Before the voice fell, Yang Xiao suddenly heard the sound of rushing water. Following the sound, it was coming from the well in the corner, followed by the discordant creak of the well rope being pulled under strain.
Something was about to come out of that well, the ghost from last night!
Holding his breath, his eyes twitching, Yang Xiao had already cursed Zhang Songde's eight generations of ancestors in his mind—shoddy spellwork could cost lives.
There was no need for him to engage in such tricks; had he just walked through the door openly, nothing would have happened.
The sound of water and the rope being pulled were particularly harsh in the quiet night, but strangely, Zhang Songde seemed to have heard nothing and showed no appropriate reaction.
Even stranger, as Zhang Songde slowly stood up, the sound of water and pulling disappeared instantly.
