Many southern Chinese cities have customs that differ from those in the north. For example, during the Ghost Festival, people in the north tend to stay indoors after nightfall, avoiding water and dark alleys. However, in some southern cities, the festival is a time of grand celebration. The streets are filled with the sound of drums and firecrackers, and people—both adults and children—flock outside to revel in the festivities.

Last year, on the night of the Ghost Festival, my flight was grounded in City N due to bad weather. With no choice but to stay overnight in this unfamiliar place, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity. City N was one of the few southern cities that still held extravagant celebrations during the festival, and curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to witness the spectacle firsthand before leaving the next morning.

That was how I met LIN on the bustling streets of City N.

LIN was a girl around my age, a journalist by profession—a field that naturally made her outgoing and inquisitive. She told me that she attended the festival every year, not just for work but also for fun. The event featured delicious food, thrilling performances, and a grand fireworks show at night. Lin, a girl who lives in city N declared herself my personal guide for the evening, and with no good reason to refuse, I went along with her.

By 8 PM, the streets were packed with people. The festival was in full swing, beginning with a towering stilt performance, followed by masked martial arts dancers. The grand finale featured deities parading through the streets, their elaborate costumes shimmering under the lantern lights. Vendors, spectators, and performers filled every inch of the space, leaving barely any room to move.

After much effort, LIN and I managed to squeeLine into a small local eatery, miraculously finding two seats in a corner.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" LIN asked as soon as we sat down.

Her sudden question caught me off guard. I chuckled and said, "Of course."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Have you ever seen one?" she pressed.

I shook my head. "What about you? Do you believe? Have you seen one?"

LIN hesitated for a moment before replying, "I'm not sure."

Her answer piqued my curiosity, and I knew we were about to dive into a story that couldn’t be left unfinished.

Two bowls of cold jelly noodles arrived, but LIN barely touched hers. She absentmindedly stirred the contents, lost in thought. As a journalist, she often traveled alone, staying in unfamiliar hotels and venturing into disaster Linones. She had covered earthquakes, floods, and other calamities—dangerous assignments she recounted with casual ease. But when she began telling me the story of what happened one winter, her tone grew serious, her voice tinged with something close to fear.

LIN’s Story

A few years ago, during a particularly harsh winter, Lin was sent to cover the snowstorm disaster in a remote mountainous town. She traveled with a senior camerawoman—another woman—and together they endured a grueling journey. First, a long-haul bus ride, then a muddy, snow-covered minibus trip, and finally, a forty-minute trek on foot through thick snow before reaching the town.

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The place was nearly deserted. Most young people had left for work in the cities, leaving behind only the elderly, women, and children. The snowstorm had driven food prices to absurd levels—cabbages were being sold for over ten times their usual price, and baby formula was nearly impossible to find. The town felt desolate, a place where misfortune had settled in and refused to leave.

They hadn’t arranged accommodation in advance and were forced to search for a place to stay. Fortunately, the town had a small, aging guesthouse, now mostly empty due to the weather. After knocking for several minutes and explaining their situation, the owner finally let them in.

“The hot soup that night was the best thing I’d ever tasted,” Lin recalled. The day’s journey had been exhausting, and the simple bowl of noodles felt like a luxury.

The guesthouse was old—wooden floors, wooden doors, wooden-framed windows with four glass panes. The entire building creaked with every step, as if whispering secrets from a bygone era. The cold seeped through every crack, making the inside temperature almost as frigid as the world outside.

After finishing their meal, they decided to take quick showers and head to bed early to prepare for the next day’s work. Lin had always traveled with a sleep mask, a necessity for someone constantly adjusting to different time and environments. That night, as always, she put it on and quickly drifted into sleep.

Sometime later, she awoke with a pressing need to use the bathroom. After hurrying back to bed, she found that the warmth had already left her blanket. She pulled her mask back on and tried to fall asleep again.

Then, the lights came on.

She felt it instantly—though she couldn’t see through her sleep mask, she knew the entire room had been flooded with light. But before she could react, she realised something far more terrifying.

She couldn’t move.

Panic surged through her. Her limbs refused to respond. And then, an even stranger sensation—she was floating.

“I was hovering in the air, like a helium balloon, slowly rising toward the ceiling,” LIN said. “I could see the whole room, but something was off. The furniture was different. The old CRT television had turned into a black-and-white dial TV. The cluttered desk had become an antique wooden cabinet. And the ceiling fan—it wasn’t the one I had seen before. It had wide, metal blades, unmoving, covered in dust.”

She wasn’t just floating; she was spinning, rotating slowly like the hands of a clock. She saw her colleague still sleeping in bed, completely unaware of what was happening. She wanted to scream, to struggle, but her body refused to obey.

The spinning grew faster. The dizziness became unbearable. She felt like she was about to collide with the television—

Then, suddenly, she was back in bed.

Her body remained frozen, but she could sense everything around her. The room was still brightly lit. And then, she heard it.

A soft giggle. A woman’s voice.

“...Hee-hee... Hee-hee-hee…”

From the tiny gap between her mask and her nose, she saw movement. A pale, withered hand entered her vision, fingertips brushing the air. Slowly, carefully, those fingers reached for her sleep mask, trying to pull it away.

A few strands of black, brittle hair swayed into view.

Then—

“Are you okay?”

Her colleague’s voice cut through the silence. The room was plunged into darkness.

LIN shot upright, gasping for air. “Turn on the light!” she screamed.

When the light came on, her colleague stared at her, confused. Nothing was out of place.

The next day, LIN realized that yesterday was the Ghost Festival in China. After that, they worked quickly, gathering their interviews and footage. By nightfall, they had left the town far behind.

After finishing her story, LIN finally took a bite of her jelly noodles.

“I never asked the guesthouse owner about it. I didn’t have the courage,” she admitted. “But when we transferred our photos onto the laptop, all of them were filled with white specks. A friend later told me… those were spirits.”

LIN looked at me and smirked. “Do you want to see if your phone can capture anything?”

I snapped a few photos. Nothing unusual.

“You’re not the right person for it,” she teased. Then, lifting her professional camera, she clicked the shutter. “I’ll send you these later.”

I handed her my business card.

But the email never came.