The face in front of Meng Yongshou was all too familiar; it was his own father, the same father who was supposed to be lying in an ice coffin at the funeral home.
The person in front of him had a dark, cyanotic complexion and rigid limbs, dressed in a black shroud.
Meng Yongshou couldn't understand; his father had just passed away, so how did he suddenly turn into strangeness? And moreover, he had returned home.
To say he wasn't scared would be a lie, everything before his eyes made his limbs ice-cold, as if he had fallen into a dream, so surreal.
The small old man looked at him with muddy eyes, his right hand slowly lifted, mouth agape, fingers coming together, stuffing them bit by bit into his wide-open mouth, stretching it grotesquely wide, emitting an indescribable horror.
Meng Yongshou was completely dumbfounded, staring at this scene, feeling countless chills surging from deep within, unable to tear his gaze away.
