scale. Sister Wang glanced at me, hesitated, then said the previous tenant was a young lady surnamed Shen, who moved out at the end of last year.
"Miss Shen?" I repeated.
"Yes. I don't know details; she rented through an agent."
"What was she like? Easy to get along with?"
Sister Wang thought for a moment. "Quiet. Didn't talk to neighbors much. Aunt Li downstairs mentioned once she was way too thin, looked unhealthy. I told her it's none of our business."
"Too thin?"
"Yeah. Aunt Li said she ran into her in the elevator a few times—skinny as a stick, no flesh on her face." She shook her head. "Young people these days take dieting way too far."
I asked for Miss Shen's contact. She didn't have it. I thanked her and left, the number 35 kg spinning in my head.
Young woman, extremely thin, excessive dieting, moved out at the end of last year. Then Sister Lin moved in, rushed to sublet after less than six months, even losing twelve hundred a month to get out.
I smoked a cigarette downstairs, then decided to ask Aunt Li.
Aunt Li lived in 802. I took the elevator down and rang the doorbell. An elderly woman in her sixties opened the door, gray hair, floral short-sleeve shirt, picking chives.
I introduced myself as the new tenant upstairs and asked about the previous resident of 901. Aunt Li was friendly, invited me in, but I said I'd just talk at the door. I asked directly about Miss Shen.
Aunt Li's expression shifted—not surprised, more like *I knew someone would ask*. She set the chives on the shoe cabinet, wiped her hands. "That girl left about half a year ago."
"Do you know where she moved?"
"Moved?" She repeated softly. "She didn't move out."
I stayed quiet.
Aunt Li looked at me, weighing whether to continue. The hallway was silent except for the hum of the elevator shaft. She finally spoke: "Last December, one night I heard a loud thump from upstairs. I thought she dropped something, didn't pay attention. Next morning property knocked, asking if I heard anything. I said yes, asked what happened. They said Miss Shen was gone."
"Gone how?"
"I don't know details; they didn't say. Later I heard she got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, fainted or something, and never woke up." Aunt Li sighed. "Only in her twenties, so thin. How could her body hold up?"
I stood there, palms sweating.
"How thin was she?"
"Scary thin." She gestured to her arm. "I ran into her once in the elevator, short sleeves. Her arm was this thin. Cheekbones stuck out, eye sockets sunken. Didn't even look alive. I wanted to tell her she needed to eat, but I thought she'd find me nosy. Now I regret it…"
She didn't finish, shook her head, picked up the chives, and went back inside.
The door closing sounded loud in the quiet hallway.
I stood outside 802 for a long time. The elevator went up and down, people came and went, but all I could think about was one looping thought.
Miss Shen didn't move out. She died in that apartment.
It happened last December, nearly half a year ago. The property lied. So did Sister Lin. She knew something had happened there, which was why she rushed to sublet, even losing twelve hundred a month.
The scale belonged to Miss Shen, not Sister Lin. It was already there when Sister Lin moved in. She probably never used it, or used it and quickly realized something was wrong. So she fled, leaving the scale in the wardrobe for the next unlucky person.
I went back to 901, locked the door, didn't turn on the light. Streetlights glowed orange outside, casting blurry patches on the living-room floor. The scale still sat in the hallway by the bedroom door, screen dark, quiet, as if nothing had happened.
But I could never look at it the same way again.
I didn't use the scale that night. After showering, I dried off and deliberately stepped around it in an arc, as if it were something unclean. I uninstalled the app, pried out the scale's batteries, and set them on the dining table. Then I lay in bed and turned off the light.
I set the AC to 23 degrees. The air smelled faintly moldy—not real mold, just my imagination. I knew that.
I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, thinking about Miss Shen. A woman in her twenties, down to 35 kg. That wasn't normal dieting anymore. That was anorexia. People with anorexia have a distorted body image. They always see themselves as fat, never thin enough, always needing to lose more.
She weighed herself every morning at four, because that's when the body is lightest. She wanted to see the smallest possible number. 35 kg, 34, 33… She needed to see the number drop to feel progress.
Then one day, she stepped on the scale, and her body finally gave out.
A loud thud.
Aunt Li heard it.
I turned over, pulling the blanket up to my chin. The AC indicator blinked on and off, like a signal. I stared at it until my eyelids grew heavy, and I finally fell asleep.
I don't know how long I slept, but I know exactly how I woke up.
I was awake.
Consciousness returned first, then physical sensation. My eyes were still closed, but I could feel the dark—not complete blackness, but warm, damp dark. The AC still blew, chilling my bare arms.
Then I heard a sound.
Very soft, very faint, like something being set gently onto a hard floor. Not dropped. Placed. Deliberate, light.
It came from the bedroom doorway.
I snapped my eyes open.
No one was there. The scale still lay in the hallway, batteries removed, screen dark. Everything looked normal.
But my phone was glowing.
It rested by my pillow, suddenly lighting up—not a call, not a notification, just the home screen. The glow lit a small patch of ceiling. I picked it up and saw an app I didn't open.
It was *LightWeight*.
I hadn't reinstalled it. I'd uninstalled it. But there it was, fully open, on the weight log page. The top entry was timestamped just now: 4:03 AM.
Weight: 34.9 kg.
User: Guest.
I stared at the number for so long that the screen timed out and darkness returned. I turned it on again to confirm.
34.9 kg.
She was even lighter.
I set the phone down and slowly sat up. The room was dark, but my eyes had adjusted. I could make out the wardrobe, the curtains, the quiet round shape of the scale.
I got out of bed, barefoot on the cold tile, walking step by step toward it. The cold traveled up from my feet, through my calves, knees, thighs, to my spine. I stood in front of the scale and looked down.
I didn't know why I approached. Maybe to prove something. Maybe because I thought if I didn't face it, it would keep haunting me. I didn't know.
I stepped on.
The screen flared white, stinging my eyes. Numbers jumped: from zero to thirty, fifty, sixty-five, then settled at 65.1 kg. My weight. Normal.
But I knew the scale wasn't showing the whole truth.
Because in the reflection of the glass surface, when the screen lit up, I saw two pairs of feet.
One was mine—bare, toes slightly spread, bearing my weight. The other pair also stood on the scale, transparent but real, right in front of my feet, toes forward, heels slightly lifted, as if tiptoeing.
I recognized that posture. When I was little, every time I stepped on a scale, I'd unconsciously tiptoe, thinking it would make the number smaller.
I didn't scream. Didn't run. Didn't even move. I just stood there, looking down at the transparent feet in the reflection. The screen turned off, then on, off, then on. It flickered several times, showing different numbers each time.
65.1, 34.9, 65.0, 34.8, 64.9, 34.7.
It was weighing two people.
One living. One not.
And the second number kept falling. 34.7, 34.6, 34.5. Each flash, a little lighter. She was still dieting. Even like this, she was still dieting. She stepped on the scale every morning at four, checked her weight, and found it still not enough. She needed to be lighter.
How light would she have to be to stop?
How light to feel satisfied?
Slowly, slowly, I stepped off the scale. The transparent feet didn't move. The screen lit once more, showing only one number: 34.4 kg.
Then it went dark and didn't turn on again.
I backed up to the bed and sat down, legs trembling. The AC still blew, raising goosebumps. I couldn't tell if it was from cold or something else.
My phone lit up again.
I picked it up. It was a notification from the *LightWeight* app. Not a sync alert, not a connection confirmation. It looked like an automated system message—but I knew it wasn't.
Only one line in the notification bar:
*Lost more weight today. So happy.*