The lid closed, the sound faded, but its echo lingered in our ears.
We stood trembling, unable to act.
Li Yang tore off his gas mask, tossing it aside, drenched in sweat, as if pulled from water. Leaning against a pillar, he panted, eyes closed, exhausted.
After a while, Tong Suo asked, "Where did those sounds come from?"
"Hell, probably," I said.
"Only hell could hold such sounds," Li Yang wiped his sweat. "Hear it again, and I might lose it."
"Let's go back?" I suggested.
"Rest first," Tong Suo said, collapsing. "I can't move, just wanna sleep."
Li Yang tried standing but slumped back. "Don't sleep here. Sleep at home."
I was worse off, like a sick chicken. We sat in a circle, backs against a pillar.
The hall was silent. Tong Suo flicked his flashlight on and off, the cauldron flickering in the light.
"Are you afraid of death?" he asked suddenly.
"Afraid or not, we face it," Li Yang said.
"You, Old Liu?" Tong Suo asked.
"Not really," I said. "My life's a failure. Death's not a loss—it might even mean a fresh start next life."
"That's bleak," Li Yang said. "If you don't try, you'll be a beggar in ten lifetimes."
"Small wealth comes from thrift, great wealth from fate. I know my lot," I replied.
Tong Suo said, "If there's a next life, I don't want to be human."
"Not human? A beast?" Li Yang mocked.
"Your level's too low for this talk. Why be anything? I'd choose nirvana, free of attachments, the void," Tong Suo said.
I laughed. "Nirvana's tough—escaping the three realms, beyond the five elements. Only immortals achieve that. We'd be lucky not to end up as wandering ghosts, waiting for the Yama King's reincarnation. Lucky, you're born a governor's son; unlucky, you're in a cancer village, bloated and barefoot."
"Why stay in China next life? How about Switzerland or Norway? Clean air, mountains, bank account at birth, living just to play," Tong Suo said.
Li Yang laughed. "With your lifestyle—nightclubs, new bride every night? Forget Switzerland. You'd need ten lifetimes of virtue. Lust alone disqualifies you."
"That's consensual love. Even Yama's gotta be fair," Tong Suo retorted.
They bantered like comedians, easing my fear. I leaned back, eyes heavy, and fell asleep.
I slept soundly, a rare deep rest. Usually, my sleep's poor, but here it was sweet.
Someone shook me awake. "Old Liu, Old Liu."
I groaned, rolled over, and fell to the ground, jolting awake. Rubbing my eyes, I saw Li Yang and Tong Suo staring at something.
I crawled over. "What're you looking at?"
Then I froze.
The back hall projected a bright, rotating eight-trigram pattern on the stone floor, its yin-yang fish shifting mesmerizingly.
Something was in the back hall!
The pattern's brilliance dispelled our fear. We rushed to the back hall.
It was vast, with four red pillars and gray stone floors. Above, beams crisscrossed, and a massive eight-trigram skylight cast the shifting pattern below, illuminating the hall brightly.
On both sides were dozens of lifelike statues—arhats, immortals, demons, men, women, old, young, in vibrant attire, looking alive.
We didn't need flashlights, walking slowly from the hall's end.
"Wow, wax figures?" Tong Suo said, eyeing an immortal statue—an old man in ancient robes, smiling, vivid yellow skin, black eyes, white hair.
Only wax could be so lifelike, unlike crude clay or wood.
Some statues were gentler, others demonic, with wild hair, gaping mouths, long red tongues, and clawing hands, exuding menace.
Walking among them felt chillingly eerie.
"This place reminds me of the Japanese uncanny valley theory," I said.
"What's that?" Tong Suo asked.
"When robots or figures are over 95% human-like but slightly off, they feel stiff and terrifying. Horror films use wax figures or dolls for that effect—non-human things given human traits."
"Stop, you're creeping me out," Tong Suo said, shivering.
Li Yang said, "Look."
On the hall's rear sides hung thick black curtains, covered in simple ghost-face drawings—distorted ovals with three black holes for eyes and mouth, screaming, countless in number.
Li Yang lifted a curtain, revealing a large, dark space.
His flashlight illuminated a startling scene: an ancient well in the center, its high rim of green bricks covered in red-painted, chaotic Chinese-like characters, unreadable, like talismans, exuding evil.
We hesitated, but Li Yang led, and we followed to the well.
Scattered yellow talismans, as long as the well's diameter, lay on the ground, likely seals torn off.
Peering in, it was pitch black, bottomless. This darkness was a void, like a massive hollow beneath.
How could this be? We were in a hidden layer between the 21st floor and the roof. Logically, below should be the 21st floor.
Yet, looking in, it felt like a vast abyss, humbling us like ants—an urban impossibility.
Even atop a skyscraper, overlooking city lights, you wouldn't feel this. This well was a chasm, its darkness beyond human comprehension.
It was like floating in space, facing the infinite cosmos.
Our flashlights shot into the dark, their beams narrowing to lines, swallowed without reflecting anything.
If this were a cave, I'd swear it led to the Earth's core. But in a building? An endless well would pierce the entire structure—residents would notice.
A strange thought hit me: this entire temple was built for this well.