Skeleton in Skin

I didn't go to the bathhouse after leaving the clinic. I bought five buns from a street stall and went straight home. Once there I went directly to the bedroom and lay on the bed. I had no desire to do anything.

"Why did you stop it for him? Why did you let him go?" The old, cracked voice from outside Dr. Xu's consulting room — the more I turned it over, the more I felt it was about me. The more I thought, the more my skin crawled. It was as though a threat were standing directly in front of me, ready to strike at any moment, and I was too blind to see it.

If that voice was talking about me, what was his connection to me? Why had Dr. Xu put me under hypnosis? What were the two of them planning in the dark?

I wore myself out trying to think it through and got nowhere. I lay down on the bed and tried to rest. The moment I closed my eyes, a low sobbing sound leaked through the bedroom wall — some man in the next apartment weeping? Our building had excellent soundproofing, but in the still afternoon those sounds drove into my skull like needles, making my stomach clench in waves.

Eventually, exhaustion overrode everything else. With that miserable weeping for a backdrop, my thoughts blurred and I sank into sleep.

What woke me was a "creeak" — a door opening. The weeping, muffled before, was suddenly amplified. I heard it clearly now: not one person, but a whole crowd of men and women crying together. I opened irritated eyes and looked toward the door:

Our front door was open. In the dim hallway a dark figure moved, carrying a case, limping unevenly toward my bedroom.

I bolted upright on the bed. Who was this? How had they gotten inside?

As the figure came nearer, window light fell across his face. That face horrified me because I had never seen anyone so thin. Not a trace of flesh anywhere — just a skeleton wrapped in a layer of human skin.

He kept coming, case banging against his stiff leg with each step, making a "squeak-squeak" of wood-on-wood. Only then did I look properly at what he was carrying: an old case, planks nailed together, the green paint half-peeled away to reveal the raw brown wood beneath.

The "squeak-squeak" stopped. The skeleton-in-skin stood motionless in my bedroom doorway, staring at me, his face entirely without expression.

I wanted to ask who he was. But I found my face had gone numb — I could not open my mouth to speak.

"You have three days left to live." He spoke first. It was that voice — the hoarse, genderless voice. The same voice from outside Dr. Xu's clinic. This was that man.

The "squeak-squeak" resumed as the skeleton-in-skin turned and began to leave.

"…you…" I forced control on my numb face and squeezed a syllable from my throat.

He heard it. He stopped. Turned slowly to face me, expression still blank. "Or you can end it earlier yourself, if you prefer."

He spoke those words and continued toward the door, limping away into the dim hallway, and was gone.

I sat alone on the bed, staring at nothing. Then — why was I afraid? The thought broke over me suddenly. I was a man in his thirties, in my prime. This skeleton-thin, limping old man had walked into my home in broad daylight and threatened my life. That thought brought an abrupt surge of anger; the numbness in my face dissolved instantly. I jumped off the bed and burst out of the bedroom into the hallway.

My plan was clear: find the old man, grab him by the collar, lift him off the ground, and then talk.

But when I entered the dim hallway something felt immediately wrong. The apartment was unnaturally dark for midday. I reached for the light switch along the wall, and in the instant I touched it a violent gust of wind swept through — a gust carrying sand that stung my eyes shut. I crouched against the wall, one hand braced on it, one hand on the floor, keeping low. And then I noticed: the surface under my hand was not the smooth tile of my apartment. It was coarse, gritty earth.

I forced my eyes open against the sting and looked around. Still dim — but I could see enough. The wall I was bracing against was not my white apartment wall. It was grey stone, and etched into it in red were characters: …of the late…distinguished…grandfather…Bao…

I recoiled. Bao — a tombstone. My wall was a tombstone. I stumbled backward and hit another stone behind me. Gravestones — in every direction, large and small, standing at random. As my eyes adjusted I saw where I was clearly: I was not in my apartment. I was standing in the middle of a graveyard. A dozen metres away at the edge of the burial ground stood a weathered wooden shack.

I walked toward it, hoping for someone inside who could explain. The shack was worse up close — planks for walls, nails sticking out at odd angles, many of them rusted away, leaving gaps between the boards. The front had a red wooden door, hinges broken, the door panel leaning crookedly against its frame.

I knocked lightly. No response. Knocked harder.

"Crack!" Something made of glass shattered inside.

"Anyone there?" I called from the doorway.

Still no answer. Someone was in there — but silent. Curiosity pulled me to push the door.

I eased it open halfway. The interior was black, nothing visible, and a wind breathed out from within — cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

Should I go in? I was leaning forward to look when something seized my wrist.

"Darling! Darling!"

Ruoli's voice, calling my name. Darkness, then light. The shack was gone. The graveyard was gone. I was standing on our apartment balcony, thirteen storeys up. One window was open halfway. The wind howled through it. The upper half of my body was already leaning out over the railing.

Ruoli had hold of my wrist. Terror in her eyes: "You… were you going to jump?"

I looked down. Thirteen floors. My whole body shook. I pulled myself back fast and collapsed onto the balcony floor, the old man's words ringing in my ears: "You have three days left to live. Or you can end it earlier yourself, if you prefer."