When the phone screen buzzed on the nightstand, I was dreaming I was trapped in a maze made entirely of doorframes.
Behind each doorframe was another door, another identical living room—the sofa, coffee table, TV cabinet all draped in white cloth. Beneath the cloth were the outlines of furniture, like rows of silent graves.
I stood among those doorframes, heard someone behind me say: "You forgot your keys."
I woke up. Phone still buzzing. The screen showed "Customer," no saved name. Three forty-two AM.
A 3:42 AM lockout call wasn't the most absurd thing in my six-year career as a locksmith.
Once at two AM I got a call—guy said he'd locked himself out on his balcony. I went. He was indeed on the balcony, but he lived on the twelfth floor, the balcony wasn't enclosed, and he was crouched outside the railing in his underwear, saying he'd gone out for a smoke and the wind had blown the door shut.
Another time was weirder. Four AM, a woman called me to open the community gate—her access card wouldn't scan after walking the dog. The dog was well-behaved, squatting beside me watching me dig out tools without a sound.
So when I got the call I didn't think much. Rolled out of bed, asked for the address, slung my tool bag over my shoulder and headed out.
The building was in the old part of town. Eight floors, no elevator. Three streetlights were broken, but the motion-sensor light at the building entrance worked—just yellow, shining on the peeling wall tiles like a coat of old wax.
I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. No one else in the stairwell. The motion-sensor lights lit up one floor at a time beneath my feet, then went out—the floors behind me went completely dark, not even moonlight. Behind the building was another building, the two pressed too close, the gap between them too narrow even for a cat.
The door to 501 was an old-style security door, the lock cylinder AB grade—three minutes tops for me. When I squatted down to dig out my tools, I noticed a thin scratch on the edge of the doorframe, like something had gouged it hard from the inside. The metal surface had curled up into a lip.
I didn't think much of it. Old houses, any mark could be from furniture scraping during a move.
After I opened the door, I instinctively glanced inside. Occupational habit—after unlocking, always confirm someone actually lives there, make sure a thief isn't having me break into someone else's home.
The lights were on. The fluorescent tube on the ceiling *zzt*-ed twice before steadying, lighting up the living room. Sofa, coffee table, TV cabinet, the floor lamp standing in the corner—all covered in white cloth.
The white cloth was new, creases neat, like it had just been draped. The floor was clean—you could walk barefoot and not pick up dust.
A man stood by the door. Thirtyish, wearing a grayish jacket. When I turned to look at him, he shrank back behind the doorframe, half his face hidden in shadow, only a chin and half a mouth visible.
He said: "Lost my keys, can't get back in." Voice flat, like reciting a memorized line.
I said the place looked like no one had lived there in a long time.
He said right, he was the landlord, come to check the water pipes. Added: this place hadn't been lived in for a long time.
I said fine, then I'll replace the cylinder, your lock's aged, even if you find the keys it'll be tough to turn. He didn't answer, just pulled a 100-yuan note from his inner jacket pocket and held it out.
The light drew a line at the boundary between hallway and room. When his arm crossed that line, his whole hand lit up for an instant, then drew back. He never stepped over the threshold.
I took the money, gave him a business card, said if you lose your keys again just call, day or night. He took it without looking, stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
On my way down I ran into an old woman at the fourth-floor landing, carrying a plastic bag with a few scallions and a box of tofu.
She saw me coming down, her eyes paused on my face, then moved to my tool bag, then said nothing, turning sideways to let me pass. She walked fast, the plastic bag swinging, scallion leaves dangling from the opening. I didn't think much, just wanted to get home and catch up on sleep.
At home I tossed the tool bag in the entryway, draped my jacket over the back of a chair, pulled out my wallet and threw it on the table. The 100-yuan note was tucked in the wallet. When I pulled it out, the color seemed darker than usual.
I turned on the light, held it up to look. The watermark on the bill was blurred, the portrait's face looked like paper that had been soaked in water and dried, features mashed into a lump.
