The first time was an accident. The second time, I thought I imagined it. By the third time, I knew it wasn't my imagination at all.
I was fourteen in 2013, and the internet café on Greenfield Road was the only place in town where a kid could play Counter-Strike past dark. That night, I biked home around ten, cutting through the old employee dormitory shortcut like I always did. The road was empty. The dormitory windows were dark. And then I looked up.
She was standing in the middle of the path, maybe thirty meters ahead. White dress. Long black hair falling past her waist. No shoes. Her feet hovered a few inches above the asphalt, and I could see them clearly—pale, smooth, impossibly still. Her face was hidden behind her hair, but I could feel the shape of it. The angles. The presence.
I stopped pedaling. She didn't move. I wiped my eyes and looked again, telling myself it was a trick of the streetlight, a reflection, a shadow. But she was still there. Still watching. Still floating.
I turned and rode as fast as I could.
When I reached the gate to our compound, I nearly crashed into old Mr. Li's cart. But what stopped me wasn't the cart. It was the woman sitting next to it. White dress. Long hair.抱膝坐在修车铺门口，像在哭。她行李箱旁边有人，但我看不清脸。我没停，直接冲进院子，锁了门。那是第一次。我以为我做了一个梦。几天后我忘了它。
The second time was at my grandfather's grave.
Grandfather died when I was in middle school. He never liked me—everybody knew that. He ignored me at family gatherings, gave my cousins presents but never me. When they buried him, everyone cried. I didn't. My parents hit me, but I still couldn't cry. I didn't know why then. Maybe I do now.
Three years later, I went to sweep his grave for the first time. We went to Pengkou Gate in Weishan, a small riverside town. After the ceremony, I went back to my grandparents' house and slept.
I woke up at 4:30 AM. No reason. No sound. Just awake. I put on my clothes—it felt automatic, like someone else was dressing me—and walked outside.
The compound was dark and silent. My uncle's house was below, ours was above. The path between them was empty except for a figure walking toward me.
Black coat. Black hat. Black shoes. He was old, hunched slightly, moving at a slow steady pace. I stopped and we looked at each other for maybe five minutes. I waved and called out, "Good morning, grandfather."
He didn't answer. He just turned and walked toward the wall at the end of the path. I followed, thinking maybe it was him—he'd sent dreams to my aunt and cousin asking for clothes, after all. But when I got within five meters of the wall corner, he was gone. Just... nowhere. The path was empty.
I went back to bed and slept until noon. Something felt wrong for days after, like a weight on my chest.
The third time nearly killed me.
We were driving back from my cousin's wedding in Xiaogan, Hunan. A small van, eight people, the kind where everyone sits on top of each other. I was tired, so I took off my socks and sat on them—old habit, you know, so they don't fall under the seat.
At a rest stop, I got out to use the bathroom. It was dark outside, no streetlights near the toll booth. I looked toward the building and saw a patch of blackness that was darker than everything else—impossible to see into, like a hole in the air. And inside that hole, two green eyes. Not an animal's. Not a reflection. They were human-sized and they were looking at me.
Something pulled me forward. I don't remember falling. My father caught me before I hit the ground. He carried me back to the van and I couldn't stop shivering—deep, bone-level cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. In the van, I reached under myself for my socks and only found one. The other was gone. I searched everywhere. Finally, I threw the one I had out the window and waited.
When we got home, I found the other sock under my seat. Right where I'd originally put it. No one had touched it.
I was sick for three days after that. Pale. Nauseous. Couldn't talk. Couldn't think. My mother took me to the hospital but nothing showed up on any test. The doctors said I was fine.
I knew I wasn't fine. I knew something had followed me home from that toll booth. Something with green eyes and cold hands and a way of taking things that didn't belong to it.
I'm twenty-seven now. I've seen other things since then. Not as clear as those three times, but I know they're there. Watching. Waiting.
Some people think I'm crazy. Some think I'm making it up. I don't care anymore. What I've seen is real. And I'm still here, which means whatever it is, it hasn't taken me yet.
