Aberration!

Reaching out, he felt for the switch, flipped it, and with a soft *click*, the light came on. Karen continued down until he reached the basement. Most of the time, the perception of "terror" does not stem from physical reality, but from one's own imagination. When remodeling the basement, the Inmeles family certainly hadn't been foolish enough to design it with a "gloomy" or "oppressive" atmosphere. Even so, at night, even if the walls were painted entirely in Barbie pink, the mere knowledge that two corpses lay inside would keep anyone from finding the place "cozy" or "lovely." The weeping continued. It was coming from Aunt Mary's workshop. Karen reached the workshop door. It was unlocked... because no one could conceive of a reason to lock it. Karen stopped. Rather than rushing to turn the doorknob, he first turned around and looked behind him. The corridor behind him was lit and not completely pitch-black, but the spiral ramp leading from the basement up to the first floor remained dim, making it impossible to see clearly. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Karen hoped he might catch the sweet fragrance of hot milk, but unfortunately, he didn't have the nose of a dog. Thinking of dogs, Karen glanced down. The golden retriever, which had been so affectionate earlier when he let it inside, hadn't followed him down into the basement. Truly a worthless mongrel, hardly deserving of affection. Reaching out, he gripped the doorknob. In an instant, as if a "channel" had suddenly been switched, a wave of daze washed over him. It wasn't intense, yet its presence was distinctly palpable. Immediately after, the "weeping" in the workshop ceased abruptly. Karen looked back once more. The bulb above the corridor behind him still shone with its normal brightness. *Click...* He twisted the knob, pulled the door open, then reached out as fast as he could to find the switch beside the doorframe and pressed it at once. *Snap...* The lights in the workshop flickered on. Light, ample light, brought immense psychological comfort. Jeff and Mr. Mossan lay on two separate gurneys in the workshop. Jeff's face was coated in powder and rouge, positively "radiant." It was visibly heavy-handed; his hair had even been parted down the middle and styled with pomade, making him look... remarkably spirited. In all likelihood, Jeff had never looked this lively while alive. Mr. Mossan appeared far more "normal." Instead of heavy makeup, more attention had been paid to detail and natural texture, making him look as though he were truly in a deep slumber. Aunt Mary was thoroughly "partial" in her work; the difference between a welfare case and a regular paying client was fully on display here. Of course, had Aunt Mary known in advance that Mr. Mossan's children intended to cremate him, Mr. Mossan might well have ended up rivaling the young lad Jeff in sheer "glamour." Karen walked past Jeff. The weeping from earlier had carried a raspy, aged quality, clearly not produced by a young man like "Jeff." It could only be... Mr. Mossan. Yet standing before Mr. Mossan, Karen saw only the old man lying there quietly, with no other "abnormality." Reaching out, he pulled over a round wheeled stool beside him, sat down, and rested his feet on the lower railing of the gurney. Tilting his head slightly, Karen simply stared at Mr. Mossan. At the same time, the corner of his eye occasionally drifted through the open door toward the corridor... or rather, toward the ramp at the far end of the hallway. A quarter of an hour slipped by. Throughout those fifteen minutes, all remained still. Be you man or ghost, show yourself, give me some reaction, won't you? Karen sighed and prepared to leave. On a cold late night, a warm bed was far more appealing. Standing up, he walked past Mr. Mossan and noticed that the button at the collar of the old man's shirt had come undone, so he instinctively reached out to button it back up. Yet, the moment his fingertips touched the skin of Mr. Mossan's neck, a sudden dizziness struck Karen's mind. The sensation felt like tobacco sickness, and his body staggered with it. Karen immediately braced himself, leaning his back against the wall. "Ooooh..." The muffled sobbing sounded once more. Karen looked up at once. Directly ahead of him, Mr. Mossan still lay motionless. Yet in the corner off to the side, a figure curled up with its knees drawn to its chest seemed to have appeared, weeping. Seeing this, Karen didn't scream in terror; he had long prepared himself mentally. Moreover, for Karen, seeing a "ghost" was vastly preferable to "not seeing one." In the latter case, he would have to question whether something had gone wrong with his "brain" and "sanity." So, rather than believing *I am