I flipped the bill over. On the blank space on the back was a line of small handwriting. The ink had dried, strokes thin, like someone had traced it out bit by bit with a ballpoint pen tip: "Resident registered."
I froze for about three seconds, then dug a UV light out of my tool bag and shone it on the bill. The fluorescent number that should have appeared on real currency didn't react at all.
I pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight, and examined the bill closely under the light. The paper still felt right, but the color was wrong, the printing was wrong, the watermark was wrong—all the anti-counterfeit features were wrong.
This was ghost money. Hell money. Made so well it could almost pass for real.
I slapped the bill on the table, sat for a while. Four-thirty AM, outside the window still dark, a car passing occasionally, its headlights sweeping through the curtain gap to slide a line of light across the ceiling.
I told myself maybe I'd misread it in the dark. Maybe the guy didn't know it was fake either—someone had scammed him, and he'd passed it to me. Happens in our trade sometimes, someone pays for a ride with fake money, then calls a locksmith and passes the fake bill along.
But what about "Resident registered"? Who would handwrite those words on hell money? For whom?
I lay back down, tossed and turned until dawn. Around seven I couldn't lie still anymore, got up, dressed, and rode my bike to that building. On the way I bought two steamed buns and a cup of soy milk, ate them standing downstairs, looking up at the fifth floor.
501's windows had the curtains drawn—gray, couldn't tell if the lights were on inside. I wanted to go up and look, but it felt too forward, knocking on someone's door in broad daylight asking "the money you gave me last night was fake"?
I lingered downstairs for ten-plus minutes, finally decided to go up. Treat it as a customer follow-up, remind him the lock cylinder needed replacing, and while I was at it, take out the fake bill and ask. I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, rounded the landing, saw the door to 501.
The door was open. The security door fully open, the door panel flat against the wall, the doorway behind it empty, fluorescent light spilling out, laying a rectangle of brightness on the gray concrete floor of the hallway. The light was still on.
My heart started pounding, but the beat still held to the rhythm of "there's probably a reasonable explanation." I took a step forward, peeked inside.
The living room was almost exactly as I'd left it last night, all the furniture draped in white cloth, the fluorescent tube *zzt*-ing. But someone was sitting on the sofa. The person sat with their back to the door, right in the middle of the sofa, the white cloth bunched up around him where he sat.
He was wearing a jacket identical to mine—dark gray, with a ballpoint pen mark on the left shoulder. I'd scraped that on last week when replacing a lock cylinder.
His hair was the same length as mine, same style, the cowlick at the back of his head the same—offset left. When I was little my mom used to call it a "reverse swirl," meant stubbornness. His sitting posture was the same as mine too, back slightly hunched, hands resting on his knees, like he was waiting for something.
My feet were backing up on their own. One step, two steps, then I turned and walked toward the stairwell, trying not to make a sound.
My heart was beating fast, but my steps were steady. In our trade, the first instinct in an emergency is always steady hands, steady legs, don't drop the tools, don't panic.
I reached the stairwell, one hand already on the railing, when a voice came from behind. It came from about five or six meters back, not loud, but very clear—so clear that every word felt like it was spoken right against my ear.
"Bring your keys next time."
I didn't turn around, didn't stop, took the stairs three at a time going down. On the fourth floor I ran into the old woman from yesterday, coming out of her apartment, still carrying that plastic bag—this time with a bunch of water spinach and a fish wrapped in newspaper inside.
I nearly crashed into her. She stepped back, glanced at me. That look, same as last night—paused on my face, moved to my jacket, paused again. I said, Auntie, is someone living in the fifth-floor unit?
She said the fifth floor? No one lives there. Been empty four or five years. After the previous tenant moved out, it never got rented again.
I said then last night I... I swallowed the rest of the sentence. The old woman looked at me, her expression not quite fear, more like a calm "you finally get it." She said you're a locksmith, right. I said yes. She said don't come here at night, no one here calls for locksmiths at night.
