The odorous paste and rotten fruit mixed together, and the cake in Fang's hands was anything but appetizing, yet he treasured it, carefully holding it as he walked over to the coffee table.
Peeling back the plastic wrap, the smell of formalin and cleaner surged into his nostrils, Fang placed the lit candle next to the cake.
"This is my first birthday, and the first time someone has prepared a cake for me," Fang pressed his hands together, imitating the way people celebrated on television, his expression so earnest it bordered on devout, "Mom, I know you've always been by my side, could you sit beside me?"
Nails scraped against the glass, the aged ceiling fan above creaked as it spun, bugs scurried from the cracks in the tiles, and room 1601 seemed to be squeezed by some force.
The owner of the haunted house heard Fang's wish, but she was reluctant to let Fang see her appearance.
