Have you ever experienced something like this? You know you shouldn't say certain things in front of the dead, but the words slip out anyway. You think it's just a casual remark—what harm could it do?
Then you turn back, and there she is, sitting in front of the mirror, dabbing lipstick onto her lips. She turns her head, her lips as red as a freshly bitten wound, and asks you, "Does it look good?"
Alright, let me start from the beginning.
My name is Song Xuan. I'm twenty-six, and I work as a mortician. My dad gave me this name—he said when I was born, the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck three times, my face turned purple, and I barely survived. So he named me Xuan, meaning "hanging by a thread."
Now that I do this job, it's almost like fate.
I've worked at Chuncheng Funeral Home for three years. My uncle got me this job—he works at the Civil Affairs Bureau. Back then, he patted my shoulder and said, "Xiao Xuan, this job's stable. Recession-proof, and there's always business."
He said it with such sincerity, like he was really looking out for my future. I'd just graduated then, with a degree in fine arts. I'd spent three years painting plaster statues, only to find the market had zero demand for plaster artists.
Being a mortician at least relates to art—it means my two-hundred-yuan makeup brush set wouldn't go to waste. So I took the job.
Working at a funeral home isn't as mysterious as outsiders think. In my first three years there, I never encountered anything supernatural—no heavy yin energy, no midnight sobbing, no shadowy figures at the end of the hallway.
The real funeral home is just an administrative building with somber decor. It has a cafeteria, time clocks, monthly expense reports, and soul-crushing staff meetings. I arrive at 8:30 every morning, put on my white coat, wait for the schedule, then get to work.
We have four makeup rooms, lined up in a row with numbered signs on the doors. The AC runs year-round—not to preserve the deceased, but because the rooms face west and get scorching hot in the afternoon. Without AC, we'd be the ones turning into corpses first.
The rooms are sparse: a stainless steel gurney, a rolling cart with my toolbox, and a sink at the back. A mirror hangs on the wall—it's my least favorite thing, but it's bolted there, can't take it down. Sometimes after finishing makeup, I stand up and glance at the mirror, seeing the white sheet's silhouette on the gurney. For a split second, I think something might move underneath.
Of course, it never does. At least not in the first three years.
I have a colleague called Sister Wang. She's in her forties, been doing this for nearly twenty years—the most senior mortician in the place. She has a round, friendly face that reminds you of the kind neighbor lady on TV, but her hands are incredibly steady.
I once watched her reconstruct a traffic accident victim's face. Four hours straight, her hands moved like precision instruments—over three hundred stitches, each perfectly spaced. When she finished, the family knelt and cried.
Sister Wang pulled me aside and said three things I'll never forget.
"First, don't wear a mask when applying makeup. The family will see powder on your mask, and it upsets them.
Second, always remember you're dealing with someone who once lived. Don't treat them like an object, but don't treat them like they're still alive either.
Third"—she paused, looking me in the eye—"never say 'beautiful,' 'peaceful,' or 'looks like they're sleeping' when doing makeup."
I asked, "Why?"
Sister Wang didn't answer directly. She just said, "Rules are rules."
The funeral home has many rules. Some I understand—like knocking three times before entering a makeup room, even if there's no one inside. It's about respect, like knocking before entering a living person's home. Others I don't—like no red items in the toolbox. I had a dark red brush for mixing lip color; Sister Wang made me replace it the first time she saw it. "Red attracts things," she said. When I asked what things, she didn't answer.
As for not saying "beautiful," "peaceful," or "looks like sleeping"—I never took it seriously. Those are normal things to say! Families say them all the time—"My dad passed so peacefully," "My mom looks like she's just sleeping." If they can say it, why can't we? I even thought Sister Wang was just superstitious—you pick up habits after doing this job too long. I saw her carry a small cloth pouch around her waist, never letting it out of her sight.
But me? I nodded along, but didn't really care. That was probably where everything started.
It happened this March. A Wednesday—I remember clearly because the cafeteria served braised pork, and I'd been craving it all morning. I had two appointments in the morning: an old man and a middle-aged man, nothing special. In the afternoon, I had an old lady—Mrs. Lin, eighty-one years old, cause of death listed as "cardiac arrest." A peaceful passing, all things considered.
