When Li Yi arrived at the renowned theater company, the evening air was thick with an anticipatory hush. The theater itself stood as a magnificent testament to artistic grandeur, an opulent, neo-classical building that seemed to have been plucked from a bygone era of glamour. Its marble columns, smooth and cool to the touch, soared upwards, supporting the gilded arches that glinted and sparkled under the soft, golden glow of the chandeliers. Ordinarily, at this hour, the area would be alive with the excited chatter of theatergoers, the hurried footsteps of stagehands, and the muffled strains of the orchestra warming up. But tonight, instead of the usual buzz of excitement, there was an air of palpable dread that hung like a heavy curtain, suffocating any sense of merriment.
Mr. Lionel Hart, the frantic producer, rushed out to meet Li Yi the moment he stepped through the door. His face was flushed, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the coolness of the interior. His eyes were wide and wild, darting about as if he expected some unseen horror to leap out at any moment. "Mr. Li, thank heavens you're here!" he exclaimed, his voice a desperate rasp. Without pausing for breath, he led Li Yi backstage, weaving through the labyrinth of corridors and dressing rooms.
In the lead actress's dressing room, the celebrated starlet, Isabella Thorne, was huddled in a corner. She was a vision of distress, her face as pale as the moon on a winter's night, her eyes haunted and rimmed with dark circles that seemed to have been painted on by a hand of despair. It was evident she hadn't slept in days; her exhaustion was a tangible thing, seeping from her every pore. She clutched a silk robe tightly around herself, the fabric wrinkling in her white-knuckled grip, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
Isabella's voice quivered as she recounted the harrowing events. During rehearsals for the latest production, a strange cold draft would sweep through the stage without warning. It was as if a frigid specter had passed by, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she'd catch glimpses of a shadowy figure lurking in the wings. Its form was indistinct, like a wisp of smoke given a menacing shape, yet it radiated an unmistakable sense of danger. At night, when she sought refuge in her dressing room, trying to find some semblance of peace to rest her weary body, she'd hear eerie whispers. The sounds seemed to seep from the very walls, as if the theater itself were whispering long-forgotten secrets.
In the most recent performance, things had taken a truly terrifying turn. As she delivered her most powerful monologue, the words that usually flowed from her like a melodious stream, the lights above her flickered and died. In the pitch-black darkness that ensued, she felt icy fingers brush against her throat. It was a touch so cold it seemed to freeze her vocal cords, choking her words and turning her performance into a desperate struggle. The audience, oblivious to the true nature of her plight, gasped in horror, thinking it was all part of the carefully choreographed act.
Li Yi's gaze swept the dressing room, his eyes sharp and focused. His trusty compass, which had seen him through countless supernatural encounters, twitched and spun erratically in his hand. It was as if it were being pulled by an invisible force, leading him to a hidden trapdoor concealed beneath the thick, plush rug. With a heave, he pried it open, and a musty smell, a pungent mixture of old wood, damp fabric, and forgotten memories, wafted up. A narrow staircase, its steps worn and creaking ominously, descended into a yawning abyss of darkness.
He descended cautiously, each step a calculated move. The stairs groaned under his weight, the sound echoing through the silent chamber below. At the bottom, he found himself in a small, claustrophobic chamber filled with the detritus of decades past. Old props, their paint peeling and their forms faded, leaned against the walls. Tattered costumes, moth-eaten and musty, hung limply from racks. In the corner, a large, dusty mirror caught his attention. Its frame was ornate, carved with intricate patterns that might once have told a story of triumphs and tragedies on stage. But now, it was cracked, the fissures running like jagged lightning bolts across its surface. The glass was clouded, as if it had absorbed the sorrows and secrets of the theater over the years, trapping them within its murky depths.
From his extensive studies, Li Yi knew that mirrors could often be gateways to other realms. Closing his eyes, he centered himself, drawing on his inner reserves of energy. Then, he began to chant an incantation, his voice a low, resonant murmur that echoed in the confined space. The words, ancient and powerful, seemed to fill the air with a palpable charge. Slowly, the mirror's surface rippled, like a pond disturbed by a falling pebble. A scene emerged, hazy at first but gradually coming into focus. It was a vision of a jealous understudy from the theater's early days. She was a young woman with a fire in her eyes that had been doused by repeated disappointment. She had been passed over for the lead role time and time again, her talent overlooked in favor of others. In her rage and despair, she had cursed the theater and any future lead who dared to take the spotlight, binding her own tortured spirit to this place.
Li Yi realized he had to break the curse. He scoured the chamber, his fingers running over the dusty surfaces of boxes and trunks. After some searching, he found a box of old mementos. Among them was a faded program, the paper brittle and yellowed with age. On it, in faded ink, was the understudy's name, Clara. There was also a worn-out diary, its cover cracked and its pages filled with the scribbled thoughts and heartaches of a forgotten soul. These items, he hoped, would serve as a connection to her past, a way to reach out to the spirit that still lingered in torment.
He carried the items back up to the stage, the theater now silent and empty save for the echoes of his footsteps. There, he set up a makeshift altar, arranging the program and diary with care. Then, he began a ritual of release, his voice rising and falling in a rhythmic cadence as he called out to Clara's spirit. As he chanted, the temperature in the theater plummeted. The air seemed to crystallize, and the shadowy figure appeared once more, this time more solid, as if drawn by the power of his invocation. It was Clara, her face contorted with anger, her eyes burning with a fury that had simmered for decades.
Li Yi stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. He showed her the diary and the program, his voice soft and gentle as he spoke of how her talent had been overlooked but that it was time to let go. The spirit of Clara hesitated, her rage seeming to waver. For a moment, a glimmer of something like recognition, perhaps of the long-forgotten pain that had fueled her curse, flashed in her eyes.
Taking advantage of the moment, Li Yi intensified his chanting, focusing all his energy on opening a doorway for Clara's spirit to pass through. His face was a mask of concentration, beads of sweat forming on his forehead despite the cold. With a final, bright flash, the cold draft ceased, the whispers faded, and Clara's spirit dissipated, leaving behind only a sense of peace.
Isabella, who had been watching from the wings, was overjoyed. She rushed onto the stage, her eyes shining with newfound hope. Tears streamed down her face as she thanked Li Yi profusely. The theater company could now resume their performances without fear. But as Li Yi left the theater, his phone buzzed yet again. This time, it was a call from a centuries-old winery. Their cellars were haunted by a series of inexplicable events, and the wine production was suffering. Without hesitation, Li Yi headed for the winery, ready for another adventure.