She closed her door. I stood at the fourth-floor stairwell, still clutching that hell money. I flipped it over, the line on the back still there: "Resident registered."
I suddenly understood something—last night that man said "I'm the landlord, this place hasn't been lived in for a long time," then gave me money. He specifically emphasized "no one lives here," telling me not to take the money, that if I took it I couldn't leave. But I took it. I became a resident of that unit.
I rode home, calculating this the whole way. The fake bill I could pretend I never received—worst case I lose a hundred yuan.
But what did "resident" mean? A virtual registration? Or was the "me" sitting on that sofa some kind of consequence?
I remembered a colleague mentioning something to me years ago. He said there's a rule in locksmithing—if you open a lock in the middle of the night and the lights are on inside but the person says no one lives there, don't take the money, lock the door and leave fast.
He'd been vague about it then, like a hearsay anecdote. I'd listened to it as a story, didn't take it to heart. Now that story had found me.
I parked my bike, went upstairs, opened the door, went in.
Everything normal. I sat on my own sofa in a daze for a bit, opened my phone and searched "locksmith midnight rules."
The results were all paranormal posts, various versions, but the core was the same—late at night someone calls a locksmith, the door opens and the lights are on inside, the person says no one lives there, don't take the money, if you take it you take the "vacancy" slot.
What does taking the slot mean? Replies under the post said it means that unit needs someone to live in it. If you don't take the money, there's no transaction—lock the door and leave, it counts as never having entered.
Take the money and the move-in procedure is complete. The unit's "vacancy" transfers to you. From then on you become that unit's "resident"—no matter where you actually live, you have to go back in the middle of the night.
I tossed my phone aside, told myself not to believe it. This stuff is all made up, nine and a half out of ten posts online are fake.
I've been a locksmith for six years, seen all kinds of weird things, and every time there was a reasonable explanation in the end. It's daylight, I'll go again, knock on the old woman's door and ask, maybe she just didn't want me working at night disturbing her.
Maybe that unit really does have a landlord, just an odd one. Maybe that bill was one I'd taken somewhere else and it got mixed in, nothing to do with yesterday's job.
So I talked myself through it, got up and boiled water, made a cup of tea. When the fragrance of tea leaves rose up, I felt better.
Daytime was daytime. Sunlight streamed in through the window, the room bright and clear, all that supernatural nonsense was just thoughts churning in the brain at night. I stood at the window holding my teacup looking out—downstairs someone was walking a dog, kids riding bikes, the soy milk cart at the intersection puffing white steam.
Normal world. Normal enough that I wanted to laugh at myself.
After tea I washed the cup, splashed water on my face. In the mirror, the skin under my eyes was a bit dark, everything else normal, same hairstyle, that ballpoint pen mark still on my left shoulder.
I looked at that mark, thought about it—seemed a bit lighter than yesterday. Not obvious, just the kind of faintness you get from staring too long, an illusion.
I took off the jacket and looked at the back. The marker's blue was indeed lighter, originally dark blue, now looking like it had been waterlogged. I told myself maybe the color faded when I washed it, even though I'd just washed this jacket last week.
In the afternoon I took a job—a girl had locked her keys in her car. I went, opened it, got paid, all normal. I checked the money against the sunlight twice, it was real.
Evening I took another one—old woman went out to dump trash and the wind blew the door shut. Normal lock, normal open, normal payment. On the way home I even bought a grilled sausage, the vendor overpaid me fifty cents and I gave it back. A normal day.
At night I lay in bed scrolling my phone, started getting drowsy around nine. I turned off the light to sleep, and when I closed my eyes I heard a sound. Very faint, like coming from far away, but also like it was right next door.
It was that *zzt* of an old fluorescent tube starting up, one pulse at a time, unstable, like the tube trying repeatedly to light. I opened my eyes, the room was dark, couldn't see anything. The *zzt* stopped. I closed my eyes again, heard it again.