crazy*, Karen was far more inclined to accept that *this world is crazy*. "Mr. Mossan?" Karen called out toward the curled figure in the corner. Yet the figure seemed not to hear him at all, offering no reaction whatsoever, continuing to sob to itself. Karen stood and walked toward "Mr. Mossan," but his "vision" formed a kind of "detachment" from "reality." As he walked toward him, the distance between them did not diminish; it remained constant. By the time Karen's face was nearly pressed against the opposite wall, "Mr. Mossan" remained curled in the "distant" corner. The sight of a "ghost" hadn't frightened Karen thus far, and this "supernatural constant distance" only sparked his curiosity. "So what I'm seeing isn't physically present?" After saying this, Karen bit his lower lip. "Stating the obvious." Next, Karen opened his hands slightly and shifted his position. The next instant, the curled figure of "Mr. Mossan" shifted along with him—or rather, translated across his field of vision. It felt as though a projector were mounted to his forehead. Was this... a soul? Karen couldn't be sure of its "substance"; given the constant distance, he had no way of reaching out to touch it. However, an idea suddenly occurred to him. As Karen shifted his angle, the sobbing "Mr. Mossan" and the Mr. Mossan lying on the gurney lined up in the same direction. Once the alignment was set, Karen began to "focus." He stepped forward and backward, trying his best to overlap "Mr. Mossan" with Mr. Mossan. In truth, Karen had no idea why he was doing this, yet it felt somehow natural. A "ghost" ought to be placed together with its corpse, right? At least give it a try. The moment the two overlapped, Karen clearly saw the curled "Mr. Mossan" abruptly stop crying. Then, dazed and confused, he stood up. Under Karen's "gaze," "Mr. Mossan" lay down atop Mr. Mossan. The entire process was swift, seamless, and fluid. Yet the moment they merged completely, Karen felt as though a hand had suddenly clamped down upon his "brain." Yes, his "brain"—not his forehead, not the back of his head, not his scalp, but deep inside his cerebrum. With a wet *squelch*, it clenched tight, and yanked violently outward! "Ngh..." Karen let out a muffled groan of agony and collapsed to his knees. Fortunately, his hands reflexively braced against the floor tiles; otherwise, he would have paid the same clumsy tribute as Mr. Hoffen had earlier that day. Even so, Karen clearly saw drops of bright red blood spattering against the blue-and-white tiles before him. His nose... was bleeding again. Clutching his nose with one hand, Karen struggled to his feet. As he rose, the fully made-up Mr. Mossan on the gurney slowly sat up as well. Their movements were nearly synchronized—a silent, eerie unison. "Ugh..." Karen let out a low gasp. Although he knew this reckless act was entirely his own doing, witnessing a corpse sit bolt upright before his eyes still delivered an unavoidable shock to his mind. Amid that shock came a trace of panic, a trace of confusion, a trace of bewilderment... and absolute exhilaration. Mr. Mossan gradually shifted his posture, moving from sitting on the gurney to kneeling prostrate upon it. His eyes were open, yet devoid of color, rendered in a dull, monotone grayish-white. "Please... please... don't burn me... don't burn me... to cremate the flesh... brings no forgiveness... to cremate the flesh... brings no forgiveness..." Karen swallowed hard, watching Mr. Mossan perform what appeared to be a religious "worship" and "plea" toward him. He had heard Aunt Mary mention that the doctrine Mr. Mossan adhered to forbade believers from cremating their physical bodies. For a devout believer, demonstrating fidelity to their faith came down to two things... "life" and "death." Life was the "birth" upon entering the faith, while death was one's earthly end, which at the same time ushered in a religious "rebirth." The "weeping" he had heard earlier had been born of Mr. Mossan's grief and resentment. "Mr. Mossan? Mr. Mossan?" Karen attempted to call out to him. "Please... don't burn me... please... don't burn me..." Mr. Mossan merely repeated his prayer. *Ah.* *He can't hold a mutual conversation, can he? Only an 'instinct' remains?* *Or, in the phrasing I was used to in my past life... an obsession.* *But how did all this happen?