Nightmare Apostle

Meanwhile, in the grand hall on the first floor of the Cultural Palace, a movie was being screened.

Just like the previous night, it was still a black-and-white film, with a pair of young lovers sharing feelings under the sunset, singing mountain songs across a small river from opposite banks.

Every time the film reached a close-up of the protagonists, the cinema resounded with exclamations.

After watching for half an hour, Guo Tiejun, sitting in the back row, started to grow tired. To him, the film felt unbearably long and tedious, with the leads never speaking their minds, just guessing each other’s thoughts, and smiling shyly when feelings ran deep.

Similar shots of turning back for a shy smile appeared at least seven or eight times. The most "explicit" moment in the film was when the female lead kissed the male lead’s cheek, lasting less than a second, but the audience reacted as if they’d seen an extraordinary scene, their eyes shining, faces flushed under the silver screen’s glow.

Guo Tiejun really didn’t have the heart to tell them that times were progressing—not to mention the small films, even in today’s fantasy dramas, leads could be hanging on cliffs making out for half an hour.

If it weren’t for censorship, those brainless screenwriters would dare write the leads having a second child after falling to the bottom of a cliff.

Guo Tiejun found such boring plots uninteresting, focusing instead on the moviegoers around him and the darker corners further out of sight.

He had a kind of feeling that didn’t quite qualify as a feeling—like something lurked in the surrounding darkness, especially...

Guo Tiejun turned his head, looking toward a corner behind him shrouded in darkness.

That was where Old Zhang the technician’s body had been found.

Guo Tiejun looked for a few seconds, finding nothing wrong but feeling inexplicably creeped out, chills running down his spine.

Soon enough, he sensed something was off—a clear change nearby that he hadn’t yet identified, almost instinctual.

It was like someone was hiding in the shadows, watching him.

A violent sense of dread bombarded Guo Tiejun’s nerves, making him instinctively want to flee.

But he dared not, having experienced a similar scene on his first mission.

That time, he froze in fear, legs weak, unable to run, while his partner indiscriminately abandoned him, fleeing the room.

In the moment his partner reached the door, they were split in half, cleaved, truly dead.

With this past lesson, Guo Tiejun knew he couldn’t run unless absolutely necessary, and even then, his skills wouldn’t guarantee escape.

Since running wasn’t an option, handling it was essential—a lesson warned by the veteran who accompanied him last time.

At this moment, he recalled something Yang Xiao mentioned earlier.

The previous night in the second-floor game room, Yang Xiao and the others had witnessed odd events and saw a ghost.

Steeling himself, Guo Tiejun stood unsteadily, having been seated in the aisle-side seat of the back row, while the film reached its climax—friends surrounding the protagonists as they were about to confess their feelings.

Everyone was focused on the big screen, none noticing Guo Tiejun’s actions.

Guo Tiejun stood, facing the back of the hall, turning away from the screen and audience, bending slowly as if tying his shoe, peering back through his legs.

He’d learned this trick from Yang Xiao, now put to use, as Yang Xiao had seen a ghost using it, so if there were anomalies nearby, perhaps he would too.

After several seconds, Guo Tiejun felt his anxiety slightly relieved; everything was normal in the audience area behind him.

Everyone was engrossed in the captivating scenes on the screen—the leads surrounded by friends, joyous conversation, flowers blooming by the riverside, lush green grass—an atmosphere suffused with simple love.

Guo Tiejun exhaled slowly, but as he was about to stand, his peripheral vision accidentally skimming the space beneath the seats.

The next moment, his peripheral vision reflected a scene that froze him in place; unprecedented fear struck him like a lightning bolt, piercing through him instantly.

Under the wooden chairs behind him lay feet—heels together, toes twisted 180 degrees—hidden beneath and pointing unwaveringly at him.

At some point, the cinema’s sounds vanished, the film’s dialogue stopped, even the "clattering" mechanical sounds ceased—a deathly silence enveloped the venue.

More chilling was the screen freezing abruptly.

The protagonists on it, along with their singing and dancing friends beside them, all stopped, yet their bodies kept the same joyous celebratory motions but turned their heads to look beyond the screen.

They seemed marked by some program or invaded by the same virus, each face wearing a cold, stiff smile inhuman, devoid of emotion.

Dilated pupils, flashing eerie light, made the image strange and disjointed, indescribably absurd.

"They’re watching me! They... they’ve found me!"

At this moment, Guo Tiejun was about to collapse; he grabbed Feng Xiaoyan, also watching the movie, ready to run outside.

He brought Feng Xiaoyan to test an escape precedent, intending to maneuver her forward as they fled, having suffered severe psychological trauma from witnessing his partner split by the ghost in a prior mission.

But contrary to plan, despite his efforts, he couldn’t lift Feng Xiaoyan, instead was unsteadied by her resistance.

Guo Tiejun barely regained composure, but what unveiled next shattered his mental defenses—as one row of viewers lifted heads toward him, synchrony in motion, as if practiced countless times.

In the cold screen light, what emerged were peeled, blood-soaked skeletal faces.

"Ahhh!!" Guo Tiejun screamed miserably, then completely lost consciousness.

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