This time a bit clearer. *Zzt*... *zzt*... with a faint *pop* in between, that brief crackling sound a tube makes when the power connects.
I sat up, turned on the bedside lamp. The sound disappeared. I lay back down, turned off the light. The *zzt* came back—this time I could make it out more clearly. The sound wasn't in my room. It was in my head.
More precisely, at the back-left of my skull, like a tiny speaker pressed against the inner wall of my cranium playing a recording. The recording wasn't long—the *zzt* for a while, then the low hum of a fluorescent tube stabilizing, then silence. On loop.
I rolled over, pressed the pillow over my head. The sound was still there. I sat up, turned on the light, sat in bed staring at the opposite wall. On the wall hung an ink painting I'd bought at a night market years ago—a mountain with a small pavilion on top.
I looked at that painting, and a thought suddenly popped into my head. The living room wall of that unit also had a painting hanging on it, covered in white cloth. The outline under the cloth was about the same height and size as this one.
I forced myself to stop thinking. I opened my phone, played a crosstalk comedy, turned the volume up all the way, drowning out that *zzt* sound. Don't know when I fell asleep, but the next morning my phone was dead, the crosstalk had played all night.
For the next three days I took eleven jobs, day and night. I deliberately packed my schedule, worked during the day, came home and crashed at night.
That *zzt* sound would still surface sometimes right as I was falling asleep. I'd turn on the light, scroll my phone until I was too exhausted to stay awake, then turn off the light. It would bother me for half an hour or so, then quit.
I didn't go back to that building, didn't look up those posts anymore. Some things, if you just don't touch them, they fade on their own. That's what I told myself.
On the fourth afternoon, I passed by a wet market near that building. I hadn't gone out of my way—it was on the only road to a customer's place, that building was diagonally across the intersection, and when I rode past I could see it in my peripheral vision.
I turned my head for a glance. Fifth-floor windows had curtains drawn, gray, same as before. I turned back, pedaled twice, couldn't resist another look. The corner of the curtain moved, like someone inside had lifted a crack to peek out. But the distance was too far, could've been the wind.
That night when I got home, I found a small slip of paper stuck in the keyhole as I went to unlock my door. I pulled it out—it was a business card. My business card.
On the back, in ballpoint pen, four words. The handwriting was very familiar, because it matched my own writing habit: "Remember your keys." I flipped the card to the front—my name and phone number printed on it, no mistake, the same batch I'd had printed.
But I'd never given out a card at that building. That "landlord" had taken it without even looking.
I stood at the door, keys clutched in my hand, that door suddenly feeling a bit unfamiliar. I'd lived here three years, knew every scratch, every loose spot, but in that moment I felt maybe behind that door wasn't my living room.
It took me about ten seconds to convince myself to open the door. Inside, everything was normal, lights on—I'd forgotten to turn them off when I left. In the key tray on the shoe cabinet lay my other spare key set, jacket draped over the chair back. Nothing different.
But I still turned on every light in the apartment, including the kitchen and bathroom, then sat on the sofa and turned on the TV to a loud variety show. Host laughing, guests goofing, audience applauding—I cranked the volume to thirty. Loud enough that the neighbor came knocking.
On the fifth morning, when I went out, I saw a key ring on the shoe cabinet by the door. It wasn't mine—three keys, two large ones like security door keys, one small one like a mailbox lock.
I picked it up to look. A small piece of white tape was stuck to it, with "501" written in ballpoint pen. Yesterday when I went out, the shoe cabinet was empty. The day before, also empty.
I wasn't even sure whether this key ring had appeared today or had been there since yesterday—I just noticed it today.
I put the keys back on the shoe cabinet, went out, closed the security door with twice my usual force. The latch *clicked* into place. I went to work, and at noon when I bought a rice ball at the convenience store, I saw that hell money.
It was tucked in the card slot in the inner layer of my wallet. I'd planned to take it to the bank to exchange—of course I knew the bank wouldn't exchange it for me, but I could try telling the teller "I accidentally took a fake bill" and surrender it.
