虎豹別墅：萬金油花園中的神秘雕像與夜半傳聞 ｜Haw Par Mansion Haunted Garden: The Night When Statues Begin to Watch You｜香港都市靈異傳說 EP08
虎豹別墅的故事流傳已久，特別是在夜晚，那些雕像彷彿擁有了生命，靜靜地注視著每一位闖入者。林嘉怡從小就聽過這些傳說，但她並不相信。她總覺得這些故事只是大人用來嚇唬小孩的手段。然而，當她站在虎豹花園的入口時，夜風輕拂，她卻感到一絲莫名的寒意。
花園裡的燈光昏暗，雕像的影子被拉得狹長，像是無聲的幽靈。嘉怡深吸一口氣，告訴自己這只是普通的雕像，沒什麼好害怕的。她拿出手機，準備拍幾張照片作為紀念。鏡頭對準一尊面目猙獰的雕像時，她按下快門，屏幕瞬間閃爍了一下。照片裡，那雕像的眼神似乎與剛才不太一樣了。嘉怡皺了皺眉，心想可能是自己看錯了。
她繼續往裡走，沿著小徑穿過一片竹林，竹葉在微風中沙沙作響，像是在竊竊私語。突然，她停下腳步，因為耳邊傳來了低沉的聲音，像是有人在耳邊輕聲說話。她四處張望，卻看不到任何人影。心跳開始加速，但她依然告訴自己那只是風聲。
走到地獄景觀區時，嘉怡感覺到四周的溫度似乎驟然下降。這裡的雕像更加恐怖，每一尊都展現著罪人遭受懲罰的場景。拔舌地獄裡，一個雕像正被拉長的舌頭掛在火鉗上；油鍋地獄中，一個人形雕像被困在滾燙的油鍋裡，臉上的痛苦表情栩栩如生。嘉怡不自覺地打了個寒顫，但仍舊舉起手機拍照。
就在她按下快門的一瞬間，她感覺到身後有什麼東西閃過。她猛然回頭，只看到一片空蕩蕩的黑暗，什麼也沒有。她搖搖頭，嘀咕著自己是不是太緊張了。然而當她低頭查看剛剛拍下的照片時，卻發現畫面中多了一個模糊的人影，那人影站在一尊雕像旁邊，低著頭，像是在凝視著什麼。
嘉怡不禁倒吸一口涼氣，她環顧四周，試圖找到那個人影，但四周依然空無一人。她強迫自己冷靜下來，告訴自己這可能是光影造成的錯覺。然而，她越往前走，那種被注視的感覺就越強烈，每當她回頭時，又總是什麼都看不到。
終於，她走到了花園深處的一座涼亭。涼亭旁有一尊巨大的虎雕像，張著血盆大口，似乎隨時會撲過來。嘉怡站在涼亭中央，試圖平復自己的心情。然而當她再次拿起手機時，她發現屏幕上出現了一行文字：「你為什麼來了？」
她愣住了，手指微微顫抖，不小心點開了相機相簿。那些剛剛拍下的照片此刻竟然全都變了樣，每一張裡的雕像都不再是原本的姿勢，而是似乎朝向鏡頭移動了一步，有些甚至伸出了手臂，指向某個方向。
嘉怡再也忍不住了，她轉身就跑，腳步聲在寂靜的花園裡顯得格外刺耳。然而，她越跑越覺得不對勁，那些熟悉的小徑此刻變得陌生起來，她竟然迷路了。四周的雕像似乎越來越多，每一尊都用空洞的眼神盯著她。
「別害怕，只是你的錯覺。」嘉怡不停地對自己說。但就在這時，她聽到身後傳來沉重的腳步聲，那聲音緩慢而堅定，一步一步地朝她走近。她不敢回頭，只能拼命往前跑。
終於，她看到前方有一道亮光，那是花園入口處的大門！嘉怡卯足了全力衝向那道光。然而，就在她即將衝出花園的一瞬間，她感到腳踝被什麼東西緊緊抓住了。她尖叫一聲摔倒在地，回頭看去，只見一隻石頭般冰冷的手正死死抓住她的腳，而那隻手連接著一尊面目猙獰的雕像。
嘉怡拼命掙扎，用力踢開那隻手，終於掙脫了束縛。一瘸一拐地跑出花園後，她回頭望去，那些雕像依然靜靜地佇立著，一動不動，就像什麼都沒發生過一樣。
後來，嘉怡再也沒踏進虎豹花園一步，但每當夜幕降臨，她總能感覺到那雙冰冷的眼睛似乎依然在某處注視著她。而那些照片，也早已從她的手機裡憑空消失了，如同從未存在過一般。
English Version
At night, Haw Par Mansion and its surrounding Tiger Balm Garden seem to transform into something far removed from their daytime identity, where cultural sculptures and moral allegories once meant for education and curiosity begin to take on a more unsettling presence, their exaggerated expressions and frozen gestures appearing almost animate under dim lighting, and for Lam Ka-yee, who had grown up hearing stories about the place but never truly believed them, the decision to visit after dark was driven more by curiosity than fear, yet the moment she stepped through the entrance and felt the cool night air brush against her skin, she sensed something subtle shift in the atmosphere, as if the garden itself had acknowledged her presence the pathways were quiet, illuminated only by scattered lights that cast long, distorted shadows of the statues across the ground, making them appear taller, more imposing, and strangely alive, and as she walked deeper into the garden, she tried to reassure herself that these were nothing more than carefully crafted sculptures, artistic representations with no agency or awareness, yet the feeling of being watched lingered persistently, settling into the edges of her thoughts in a way she could not easily dismiss; stopping briefly to take photos, she raised her phone toward one particularly grotesque statue, capturing its contorted expression, but when she glanced at the image, she hesitated, noticing that the statue’s gaze seemed slightly different from what she had just seen, as though it had shifted ever so subtly, and though she quickly dismissed it as a trick of light or angle, the unease began to deepen; continuing along the path, she passed through a narrow section lined with bamboo, their leaves rustling softly in the wind like whispers exchanged just out of reach, and it was there that she first heard it—a faint voice, low and indistinct, as if someone were speaking directly beside her, yet when she turned, there was no one there, only the quiet movement of leaves and the stillness of the night, and though her heart rate quickened, she forced herself forward, determined not to let imagination overpower reason; when she reached the area depicting scenes