幽居之所，本為安身之地，然若陰氣積聚，平凡宅院亦可成為詭異之源。
A home is meant to shelter the living, yet when shadows gather, even familiar walls may harbor unseen terror.
中文版本
士人周敬，性喜清靜，獨居於城郊舊宅。此宅傳言多怪，前主遷離時曾言夜有異動，燈火自滅，門窗自開。然周敬素不信鬼，見屋宇寬敞，價廉可居，遂搬入其內。
初居數日，一切如常。然至深夜，常覺屋中似有細微聲響，如步履輕移，又似衣物拖地。周敬初以為風聲，未加理會。
一夜，月色如水，他獨坐書齋，忽見燭火搖曳不定，似被無形之物擾動。未幾，門扉輕響，自開一隙。冷風入室，帶來一股難以言喻的陰寒。
周敬起身，欲閉其門，忽見門後似有影動，非人非物。那影緩緩延伸，貼地而行，竟如活物。周敬心中微震，卻強自鎮定，朗聲喝道：「何物作祟！」
話音未落，那影忽然凝聚，化作一團黑氣，隱約呈人形，面目模糊，似笑非笑。周敬後退數步，心跳如鼓，卻不願示弱。
自此之後，怪事漸頻。器物無故移動，水缸自響，夜半時常聞低語。更有數次，周敬於夢中驚醒，見床前立有黑影，凝視不動。
鄰人聞之，皆勸其遷離。然周敬固執，認為若為妖魅，亦可尋其根源。遂日夜觀察屋中異象，試圖探明其來歷。
一日，他於後院掘土，發現一舊井，井口封閉已久。掀開之時，一股腐氣沖出，令人作嘔。井中幽深，似有微光閃動。
當夜，異象更盛。屋內陰氣凝重，黑影出現於四壁之間，忽聚忽散，似在巡行。周敬心知與井有關，決意查明。
次日，他請來道人作法。道人觀其宅，沉聲道：「此地久無人氣，陰氣凝聚，附於井中，化為宅妖。非一日之患。」
道人設壇於院，焚符念咒。至夜深，井中忽傳出低吼之聲，如獸似人。黑影自井口湧出，盤旋於空，形態詭異。
道人喝令，持劍斬符，火光四起。黑影劇烈扭動，似欲逃散。周敬亦壯膽持火相助。火勢映照之下，那影逐漸崩解，終化為一縷黑煙，散於空中。
自此之後，宅中寂然，再無異象。周敬心中既驚且悟，知天地之間，陰陽交錯，非人力可盡解。
他仍居此宅，但每至夜深，總會望向後院井口，心中隱約不安。因他明白，有些東西雖已消散，卻未必真正消失。
English Version
Zhou Jing was a scholar who valued solitude above all else. When he discovered an old house on the outskirts of the city, he saw only opportunity—space, quiet, and a price too low to ignore. Others warned him of strange occurrences within its walls, but he dismissed them as idle superstition.
At first, the house seemed perfectly ordinary.
Yet as nights passed, subtle disturbances began to emerge. Soft sounds echoed through empty halls—footsteps without origin, faint dragging noises, as if something unseen moved just beyond sight.
One evening, under pale moonlight, Zhou sat reading when the candle flame flickered violently. The door creaked open by itself, letting in a cold gust that carried an unnatural chill.
As he approached to close it, he noticed something behind the door—a shifting shadow, detached from any visible source. It stretched unnaturally across the floor, moving as though it possessed intention.
“Show yourself,” he demanded, though his voice betrayed a trace of unease.
The shadow thickened, gathering into a vague human-like form. Its outline wavered, its expression unreadable, as though caught between existence and dissolution.
From that night onward, the disturbances intensified.
Objects shifted slightly when unattended. Water jars trembled without cause. Whispering voices filled the silence of midnight. On several occasions, Zhou awoke abruptly, sensing a presence beside his bed—watching, unmoving.
Neighbors urged him to leave, but Zhou refused. If something haunted the house, he would uncover its origin.
His search led him to the backyard, where he discovered a long-sealed well buried beneath overgrown earth. When he pried it open, a foul, stagnant air rose from within.
That night, the atmosphere changed completely.
Darkness thickened, pressing against the walls. Shadows flowed along the surfaces, converging toward the well as if drawn by an unseen force.
Realizing the connection, Zhou sought help from a Taoist practitioner.
“The spirit is not bound to form,” the Taoist explained. “It gathers where neglect and silence allow it to grow. This house has fed it for years.”
A ritual was prepared.
As night deepened, a low growl emerged from the well. A mass of darkness surged upward, twisting and expanding, its shape unstable and monstrous.
The Taoist chanted, casting talismans into the air. Flames erupted, illuminating the courtyard in flickering light. The entity writhed violently, its form unraveling under the force of the ritual.
Zhou, summoning his courage, joined in, feeding the fire.
At last, the shadow fractured, dissolving into strands of black smoke that vanished into the night.
Silence returned.
The house, once oppressive, now felt empty—truly empty.
Zhou continued to live there, though something within him had changed. He no longer dismissed the unseen so easily.
Sometimes, late at night, he would find himself staring at the well in the backyard, listening—not for sound, but for the absence of it.
Because he understood now: some things, once awakened, never entirely disappear.
