Nightmare Apostle

"Still not possible? Won't it pass the review?"

At 6:30 PM in an old house in Rongcheng Lin'an District, a young man's eyes, once full of anticipation, gradually dimmed.

The middle-aged man sitting across the table slowly put down the manuscript in his hands and looked at the young man with complex emotions, "Yang Xiao, your script is well-written, but it's still that same problem. The market doesn't need a purely supernatural script. You should understand the current big picture, so..."

"I understand, thank you, Zhao." Yang Xiao tried to squeeze out a smile, knowing that the other party had done their best.

"Oh, Zhao, I'll return the deposit to you. I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time." Yang Xiao reached for his phone.

"No, no, no, it's me who should be sorry. Keep the deposit. I think... I think there might be an opportunity for us to collaborate in the future. Consider this an advance on the next deposit."

After speaking, the middle-aged man didn't give Yang Xiao a chance to refuse and turned to leave. The sky was overcast and it was raining. The man opened a black umbrella, stood at the entrance to the building, and saw the rental notice that the landlord had posted in advance. After hesitating for a moment, he turned back, "Young Yang, take a piece of advice from Zhao. Find yourself a job first, you have to live in the present. You need to find work to support yourself."

"I'm already on it. I interviewed at two companies this morning." Yang Xiao revealed a comforting smile; he knew Zhao was a good person and didn't want him to worry.

After a heavy sigh, the middle-aged man wasn't sure what else to say. Shaking his head, he raised his black umbrella and walked into the rain.

Only after the middle-aged man's figure had completely disappeared did Yang Xiao turn around and step by step walk back to his room, his steps much heavier.

This was an old neighborhood, with dim and cramped stairwells plastered with small advertisements for locksmiths and drain cleaners. The railing was also spotted with rust. Decent people would not choose to live here, yet even a place like this had become an unattainable luxury for Yang Xiao.

He would have to move away next month; he didn't even know where to go. The landlord had already notified him, and the rental notice had been posted outside the unit door.

Closing the door and looking at the manuscript on the table, Yang Xiao felt a bit dazed for a moment. Unlike his classmates who busied themselves job hunting after graduation, Yang Xiao had chosen to become a screenplay writer. That year, murder mystery games became wildly popular, driving high market demand, and he saw this as a business opportunity as well as a chance to realize his dream.

Over the past two years, he had indeed created several works that fared well in reputation and sales. As an author specializing in the supernatural and mystery genres, he received praise from within the industry for works such as Huang Family Mansion and Rainy Night Murderer.

But good times didn't last long. With a single official document, the murder mystery game industry plunged into winter, and the supernatural segment was completely wiped out. All the familiar script groups stopped accepting supernatural scripts, which wasn't just about losing a livelihood for Yang Xiao, but nearly crushed all his hopes.

He had tried to change, writing scripts about love, family, and game plots, but to no avail; his specialization was too severe. Having been deprived of the nurturing of love and family, and with very few friends to begin with, no script company was willing to take the risk of signing him.

After half a year of ups and downs, he finally decided to return to the supernatural genre. Hearing that the scrutiny wasn't as tight as before, he quickly refined his draft and approached Zhao, the owner of the script company he had the best relationship with. The outcome, however, was clear.

He didn't blame Zhao. Zhao was a good person who had looked after him a lot, but, at over 40 years old with elderly parents and children to take care of, his whole family depended on his income. He needed money to support his family and couldn't afford the slightest risk.

Dreams can't be eaten, and they certainly can't outweigh the necessities of life. It was time to think about what to do next.

But before that, he had one important thing to do. He unlocked his phone and opened a group chat named "Nightmare Family." The group wasn't large, but the chat was lively and bustling.

This was his playwright group chat, populated by friends who had always supported him. The topic of conversation was about his new script, and everyone was looking forward to it, some of them were even more diligent and attentive than Yang Xiao, the author himself, which only deepened his embarrassment.

The new script had been put on hold indefinitely, and the future seemed uncertain. Yang Xiao knew he had to come forward and explain himself. Gathering his courage, he slowly typed out a message. But when he saw someone in the group ask if the author could release the new script today, Yang Xiao broke down. He deleted the pale excuse he had yet to send, tossed aside his phone, and slumped back into his chair, gasping for air.

After a long while, when he had regained his composure, the sky outside had turned completely dark. He went to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. His most pressing concern now was finding a job. Although he still had some savings left, without any new income, he would soon be sleeping on the streets, something his friends definitely would not wish to see.

As he racked his brain trying to think of jobs he could do, suddenly, a slow knocking sound started.

The knocking was slow, with a heavy tone, as if coming from an old person down to their last breath. Yet, the oppressive feeling it gave Yang Xiao was unprecedented. He immediately knew it was the landlady, since she had seen the lights on and had come looking for him.

Shrinking his neck, Yang Xiao didn't dare move an inch, until the knocking stopped and the hallway fell silent.

After waiting for another full 10 minutes and ensuring the landlady had left, Yang Xiao tiptoed to the door, opening it just a crack. After all, his umbrella was still outside, and that too was part of his belongings.

But as the motion-activated light came on, Yang Xiao frowned. There, on the ground outside, was an unexpected package.

After making sure no one was around, Yang Xiao opened the door, picked up the package, which was quite light. After shaking it slightly, he immediately knew what was inside was a script box.

The landlady would never collect a package for him; it must have been the courier. But since when were the couriers in the neighborhood so dedicated?

Back in his room, he opened the package, and sure enough, there was a script box. The box was painted with the texture of an oil painting depicting a village shrouded in moonlight, every door and window tightly shut, no lights to be seen, like a pool of stagnant water devoid of any signs of life. In the distant background, a towering dark shadow emerged, seemingly confirming that the village was nestled within deep mountains.

In the top right corner of the script box, four bloody characters violently disrupted the eerie harmony of the image, and that was the name of the script — Fengmen Ghost Play.

The name, the composition, the mysterious atmosphere... it instantly caught the attention of Yang Xiao, a seasoned author of supernatural stories. There were not many scriptwriters daring to write like this anymore; this could be a masterpiece.

Grabbing his phone, Yang Xiao eagerly wanted to know which script company this work came from, as it gave him a glimmer of hope.

But after checking his entire contact list, he found that no one had sent him a script. Aside from being an original scriptwriter, Yang Xiao occasionally took private jobs, helping familiar script companies to edit or review scripts, assisting in refining storylines, while also earning a little extra income.

However, in the current climate, it had been a long time since any script company had contacted him.

If it wasn't from a familiar script company, then who had sent the script?

Picking up the package again, Yang Xiao noticed that the sender's information was blurred, as if it had been soaked in water. Moving under the light, he finally made out the last few characters of the address:

Fengmen Town No. 144.