of punishment and morality, often referred to as the “hell exhibits,” the atmosphere grew noticeably colder, the sculptures depicting suffering and consequence rendered in vivid, almost lifelike detail, their expressions frozen in agony, and as she took another photograph, she felt a sudden movement behind her, a fleeting presence that caused her to spin around instinctively, only to find emptiness once again, yet when she checked the photo she had just taken, her breath caught—standing beside one of the statues was a blurred human-like figure, head lowered, indistinct yet undeniably present within the frame, and the realization that the camera had captured something her eyes had not intensified her fear beyond rational explanation; she scanned the surroundings desperately, searching for any trace of the figure, but found nothing, and though she tried to convince herself it was merely a reflection or distortion, the sense of being observed grew stronger with every step, as if unseen eyes followed her movements with quiet intent; eventually, she reached a pavilion deeper within the garden, where a large tiger statue loomed nearby, its open mouth and carved fangs creating the illusion of imminent motion, and as she stood there attempting to steady her breathing, she raised her phone once more, only to freeze when she saw words appear on the screen—“Why did you come?”—displayed without input, without explanation, as if the device itself had been taken over by something beyond her control, and when she opened her gallery, the photographs she had taken moments earlier had changed, each image altered so that the statues appeared closer, their positions shifted slightly toward the camera, some even extending their limbs as though reaching outward, breaking the boundary between stillness and movement; panic overtook her completely, and she turned to run, her footsteps echoing sharply through the silent garden, but as she moved, the familiar paths seemed to twist and distort, leading her in circles rather than toward the exit, the statues appearing in increasing numbers, surrounding her with their hollow gazes, and though she repeated to herself that it was all in her mind, the illusion—or reality—persisted, and then she heard it, a heavy, deliberate set of footsteps behind her, slow but relentless, drawing closer with each passing second, and despite the overwhelming urge to look back, she forced herself forward, focusing only on escape; finally, she saw a distant light—the entrance—and with all the strength she had left, she ran toward it, only to feel something cold and unyielding grip her ankle, pulling her to the ground as she cried out in terror, and when she turned, she saw a stone hand wrapped tightly around her leg, connected to one of the statues that now appeared far too close, its expression unchanged yet its presence undeniable, and with a desperate kick, she freed herself and scrambled to her feet, running the remaining distance until she burst out of the garden and into the open air beyond; when she looked back, the statues stood exactly as they should, motionless and silent, offering no evidence of what had just occurred, yet the experience left an imprint she could not erase, and in the days that followed, she avoided the place entirely, though at night she sometimes felt as if those unmoving eyes still lingered somewhere beyond her sight, watching, waiting, and remembering, while the photographs she had taken that night disappeared from her phone without explanation, leaving behind only the memory of something that should not have moved, yet somehow had, in a place where the boundary between art and existence seemed far thinner than anyone dared to admit.