Mrs. Lin arrived at two in the afternoon. When I lifted the sheet, my heart skipped a beat—she looked too peaceful. Some deceased show signs of struggle; others develop an ashen gray from the freezer. But Mrs. Lin was different. Her expression was calm, eyes closed, lips slightly upturned as if she'd just had a good dream. Her silver hair was neatly combed—her family must have tidied her up.
She looked a lot like my grandma. I wasn't there when Grandma passed; by the time I arrived, she was already in the freezer. That might be why I lost my guard later.
I started applying her makeup. First the base, evening out her skin tone. Her skin was thin, veins still visible, so I didn't use heavy foundation—just blended the uneven patches. Then the eyebrows—she had nice ones already, just needed a touch-up. Finally the lip color—I mixed a light rose shade, dabbing it on gently.
The whole time, she lay there quietly, serene, like an old lady napping in the sun.
Then the words slipped out.
"Grandma looks so peaceful, like she's sleeping."
I said it casually, softly, almost to myself. I didn't even realize there was a problem. My colleague Zhang Wei was packing up the cart nearby; when he heard me, his hands froze for a split second. His expression changed, just for a moment, then he went back to packing.
He said nothing.
I didn't care either. After finishing the last touches, I packed my tools, adjusted Mrs. Lin's collar, covered her with the sheet, and went out to wash my hands. There's a sink in the makeup room, but we never use it—it's an unspoken rule. Like staying an extra second in there makes you uneasy.
Public restroom at the end of the hallway. I turned on the tap, squeezed soap, scrubbed, rinsed, dried. The whole thing took maybe three minutes. The hallway was quiet—this time of day wasn't busy, just faint voices from the lobby where families handled paperwork. The fluorescent light buzzed above; it needed replacing, flickering annoyingly.
I remembered leaving that dark red brush on the cart. Sister Wang said red things shouldn't stay overnight. So I turned around and headed back.
I pushed open the makeup room door.
The sheet was still on the gurney, but its shape was wrong. It sagged, like there was nothing underneath.
My toolbox was open. The dark red lipstick I'd hidden was gone.
Then I saw what was behind the gurney.
Mrs. Lin—Grandma—was sitting on the gurney. Her back was to me, facing the mirror on the wall. Her posture was straight—nothing like an eighty-one-year-old should be. In her right hand, she held a lipstick, dabbing it onto her lips slowly, carefully, like painting a detailed brushstroke.
My legs reacted first. They wanted to run, but felt like they were filled with cement—couldn't move an inch. My back hit the doorframe; the cold metal jolted me, but my legs still wouldn't budge. A chill crawled up from my tailbone to the back of my neck. My scalp tingled like ants crawling on it, every hair standing on end, screaming at my brain: What you're seeing shouldn't exist.
My toolbox sat by the cart, open. The second compartment was empty—that's where I kept the lipstick. That empty space stared at me like a silent accusation, pinning me in place.
Then she turned her head.
Slowly, naturally—like an old lady hearing a noise at the door and turning to look. Her body didn't move, just her head, twisting at a normal, living person's angle. The face I'd spent forty minutes painting was now facing me. The foundation was flawless, eyebrows natural, lips bright red—much redder than the rose shade I'd mixed, unnaturally red.
She smiled at me.
Then she spoke.
"Does it look good?"
Her voice was soft, dry, with a faint wheeze—like someone who hadn't drunk water in days. But every word was clear, enunciated perfectly. That voice entered my ears, crawled down the auditory canal, and exploded in the part of my brain that handles fear.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to do anything. But my body was frozen. I could only stare at her, lips trembling, making a sound like "ah."
She asked again.
"Does Grandma look good?"
This time her mouth stretched wider. It was shaped like a smile, but there was nothing smiling about it. The corners of her mouth were pulled up by something invisible, to an angle no normal muscle could reach. The lipstick looked even redder in that grin—red like a freshly cut wound.
I don't remember how I ran out. My memory breaks from the second question; the next thing I know, I'm in the hallway. I'm running, stumbling, shoulder hitting the wall, knocking down the fire safety checklist. The lights are still flickering, making the whole world look like a broken projector.
I burst into the next makeup room. Sister Wang was there, arranging a deceased person's clothes. She looked up, saw my face, dropped everything, and dragged me out.