* Aunt Mary, Uncle Mason, Mina, and the others had never mentioned corpses undergoing an "aberration." Which meant that, in the eyes of ordinary people, this world was supposed to be normal. Yet first came "Jeff," and now Mr. Mossan. Having encountered two consecutive aberrations originating from corpses, Karen couldn't help but suspect—no, he was practically certain—that all of this was inextricably tied to him. The catalyst had to be within himself. Was it because of the original "Karen," or because he had "awakened"? "Please... don't burn me... don't burn me... don't burn me! Don't burn me! Don't burn me!!!" Karen noticed Mr. Mossan's speech quickening. His shoulders began to tremble slightly, and the eyes that had been entirely dull were now gradually filling with bloodshot veins. A dangerous tension began to permeate the air. "Mr. Mossan?" Karen called out tentatively once more, shifting his footing at the same time. The beginning had been bizarre, but the unfolding events seemed to follow the "ordinary course" of what he could understand—such as what a corpse would do after suddenly jolting back to "life." Yet just as Karen skirted past Mr. Mossan's flank, Mr. Mossan snapped his head up: "You dare... burn me!" In a flash, Mr. Mossan's eyes were completely overrun by blood-red, and his body whipped violently upward. Yes, whipped—muscles, bones, and any sense of bodily coordination seemed nonexistent, yet he forced himself upright, flopping like a landed fish thrashing on the shore! *Thud!* Karen felt a heavy blow slam into his back, sending him pitching forward. The moment he fell, Karen pushed against the floor with both hands and flipped over. By then, Mr. Mossan had already clambered atop him, his hands lunging straight for Karen's neck. Karen brought his knee up, driving it toward Mr. Mossan. However, this body was inherently frail to begin with, lacking physical strength, and Mr. Mossan's present weight seemed even heavier than when he was alive. Instead of shoving him off, Karen's knee collapsed under the crushing pressure, pinned flat against the floor. "You dare... burn me!" Mr. Mossan opened his mouth and bit straight down into Karen's chest. *Thump!* Karen's chest felt as though it had been struck by a cobblestone—painful, yet the expected tearing of flesh never came. In life, Mr. Mossan had already lost most of his teeth and relied on dentures to eat. As such, Mr. Mossan's bite had clamped down on nothing. Yet his hands had already locked around Karen's neck, squeezing with ferocious force. His legs and torso coiled tight like an octopus, pinning Karen beneath him. Karen strained with both hands to pry them off, but his struggles proved futile. Pushed to the brink, pinned against the tiled floor, Karen could only turn his head toward the workshop doorway. "How dare you burn me!" Mr. Mossan had gone completely mad! *Snap!* It sounded like metal striking metal, or a lightbulb shattering, or perhaps... a snap of fingers? Karen could no longer clearly distinguish sounds, but a wave of relief washed over him. *Phew... saved.* Yet the moment that sound rang out, "Aaaargh! Burn me! Burn me! Burn me!" Mr. Mossan, already raving, went entirely berserk. Karen felt the hands choking his neck tighten with far greater force than before. His neck was genuinely on the verge of snapping. Like a sausage gripped at both ends and twisted in opposite directions, waiting for one end to... burst. Karen felt as though his eyes, ears, and nose were about to explode. "You dare... burn me!" "You dare... me!" "You dare..." "Burn..." Suddenly, as if reaching a critical threshold, Mr. Mossan's body stiffened, and he collapsed limp. With the constriction around his neck gone, Karen began gasping greedily for air. The basement air was hardly fresh, yet right now Karen found it exquisitely sweet. This was no figure of speech; his throat was bleeding, and blood from his nose was trickling into his mouth. Karen shoved Mr. Mossan off him, braced his hands on the floor, and dragged himself backward until his back hit the wall, finally stopping. Turning his head, he glanced out the door once more. Near him shone the dim yellow light of the hallway; farther out, all remained pitch-black. Karen propped up his face with one hand. After a moment, he used his bloodstained palm to pat his own forehead a few times. "Heh... heh... heh..." He laughed. After laughing, he took a deep breath, and in the Chinese language that did not exist in this world, he cursed the world over and over again: "Motherfucker... what kind of bullshit world is this..." ... At the slope leading from the basement up to the first floor, Diss stood motionless. Beside his face, perched at the same height as the first-floor stairs, was the black cat, Purr. Diss turned his head, looked at Purr, and asked, "Was what he said at the end the language of an aberrant demon?" The black cat lifted its head, looked at Diss, and in the next instant, it actually spoke in human tongue with a woman's voice: "In my two hundred years of life, I've never heard of an aberrant demon... inventing its own language." Then, Purr added, "And so... intricate and obscure, at that."