Half a Leg

There are many reasons a student might hate a school, and these vary from person to person. But usually there is one reason they all share: the vice principal in charge of discipline. The students at No. 4 Middle School were no exception. Their disciplinary dean was the common nightmare of every student in the building.

His name was Zhang Yao — a man in his mid-forties. His job was to police student conduct. If a student grew their fingernails too long, he would intervene. If a student's hair wasn't dark enough, he would intervene. Boys with long hair — he'd come after them. Girls with short hair — he'd come after them too. He was one of the most despised teachers in the school.

Zhang Yao usually stationed himself at the entrance of the teaching building to inspect students going in and out. But today was different: a student had come to him of their own accord.

Zhang Yao also taught political education for Class 4, Grade 4. That afternoon after his class, a student followed him to the disciplinary office, saying he had something to report. The student's name was Zhou Dong, and he was there to report on his classmate: Chang Di.

"Mr. Zhang, I've noticed recently that Chang Di has been acting really strange. He keeps buying notebooks — morning, noon, all the time. We couldn't possibly need that many. I think it has something to do with his seat. Gu Qing used to sit there, and she hanged herself there…"

"Slam!" Zhang Yao slapped his desk and barked impatiently: "Can you get to the point? I don't have time to sit here listening to your superstitious garbage!"

Zhou Dong startled. He quickly reorganized his words. "Right. So. Yesterday after school, I noticed Chang Di didn't leave the building. He walked toward the back of the teaching block. I was curious, so I followed him. He went behind the boiler room and didn't come out. I was too scared to follow at first, but I worked up the nerve and crept over to look."

At this point Zhou Dong's face filled with horror. "Chang Di had a comb, and he was combing his hair. He has short hair — but the motion he was doing was like someone combing very long hair. He was going through the motions of combing, but he was just combing the air…"

"Are you losing your mind?" Zhang Yao shouted again. "You want me to deal with someone combing air?!"

"No, no, that's not the point!" Zhou Dong rushed on. "The reason I noticed him pretending to comb was because there was a fire. While he was combing, he was burning paper."

"Burning fire? In school?"

"Yes, right behind the boiler room."

Zhang Yao's tone softened slightly. "What made you come report this to me?"

Zhou Dong's expression became uncomfortable. Students usually had a kind of unspoken code among themselves — they didn't report on each other. Since Zhang Yao had asked, Zhou Dong could only answer awkwardly: "I actually told a bunch of people already, and they all thought it was nothing — they figured Chang Di's girlfriend died, so he went to burn some paper money after school, said it was normal, and told me not to say anything. But I was frightened. I wanted someone to look into it. Because I knew it wasn't normal. He wasn't burning paper money. He was burning notebooks. There must be something in those notebooks — probably drawings made by Gu Qing's ghost…"

"Enough!" Zhang Yao cut him off again. "Stop playing ghost with me. I'll look into the fire in school myself. If there's nothing else, you can go."

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Zhang." Zhou Dong turned to leave.

"Hold on." Zhang Yao called him back.

"Yes?"

"Your hair is a bit long. Go get it cut."

Zhou Dong paused, ran a hand over his head, and walked out of the disciplinary office.

That evening, acting on Zhou Dong's report, Zhang Yao went to investigate the area behind the boiler room. Even before he turned the corner, he could already smell the smoke. He quickened his pace around to the back.

No one was there. Not a soul. Zhang Yao swept his torch across the space and found a pile of burned ash in the corner. He walked over. The black ash was still warm, the fire apparently stamped out just moments before. He nudged through the ash with his foot, and a white scrap of paper emerged from the charred remains. Zhang Yao bent and picked it up.

It was clearly a page from a notebook — barely half a page left unburned. On it was a sketch. Most of the drawing had been destroyed, but enough remained to determine that it had once depicted a standing figure, because the unburned portion showed half of a person's leg.

The moment Zhang Yao saw that half a leg, a shudder passed through him. The shoe on the figure's foot was identical — exactly identical — to the one currently on his own foot. This burned drawing — could the person in it be him?