"Did you say it?" she asked, her voice low.
I nodded, unable to speak, shaking all over.
"Which one?"
"I said... I said Grandma looks so peaceful, like she's sleeping—" My voice came out strangled, like someone was squeezing my throat.
Sister Wang's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't scold me or sigh. She just dragged me to the lounge at the end of the hall and poured me a cup of hot water. The water was so hot it warped the disposable cup. I held it, hands shaking, and only realized I could feel pain when the hot water spilled and burned my hand.
"Sit still," Sister Wang said, then left.
She was gone about ten minutes. In that time, I sat on a plastic chair in the lounge, staring at the "Funeral Home Rules" poster on the wall. Rule Four: "Maintain silence, no noise." Rule Eight: "Treat the deceased with respect." There was no rule about not saying "beautiful," "peaceful," or "looks like sleeping." That was just Sister Wang's oral rule, not written anywhere.
But it felt more real than any written rule.
When Sister Wang came back, her face was grim. She held that dark red lipstick, placing it on the table in front of me.
"I got it back," she said. "Dispose of it yourself tomorrow. Don't bring it home."
"She..." I started, still trembling.
"It's over," Sister Wang cut me off. "Don't ask now. Don't work overtime tonight. Go home early. Take a hot shower, drink some alcohol, sleep. When you come to work tomorrow, don't mention this again."
"But—"
"Don't mention it."
Sister Wang's tone was final, just like when she told me those three rules. I opened my mouth, but said nothing.
I didn't go home that night. I was scared to be alone. I called my college classmate Zhou Yang, said I wanted to crash at his place for dinner. Zhou Yang works at an ad agency—totally different world from mine—but he has one good quality: he never asks questions. I said I was upset, so he opened two beers, ordered fried chicken, and sat on the balcony chatting with me. He rambled about how stupid his clients were; I listened, but nothing registered.
That night I slept on his couch, lights on, unable to close my eyes. Every time I closed them, I saw her turning to smile at me, those blood-red lips. "Does it look good?" That voice played on loop in my head, like a song I couldn't turn off.
The next day, I went to work as usual. Not because I was brave, but because I had to live, living meant earning money, earning money meant working. It's a cruel, simple logic. Sister Wang was already there when I arrived. She looked me up and down, probably thought I was holding up okay, and nodded.
"Did you dispose of it?" she asked.
I said I'd thrown it in the trash on my way in. I lied—the lipstick was still in my bag. I don't know why I kept it, like how you keep a blood-stained jacket after a car accident even though you should burn it. Maybe because it's the only proof that what you experienced was real.
The morning passed uneventfully. Zhang Wei gave me a weird look when he saw me, but said nothing. I didn't bring up what happened either. That's the good thing about the funeral home—everyone has an unspoken rule: don't talk about what shouldn't be talked about.
At lunch in the cafeteria, braised pork was replaced by shredded pork with scrambled eggs. My mood plummeted along with the menu. Sister Wang sat across from me, chewing bean sprouts, when she suddenly spoke.
"Do you know why you can't say those three things?"
I looked up.
"I'll tell you today, so you don't worry," Sister Wang put down her chopsticks, wiped her mouth. "'Beautiful,' 'peaceful,' 'looks like sleeping'—these are compliments. Living people like being complimented, and when living people compliment each other, it's just courtesy. But when you compliment someone who's passed away? What do you call that?"
"What?" I asked.
"You call it disturbing," Sister Wang said each word slowly. "When you say she's peaceful, she knows she's gone. When you say she looks like she's sleeping, she'll think—am I really just sleeping? Once she starts thinking that, she won't lie still anymore."
My hand holding the chopsticks froze.
"If you say she's beautiful, she'll want to look in the mirror, to see just how beautiful she is." Sister Wang stuffed the last piece of steamed bun into her mouth, chewed, then said, "So don't compliment. Don't linger. Don't look back."
"Don't look back?" I noticed that third "don't."
"You looked back yesterday, didn't you?"
I said nothing.
Sister Wang gave me a look—one of those tired looks only someone who's been there can give. "Forget it," she said. "I made the same mistake when I was young. Just remember: if it happens again, don't look back. Walk straight out, close the door, then wash your hands three times."