But the bank was too crowded that morning, so I left, forgot about it. Now I opened the wallet to get change, and that hell money was tucked among several real bills, a gray edge peeking out. I closed my wallet, didn't buy anything, walked out of the convenience store.
I felt I should go back to that building one more time.
On the way there I gave myself a full psychological prep. Daytime, broad daylight, downstairs an old woman buying vegetables, old men playing chess, cell phone has signal, 110 goes through.
I'd go return that hell money to that "landlord," tell him I wasn't taking the money, the job was on the house, I understood the rules now, wouldn't come again. I brought the keys too—if those keys at the door were his, I'd return them, call it even.
The fifth-floor hallway looked much nicer in daylight than at night. The wall covering was the same, but light came in through the small window at the stair landing, casting shadows on the floor.
501's door was closed this time, but when I pushed, it opened again. Unlocked. The security door's cylinder looked like it had been removed, the door panel ajar, giving way at a touch. The fluorescent light was still on, the *zzt* sound clear this time.
I stood at the doorway, didn't go in. The room was the same—white cloth, furniture outlines, a person sitting on the sofa. The person sat with his back to me, wearing my jacket, hair with that same left-offset cowlick as mine. He didn't move, I didn't move. After about ten-plus seconds, he said: "You're here."
Voice same as that night, not loud, but clear. I said I came to return the money. I pulled that hell money out of my wallet, held it up, didn't cross the threshold.
"I'm not taking the money, the job doesn't count, I brought the keys too." I pulled that ring of 501 keys from my pocket, placed them on the floor inside the threshold along with the hell money. I stepped back one step.
The person on the sofa slowly turned around. He didn't stand, just rotated at the waist, upper body twisting toward me. I saw that face. My face.
The shape of the eyes, nose, mouth all the same, only the expression was blank, like someone just woken up who remembers nothing, trying to identify something. He looked at the hell money and keys I'd placed on the floor, lips moving. He said: "You've already moved in."
I said I hadn't. I don't live here, I have my own home.
His voice didn't fluctuate: "Only residents can see. If you see, you're a resident."
After saying this he turned his face back around, back to me, hands on his knees, exactly the same as the first time I'd seen him.
I stood at the door, palms starting to sweat. What he said circled in my head—others couldn't see. Then what about that old woman? Did she see an empty sofa or this "me"? What about the neighbors next door?
When they heard sounds from this unit in the middle of the night, what did they think it was? I remembered running into that old woman on my way down that night, the way she looked at me, looked at my jacket. What she saw might not have been a person, but she saw that jacket.
That jacket with the ballpoint pen mark. She recognized it as coming from that "unoccupied" unit.
I bent down, picked up the hell money and keys, stuffed them back in my pocket. When I turned to go downstairs I didn't run, walked step by step, even pace. The fourth-floor old woman's door was closed, I didn't stop to knock.
I reached the first floor, pushed open the building entrance, sunlight poured over me. I stood in the sun with my eyes closed for a moment. The sun was hot, there was wind, in the distance car horns, haggling at the wet market.
I pulled out my phone and called a colleague I knew. He'd worked on the east side of town for over a decade, more experienced than me.
When the call connected I told him the story. Halfway through, he cut me off: "Is that building at the intersection of Garden Road and Construction Road?" I said yes. He went silent for a few seconds: "The fifth-floor unit of that building—someone died there four years ago.
The male owner forgot his keys at night, climbed over from the neighbor's balcony, fell. After that the unit stayed empty. Sometimes the lights come on at night—no one lives there, the lights come on by themselves."
I asked him about the rules? He said the rule is, if you run into it, don't take the money, if you take it you're in trouble. I asked what kind of trouble.
He said he wasn't clear on the specifics, but another colleague he knew had taken a similar job over a decade ago, taken the money. Afterward that guy kept saying someone was calling him to come open a door in the middle of the night, and if he didn't go, his own door would start rattling on its own.