Not yet.
I was fourteen in 2013, and the internet café on Greenfield Road was the only place in town where a kid could play Counter-Strike past dark. That night, I biked home around ten, cutting through the old employee dormitory shortcut like I always did. The road was empty. The dormitory windows were dark. And then I looked up.
She was standing in the middle of the path, maybe thirty meters ahead. White dress. Long black hair falling past her waist. No shoes. Her feet hovered a few inches above the asphalt, and I could see them clearly—pale, smooth, impossibly still. Her face was hidden behind her hair, but I could feel the shape of it. The angles. The presence.
I stopped pedaling. She didn't move. I wiped my eyes and looked again, telling myself it was a trick of the streetlight, a reflection, a shadow. But she was still there. Still watching. Still floating.
I turned and rode as fast as I could.
When I reached the gate to our compound, I nearly crashed into old Mr. Li's cart. But what stopped me wasn't the cart. It was the woman sitting next to it. White dress. Long hair.抱膝坐在修车铺门口，像在哭。她行李箱旁边有人，但我看不清脸。我没停，直接冲进院子，锁了门。那是第一次。我以为我做了一个梦。几天后我忘了它。
The second time was at my grandfather's grave.
Grandfather died when I was in middle school. He never liked me—everybody knew that. He ignored me at family gatherings, gave my cousins presents but never me. When they buried him, everyone cried. I didn't. My parents hit me, but I still couldn't cry. I didn't know why then. Maybe I do now.
Three years later, I went to sweep his grave for the first time. We went to Pengkou Gate in Weishan, a small riverside town. After the ceremony, I went back to my grandparents' house and slept.
I woke up at 4:30 AM. No reason. No sound. Just awake. I put on my clothes—it felt automatic, like someone else was dressing me—and walked outside.
The compound was dark and silent. My uncle's house was below, ours was above. The path between them was empty except for a figure walking toward me.
Black coat. Black hat. Black shoes. He was old, hunched slightly, moving at a slow steady pace. I stopped and we looked at each other for maybe five minutes. I waved and called out, "Good morning, grandfather."
He didn't answer. He just turned and walked toward the wall at the end of the path. I followed, thinking maybe it was him—he'd sent dreams to my aunt and cousin asking for clothes, after all. But when I got within five meters of the wall corner, he was gone. Just... nowhere. The path was empty.
I went back to bed and slept until noon. Something felt wrong for days after, like a weight on my chest.
The third time nearly killed me.
We were driving back from my cousin's wedding in Xiaogan, Hunan. A small van, eight people, the kind where everyone sits on top of each other. I was tired, so I took off my socks and sat on them—old habit, you know, so they don't fall under the seat.
At a rest stop, I got out to use the bathroom. It was dark outside, no streetlights near the toll booth. I looked toward the building and saw a patch of blackness that was darker than everything else—impossible to see into, like a hole in the air. And inside that hole, two green eyes. Not an animal's. Not a reflection. They were human-sized and they were looking at me.
Something pulled me forward. I don't remember falling. My father caught me before I hit the ground. He carried me back to the van and I couldn't stop shivering—deep, bone-level cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. In the van, I reached under myself for my socks and only found one. The other was gone. I searched everywhere. Finally, I threw the one I had out the window and waited.
When we got home, I found the other sock under my seat. Right where I'd originally put it. No one had touched it.
I was sick for three days after that. Pale. Nauseous. Couldn't talk. Couldn't think. My mother took me to the hospital but nothing showed up on any test. The doctors said I was fine.
I knew I wasn't fine. I knew something had followed me home from that toll booth. Something with green eyes and cold hands and a way of taking things that didn't belong to it.
I'm twenty-seven now. I've seen other things since then. Not as clear as those three times, but I know they're there. Watching. Waiting.
Some people think I'm crazy. Some think I'm making it up. I don't care anymore. What I've seen is real. And I'm still here, which means whatever it is, it hasn't taken me yet.
Not yet.