"Will that make it okay?"
"At least your hands will be clean." Sister Wang stood up, took her tray, and left.
In the afternoon, I had another appointment—a middle-aged woman who'd passed from illness. The family specifically asked for her to look lively. I said nothing the whole time, only using my hands and eyes. When I finished and covered her with the sheet, I turned and walked out without looking back. I washed my hands three times—no more, no less.
For the next week, everything was normal. So normal that I started to wonder if that afternoon was just a hallucination from being too tired. This job is stressful; hallucinations happen sometimes, right? I even started convincing myself—the lipstick was already on her lips, I just misremembered. The old lady sitting up? Maybe I saw my own reflection in the mirror wrong.
I built up that mental defense for a week. Then on the seventh night, it crumbled.
I was working overtime that day—nothing special, just filing records, entering the past month's makeup reports into the system. Sister Wang hates this task; she's slow at typing, so I always do it. I sat in the office, typing away at the computer until almost nine. The night shift staff had already taken over; I was the only one left in the admin building. Two-thirds of the hallway lights were off, leaving only emergency lights—dim, like a horror movie set.
I shut down the computer, grabbed my bag, and walked out. As I passed the lobby, I glanced toward the makeup rooms.
At the end of the hallway, a makeup room door was ajar. There was light coming from inside.
The light flickered, not steady—definitely not the white fluorescent light. It was warm yellow, dancing—like candlelight.
I stood in the lobby, staring down that hallway. My heartbeat echoed in the empty space. A voice in my head said: Leave. Now. Don't care about the light. Just go out the door, drive home. But my feet were already moving toward it.
I walked slowly, each step making a scraping sound on the tile floor. The hallway was maybe twenty meters long, but it felt like twenty kilometers.
The door was indeed ajar. Warm yellow light spilled through the crack, flickering. I smelled something—a faint scent that didn't belong in a funeral home. It was an old-fashioned fragrance, powdery—face powder, osmanthus hair oil, and something else I couldn't name. Together, it smelled like my grandma's room when I was little.
I pushed the door open.
The room was empty. The gurney was bare; the sheet folded neatly on the side. My toolbox was locked. The mirror hung quietly on the wall, reflecting the room's fluorescent light—which was off.
Where was that light coming from?
I turned around and saw it. Under the cart, something white was glowing. I knelt down, reached under, and pulled it out.
It was a white candle, half burned down. Wax dripped onto the floor, forming a small pool like solidified fat. Next to the candle was a photo. By the candlelight, I saw who was in it—it was me. I was wearing my white coat, standing in the makeup room, drawing eyebrows on someone's face. The angle was weird, like taken from a strange position. The image was blurry, but I could tell it was me.
There was writing on the back. I flipped it over. Only one line, the handwriting messy like a child's first attempt.
"Next time you do Grandma's makeup, remember to use this color."
Below the words was a lipstick mark. Dark red.
I knelt there, holding the photo, blood running cold. In the photo, I was focused on my work, completely unaware. So the question is—who took this photo? From what angle? There was no third person in the makeup room besides me and the deceased.
Unless... the photo was taken from the gurney's perspective.
The candle flame flickered, went out for a split second, then relit. In that moment of darkness and light, all the shadows in the room seemed to stretch. I stood up abruptly, knocking the candle over—it went out completely, plunging the room into darkness. In the dark, I fumbled for the doorknob, twisted it, and ran out, not looking back, sprinting toward the main entrance.
There was no sound behind me. But that feeling of being watched clung to my back like a layer of film I couldn't shake off.
I drove home, running two red lights. The first thing I did when I got home was take the lipstick out of my bag and throw it in the trash. Then I stared at the trash can for thirty seconds, picked it back out, wrapped it in three layers of plastic, and stuffed it in the back of the freezer. I don't know why I did that—like how someone hides a murder weapon instead of destroying it in a panic. Maybe hiding is just human instinct, not destroying.
That night I sat on my bed for a long time. Every light in the house was on—bedroom, living room, kitchen. My electricity bill would definitely be through the roof next month, but I didn't care. I stared at my phone, debating whether to call Sister Wang. It was one in the morning. I decided against it.
In the end, I made a decision.