Later that guy moved three times. Each time, on the third day after moving, the new place's door lock would lock from the inside, key wouldn't open it. After that, the guy quit the trade. Where he went, no one knows.
I hung up, stood at the intersection. The wind blew a plastic bag up against my pant leg. I looked down—somewhere along the way that hell money had fallen from my pocket, drifting onto the tiles, corners curling in the wind then settling.
The four words "Resident registered" faced up, strokes neat, like they'd been carved on.
I went home, locked every door and window, including that small awkward bathroom window that never shut properly. Then I sat on the sofa, laid that hell money and that key ring on the coffee table, stared at them.
The fluorescent tube *zzt*-ed on the ceiling. I looked up—that tube I'd replaced three months ago, shouldn't be making that sound. But I didn't turn it off, let it buzz. Better with sound than without.
That night I fell asleep, and in the dream returned to that maze of doorframes. I stood before each open doorframe, behind each door the same room—white cloth, fluorescent light, that person sitting on the sofa with his back to me.
Every time he turned his head, every time he had my face. Every time he spoke the same words, voice flat as if reading from a script: "Bring your keys next time."
I woke up. The phone screen was lit, one unread text from an unknown number. Just six words: "Door's unlocked, come back." I sat up, glanced at the shoe cabinet—that ring of 501 keys was gone.
I walked to the door, reached out and pulled the handle of the security door. It opened. I had locked it. I clearly remembered locking it with two full turns.
I stood in the open doorway, the hallway motion-sensor light came on. Downstairs someone was coming up, footsteps slow, one step at a time, shoe soles scraping the edge of each stair. I listened for a while, the footsteps reached the third floor and stopped.
Then I heard the sound of a door opening and closing on the third floor. A normal neighbor coming home. Normal world.
I closed the door, locked it again, went back to sit on the bed. That text was still on the phone screen. I clicked in to check the send time—three minutes ago. I called the number back, busy. Called again, still busy.
I checked the number's location—local. I put the phone beside my pillow, didn't turn off the light.
After dawn I went to the carrier's office to look up this number's registration. The clerk said it was a prepaid card, no real-name registration. I went to the police station, said someone was sending me harassing texts. The officer looked at the content, said it didn't constitute harassment, told me to block the number and that was that.
Since then, every night I only sleep after dawn. Catch up on sleep during the day, sit up at night, all the living room lights on, TV volume up.
The "me" on the sofa hasn't appeared again, but every night right as I'm about to fall asleep, I always hear the sound of a lock turning—first a soft *click*, like someone inserting a key into the keyhole, then that metallic clatter of the latch springing open.
Then the door opens. Then a very faint sound of footsteps walking from the entryway to the living room, stopping. Every time I open my eyes, the living room is empty. But when I lie back down, I can feel a weight on the sofa.
Not heavy, just like someone sitting very lightly at the other end, hands resting on their knees, head tilted, watching me.
Today is the third day since I started writing this post. Someone asked why I don't just move—I've already moved once.
The door lock at my last place locked itself from the inside on the fourth night after I moved in. During the day when I went out, the lock was fine. At night when I came back, the key wouldn't go in—something was blocking the cylinder.
I called a locksmith to take it apart. Inside the cylinder was stuffed a business card. My business card. On the back: "Don't go."
So I changed addresses, changed my phone number, changed my jacket. But right now, as I'm typing, I keep feeling someone's gaze landing on the back of my left shoulder blade.
I don't dare turn my head to look. Just now when I got up to grab my water cup, I passed the full-length mirror, caught a glimpse in my peripheral vision—only me in the mirror. But after I sat back down, the sofa cushion on the other end sank a bit. Very light, like someone had just sat down.
Alright, that's it for the post. I hear the sound of a key going into the lock in the entryway. *Click.* The latch sprung open. Footsteps coming.
Should I turn around?