“Too bad they’re over,” Chiboon said. Before Tinseng could answer, the house creaked around them. Tinseng felt himself pulled back through the doors. He waved at Chiboon, who waved back with his paintbrush, sending splatters of blood paint on the couch. Jinzhao isn’t going to be very happy about those stains, Tinseng thought as he was sucked back into the hallway. As if on a track, the dream took him down the hall to an oak door and pushed it open.
In the study, Mei Hankong sat behind his desk. Jinzhao rarely spoke about him, even now. But Tinseng had read a few letters, and his wife’s journal, of course. And there was everything that came out during the scandal. How unhappy she’d been, how she’d considered many different ways out, from divorce to suicide, but only as thoughts passing like mayflies. Then, when she thought she’d finally escaped through her betrayal, her husband had surprised her. Instead of turning her in, he’d remained faithful. Held her in his arms. He had never seen his wife’s unhappiness with him, only her discontent with the state. That in itself had been a trap.
Mei Hankong looked up from his writing. He had no face, only a smudged blankness of skin. Tinseng had never heard his voice. Some of the skin bunched into a facsimile of a mouth and rasped, “So you’re him.”
“What an interesting philosophical quandary,” Tinseng said cheerfully, unwilling to yield any ground. “Am I him? I am certainly me.”
The featureless face somehow managed to portray annoyance. Even Tinseng’s dream found him insufferable. He grinned.
“What do you seek here?” Mei Hankong asked.
“Not the truth,” Tinseng said. “I have enough of that already.”
“Not even my truth?”
“Is that important? You don’t have anything I need. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ll leave you to your writing.”
“Wait—”
Tinseng ignored him and walked to the door.
“Wait, I—I have things to tell you—don’t leave yet . . .”
Tinseng had become too complacent in the dream. He opened the door to find Mei Hankong standing on the other side. Tinseng’s head whipped back around, but Mei Hankong stood behind him too.
“Don’t leave me alone.”
Something tickled Tinseng’s ankle.
The man in front of him said, “Come back inside.”
The man behind him said, “I want to help.”
And they said together, “You’ll be safe here.”
There were . . . things . . . growing up from the floor around his legs. They were thin and curious, deceptively light. He knew he could not look at them. If he looked, they would jump up and devour him. The only thing keeping him alive was his devotion to the pretense that he did not know what was about to happen.
“You have to stay,” the two men said, now four. “If you are to be part of this family. We’ll listen.” A dozen circled him entirely. “We’ll make you comfortable here.” They stayed at a respectful distance; they didn’t need to touch. The things growing out of the floor did that for them.
“Stay, Wu Tinseng.” The house pulled him down against its coffin-wood floor, and he heard all around: Stay, stay, stay, staystaystayst—
If he waited any longer, he’d die. He pulled a knife from a sheaf on his belt (had that always been there?) to slash his way out. Some of what he slashed felt like vines; some cut more like flesh. He didn’t look. He pushed and cut until he could flee.
The hallways expanded and contracted like a heaving chest. The staircase turned, then turned again. When he thought he’d reached the top, he stepped through a stair and started over. Frustrated, he tried to outsmart the dream with fairy-tale tricks: drawing a line on the wall, leaving breadcrumbs he found in his pocket, tying a string to the banister at the start. Nothing worked but time. When the house finally tired of the game, it spat him out on the second floor.
The moment he opened the door to the bedroom, Cheuk-Kwan fell into him. He clung to Tinseng as they sank to the ground. Cheuk-Kwan’s mouth was full of blood.
“Why did you come back?” his brother asked. “If you’d just stayed away, none of this would have happened.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Tinseng said. He didn’t know what he’d done, but knew it was his fault. He patted down Cheuk-Kwan’s body to find a wound to heal. “What happened? Where are you hurt?” If he didn’t know what was wrong, he couldn’t help. “Hey, Cheuk-Kwan, what happened? Tell me,” he insisted, getting frantic. “I don’t see anything!”
“If you wanted to help, you should have . . .” Blood dribbled over Cheuk-Kwan’s lips as he spoke.
“And leave you to die? Who do you think I am?”
“Go away,” Cheuk-Kwan said, then repeated louder, “Go away!”
“No, no, not until I—”
The scream rattled the entire house: “GO AWAY!” It flung Tinseng back. The sound cut ribbons into him as he slumped against the wall, and the slicing didn’t stop. His flesh kept peeling from invisible blades. If he stayed, he’d die.
He slammed the door shut on his brother and ran down the hallway, panting, sobbing. He heard his own voice even though he didn’t speak: Some values are more important than others.
He went blank for a while, the dream losing focus as he sunk into unconscious terror. When he emerged, the house had become darker, more menacing. He knew what came next, but all he could do was walk toward it.
“S-stay back,” she said, “My brother is here, he’ll be coming back any minute.”
“Yukying, it’s me.” He spread his arms in a surrendering movement; as he did, he realized he was holding a knife. Had he always been holding that knife? Yes, perhaps he had. Her eyes tracked it, darting between its gleam and his face.
“Who are you?”
“It’s me—it’s Tinseng.”
“I don’t know you,” she repeated. “Stay away from me. Do you want money?” She held out her hands. Fistfuls of coins clattered to the floor. “Please take it, whatever you want.”
“I don’t want anything, Yukying, it’s me.”
She shook her head, tears streaming down at whatever horrors she saw in his face. He moved forward, but she scuttled back, so terrified of him she couldn’t speak.
