I have a hobby of watching horror movies, and coincidentally, the ancient-style commercial street near my residence is under construction. Disturbed by the noise, I plan to write a ghost story to match the atmosphere.

What is a ghost story? In fact, human hearts are more treacherous than all things. Therefore, I believe that most ghost stories are merely another portrayal of human nature. For example, in "Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio," every sentence does not mention people, yet every word is related to ghosts. When I was young, I thought it would be so leisurely to set up a tea house like Pu Songling and listen to the stories of countless families. But when I couldn't sleep at night, I suddenly realized that ghosts were right beside me, and I couldn't help but sigh that they were all pitiful beings.

It is said that there are vengeful spirits in this world. I believe in cause and effect, so I also believe that they do exist. But ghosts are ultimately ghosts, and humans may not necessarily be human. It is not a problem to maintain some rules among the three realms; after all, the one who is wronged must have suffered greatly.

Looking at the hollow rooms in the ancient-style high-rise not far away, the emergency lights that light up on the balcony late at night seem even more eerie, as if the entire building is hiding a huge secret, and each room with open doors and windows is staging various mysteries unknown to the world. A few times, after nightfall, I deliberately read a few pages of ghost stories and found that the ghost stories in popular novels today are really not as gripping as those passed down orally. Thus, I have gained a bit more respect for ghosts.

Perhaps I shouldn't feel this way. Here, in a sacred Buddhist land, I feel pity for ghosts and spirits. Am I also falling into their trap? But there are too many absurdities in this world that cannot be explained, so why not allow a little chaos and confusion? I wonder if frequently dreaming is related to this; I just feel it is another form of enlightenment.

It is indeed inappropriate to disturb someone's peaceful dreams, but my irregular schedule seems to balance it out. I really don't know what it will be like after the business opens? The agent boasts and demonstrates too much, revealing too much fluff; it's better to just listen. People are so foolish and shortsighted, always thinking that clumsy lies can deceive others. In fact, how much difference is there in intelligence between people? Not exposing the truth is just not wanting to get entangled again. Anyway, if I have the chance to come back here next time, I definitely won't rent this sublet's house. There are many others who think the same way.

I guess the room closest to me must be occupied by a kind ghost; otherwise, why is it that occasionally when I forget to close the balcony doors and windows, I sense traces of others in the house but have never been disturbed? It's strange; I don't know why I always feel that I am not the only one living in this room. Occasionally scattered incense coils, tables and chairs on the balcony that seem to have been moved, the washing machine's power not turned off... Am I really just careless? Well, let's just assume it's a parallel world where we don't disturb each other.

Speaking of which, I consider myself quite bold; there are not many households in the building, yet I still feel it's excessive. Could it be that only those living in the deep forest feel tranquility? What does it mean to be hidden in the city or in the wild? Forget it, my cultivation is not enough; even if I go to the deep mountains, I cannot calm my worldly heart.

Is there a girl living in the place that looks like a brocade building across from me? The occasionally lit red lantern hanging at the door, could it be that I am seeing things? A few days ago, it rained, and every brick and tile across the street was washed anew, giving a sense of the misty rain of Jiangnan locking up the tall buildings. This is what I like.

Sitting by the window, drinking tea, listening to the rain, reading, and daydreaming, I enjoy the refreshing feeling after the rain, as well as the frail feeling of the drizzling rain. It's a pity that the rain here is too short for me. But for the girl in the brocade building, it is too long. The taste of waiting is quite uncomfortable; it is both honing my mind and providing an excuse for my confinement. Perhaps we are the same kind of people, not liking to go out simply because there is no purpose in going out.

In the building behind me, there might be a mischievous young ghost. The occasional crackling sounds from the room seem to remind me of his loneliness. Then let's pretend to be scared. With a few more sounds, there is a bit more liveliness.

What is that place hidden in the corner that looks like a city tower? The officials and ministers are too stingy, while the common folk feel it is luxurious. Perhaps it's a matter of perspective; I just feel it is somewhat abrupt. Suddenly, I see half of a low building behind the city tower, covered up. A tea house? A winery? The uniform red lanterns seem a bit tacky.

What about those ghosts across the street? An incomprehensible language, an unreadable expression. I only feel a sense of desolation leaking from the prosperity of the flourishing flowers. The workers' lackadaisical labor also intensifies this feeling; let's blame it on the heat of summer.

At night, it is terrifyingly quiet, as if the whole world is asleep, leaving only the sounds of insects and frogs that know no fatigue. Therefore, I love the nights here even more. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes at night are fiercer, and the balcony is really not a good place.

The advantage of a small town on the fifth or sixth tier is its ease, but will lingering here feel boring? Suddenly, I look forward to the arrival of ghosts and spirits, adding a few strokes of excitement to the mundane life. But I also fear the arrival of ghosts; who knows what kind of character they had when they were alive?

A lifetime is too long, long enough to make days feel like years; yet a lifetime is also too short, short enough that one doesn't have time to truly enjoy youth before growing old. I dare not look back at the past years, hoping that every sunrise will bring a miracle.

The sun has not yet set, and the construction has still stopped, indicating that another day has passed. This brief moment of tranquility is what I like. My daytime also begins in the afternoon, becoming more awake as night falls.

There is a thin mist in the mountains, and this thin mist has spread to this sparsely populated community. Thus, countless mundane and tiresome stories are born.

I have heard some gossip, which is really not interesting. The subletter is keen on gatherings, and such rumors mostly come from those gatherings, so I dislike interacting with them even more. In this regard, ghosts are much easier to get along with than people.

I often wonder if switching the positions of humans and ghosts would make this world more harmonious? Humanity is always filled with inexplicable aversion to the unknown; this is the belief of optimists. Yet I, as a pessimist, feel somewhat indifferent. What difference does it make whether it is good or bad? Once tainted by human nature, how many will not become demons or ghosts?

The evening temperature is much cooler than during the day, and the sounds of children can be heard from downstairs from time to time. It's the holiday again, and more and more people are coming. I don't like this small town. I cannot experience the joy of having grandchildren, nor can I understand the responsibility of raising children. I just feel it is noisy.

A ghost with a green face and sharp teeth is certainly terrifying, but a seemingly kind hypocrite is even more frightening. I don't know how I suddenly ended up writing this; I just let my thoughts fly. I don't like to stay in one place for too long; it's not that I am inherently reclusive, but I feel that when I have accumulated enough disappointment, it is time to leave. Thinking this way, I resonate somewhat with the ghosts trapped in the building. Too many helplessness force me to stop. If there were no ancient-style commercial street, would they still be able to have freedom? What is the difference between them and me, a wandering ghost?

Indeed, the deeper the night, the clearer I become; the transition between night and day is very much like the chasm between life and death. In fact, it is not the ghosts residing in the building that disturb my dreams, but the workers repairing the ghosts' dwellings. This indeed echoes the saying, "Money can make the ghost grind."

So, what is real and what is fake? What difference does it make whether one is human or ghost? It is merely a different way of living.

I heard that a new film adapted from "Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio" has recently been released. I will go watch it, so I can know that I have not yet turned into a ghost.

The End