At 1 a.m., as the clock tower's chime resounded, a desk lamp in that empty laboratory was switched on. Then, a pen was thrown behind. Can you hear the sound of the pen dropping?
I never liked being a doctor, even though saving lives is a noble pursuit. Dealing with death is inevitable, and death is too cruel for my liking. However, eventually, I succumbed to my parents' expectations. Over the past twenty years, I've grown accustomed to making these compromises. I entered medical school, and half a year ago, I quickly became accustomed to death. It's now something I've grown numb to. Our teachers require us to painstakingly study each organ, and substances that once held life have become as ordinary to us as books and pens. Whenever I mention these things to my high school friends, they look at me incredulously, saying, "Medical school changes people!"
I met Ling in the school's laboratory. She was a senior preparing for the graduate entrance exam, and she spent more time in the lab than in her dorm room. Due to her straightforward nature, we got along quite well. Sometimes, I admired her courage because I wouldn't dare study alone in the lab until late at night. She never believed in any stories about ghosts or spirits. To those who loved screaming, she always had a disdainful remark, saying, "Medical students shouldn't be afraid of ghosts."
I just wanted to play a prank on her, nothing more, just a prank. So, I made up a falsehood: "At 1 a.m., when the clock tower chimes, in that empty laboratory, turn on a desk lamp and throw a pen behind you. If you don't hear the sound of the pen dropping, then turn around and see what's standing behind you." Ling scolded me, calling me a boring kid, and then hurriedly walked into the gray building.
The next day, Ling was dead, in that very laboratory. The autopsy report stated she died from sudden cardiac arrest. My heart suddenly felt empty.
Three years later, I began preparing for my graduate entrance exam. I spent more and more time in the laboratory, and I no longer believed in any stories about ghosts or spirits. I had already forgotten everything about Ling.
Four years had passed, and the concept of death in my mind had blurred. It was just a word, or some statistics. Brain death is irreversible if it lasts more than six seconds.
It might be nighttime now, and it doesn't matter what time it is. There's too much information and material in my head. The wind is making the windows of the laboratory squeak, but none of this is in my focus. In the distance, a low chime from the clock tower reaches me... Dang...
A deep chime, as if the resonance from the depths of darkness. I wiped my tired eyes. That chime was like the sky of memory, and I recalled the promise I made three years ago. And I remembered... Ling!
The pen in my hand suddenly became conspicuous, bearing an uneasiness, a gray emotion, and my own heart. I stared uneasily at it, as if my hand had moved independently from my mind, and in the darkness, it drew a line... The pen was thrown behind, and my heartbeats... One, two... The night remained silent.
My bones felt an inexplicable chill rushing through my body. This can't be...!
I picked up another pen and threw it behind me... No sound. Something called fear was expanding through every pore of my body.
I turned around... Ah! Behind me stood Ling, holding the pen.
"Is that you?"
This story was shared by a friend, and it's said there's evidence... My friend came to Canada from the Philippines to study. While studying in Canada, he lived in a small house with his mother. His desk was placed in the corner of the room, next to a window. He was a very diligent student, but not long after moving into the house, he started to feel something lightly touching his neck whenever he sat at his desk to study. At first, he thought it was just his nerves acting up and didn't pay much attention to it. However, over time, this sensation persisted. Whenever he sat at his desk, he constantly felt something gently touching his neck. But as soon as he moved away from the desk, the sensation would disappear. So, he told his mother about this phenomenon, and she consulted a fortune teller. The fortune teller said that many things that are invisible to the naked eye can be captured by cameras, so he was advised to take a picture if he ever felt that sensation again. Half-believing, he returned home and sat back at his desk to study. Not long after, he felt the same thing again, and his mother quickly took a photo and had it developed at a photo studio. When they received the photo, both of them turned pale. In the picture, beside my friend, there were a pair of legs suspended in the air. The sensation my friend had been experiencing was the touch of those legs hanging in the air, gently brushing against his neck. They realized that the legs belonged to the person who had hanged themselves three years before.