Shroud

Have I really been here before?

This was the third time Jin Ze asked me the same question, but this time, I couldn't shake my head as decisively as I had the previous two times.

I stared blankly at the frozen image on the screen, at a loss for words. For a moment, I even doubted myself—had I truly never been here? But then, who was that person hiding in the woods in the video?

Only now did I understand why Jin Ze insisted on combining the two cases for investigation, claiming it was because of me. I was the common figure appearing in both incidents.

Seeing me silent, Jin Ze moved the handcuffs slightly, prompting me to speak. "I know you probably don't believe me, but I really don't remember ever coming here. I have no recollection at all!"

He pointed at the video, then gestured toward the nearby woods. "Think carefully. Do you want to take a walk in those woods? Maybe it'll jog your memory."

I knew Jin Ze was trying to give me a chance. He couldn't possibly believe a normal person would suddenly lose their memory—he must think I'm just stubbornly refusing to admit it. He wanted me to confess.

But I truly had nothing to confess. So I kept staring at the screen, searching for anything suspicious, anything that could prove the person in the video wasn't me, or that the footage was doctored.

Suddenly, it was as if my mind was struck by lightning—I found something that could work in my favor. I turned to Jin Ze, excitement in my voice, "That's not me. He's impersonating me!"

Jin Ze looked at me, waiting for me to explain.

I pointed at the figure on the screen. "Look at the person in the woods. He does look a lot like me, but because of the lighting and the angle, you can't actually see his full face. At best, he just resembles me."

I paused, then continued, "It's hard to find two people who look exactly alike, but not impossible. The main reason I'm saying that's not me is because of the clothes he's wearing. I don't have those clothes!"

Indeed, I'd never worn that outfit before. It was a blue traditional robe, speckled with white spots—simple, old-fashioned. There's no way I'd ever wear something so outdated.

Suddenly, a thought struck me, and a chill ran down my spine. My whole body tensed.

Because I realized that wasn't just a traditional robe—it was a burial shroud! The man who looked so much like me was wearing a burial shroud.

I was left speechless, but Jin Ze broke the silence. “Then what? If you’re really sure you’ve never been here, then either, as you said, someone is impersonating you, or you’ve forgotten. But if you’ve forgotten, how can you be so sure you’ve never worn that shroud?”

I was left without words—his logic was flawless.

He continued, “So I’m going to have you evaluated by a psychiatric specialist. I’ve already made the appointment. Do you have any objections?”

I was dazed, barely able to process anything, so I simply shook my head.

Jin Ze started the car and we left the crematorium. We drove for more than half an hour before arriving at our local psychiatric hospital. Standing in front of it, I suddenly felt a wave of resistance. To be honest, I didn’t want to go in. I was scared—afraid that I’d somehow be diagnosed with split personality disorder.

But I had no choice but to follow Jin Ze. We didn’t go to the ward for inpatients, but directly to a consultation room, where we met an expert named Zhang Wentong.

Zhang Wentong was a middle-aged man in his forties, plump, with a constant genial smile, like a living Buddha. For reasons I couldn’t explain, his gaze made me uncomfortable, as if he recognized me.

Jin Ze introduced me to him, explained my situation, and asked him to conduct a thorough mental evaluation.

Dr. Zhang led me to another room filled with unfamiliar equipment—presumably for the tests, which would make the results more convincing.

But as soon as we sat down, Zhang Wentong said something utterly baffling and deeply disturbing.

He said, “Chen Mu, do you remember me? Do you still wish to be the person you once were?”

His words left me stunned, mouth agape. I asked him what he meant—did he know me?

He simply burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, as if mocking me.

Just as the discomfort nearly overwhelmed me, he abruptly stopped laughing. “Alright, that was my opening line. Don’t be nervous. We’ll begin now.”

Only then did I relax, realizing he’d done it to provoke my emotions and get me into the right state for the evaluation. For a moment, I really thought there was some dark secret between us.

We began the evaluation. He asked me a variety of questions, and I answered truthfully. I never used to believe in hypnosis, but during the questioning, I felt dazed and lightheaded at several points, as if he was controlling my mind.

After the questions, he put a helmet-like device on me, with many wires attached—presumably to monitor my brain activity. He told me to close my eyes and relax, as if I were napping. I did as he said, and though I didn’t fall asleep, I felt much calmer.

After that test, Jin Ze was called back in for the final phase: a polygraph test.

This time, Jin Ze conducted the test himself. I wore the polygraph cap, with sensors clipped to my fingers. He asked some familiar questions, like whether I’d been to the funeral home. I answered according to my heart—I said no.

The test ended, and I waited anxiously for Dr. Zhang’s results, like a child awaiting exam scores.

At last, I breathed a sigh of relief—Dr. Zhang declared me a normal person. I wasn’t mentally ill, not schizophrenic, nor was I lying. However, he said I had borderline personality deficiency, a mild psychological tendency common in our high-pressure society. As a web novelist, I spent long hours at the computer, creating my own worlds, so it was normal to have such tendencies.

But my condition was a bit unusual, Dr. Zhang said—I showed signs of hysteria, which in plain terms meant I might have somnambulism. Sleepwalking is not unheard of; sometimes people talk about it or get out of bed. But Dr. Zhang noted that sleepwalking usually occurs in children aged six to twelve. Adults rarely experience it at the same level; at most, they might talk in their sleep or sit up in bed. My case was almost childlike.

This terrified me. My father once told me that I used to sleepwalk as a child. Once, they couldn't find me at night, and eventually discovered me standing at the pigsty door, grinning foolishly at the pigs, scaring everyone half to death.

When I grew older, those episodes stopped, and I thought I was cured. But now that I lived alone, with no one—like Fang Lin—to share my bed, perhaps no one had noticed if I still sleepwalked.

A wave of unease washed over me. Could the person in Jin Ze’s video really be me, sleepwalking?

And were other cases possibly linked to my sleepwalking as well?

I was so nervous that my palms were slick with sweat. Jin Ze seemed intrigued by this too. He asked Dr. Zhang, “Doctor, if an adult sleepwalks, is it possible for them to commit murder in their sleep?”

Dr. Zhang looked up at me, still smiling. “It’s unlikely. Murder requires significant physical exertion. If the victim resists, a sleepwalker should wake up. Besides, the act of killing is highly emotional—such strong emotional fluctuations would wake a sleepwalker long before the act is done.”

His answer eased my mind. Even if I did sleepwalk, I was unlikely to become a criminal in my dreams.

We left the psychiatric hospital. Jin Ze drove me home, advising me that although dissociative identity disorder was ruled out, if I truly had sleepwalking episodes, the person in the video was undoubtedly me. Even if I wasn’t a suspect, I was definitely connected to the case. He told me to keep my phone on at all times and to contact him immediately if anything happened.

Then Jin Ze left, and I returned home alone. My feelings were mixed—partly relieved, partly still anxious. I didn’t know what to make of myself; everything felt surreal, as if I barely understood who I was anymore.

I lay in bed. Since Jin Ze had sealed the hole in the ceiling, I wasn't so afraid. Though I was reluctant to sleep, exhaustion soon claimed me.

Perhaps because so much had happened that day, my nerves were frayed, and I fell into a nightmare. In the dream, I argued with Fang Lin because she refused to be intimate with me. In a fit of rage, I accidentally strangled her.

I woke in terror, sweat beading my forehead, my whole body clammy.

Intending to take a shower, I opened my wardrobe to get some clothes—and something chilling happened.

As I opened the wardrobe, a piece of clothing fell out.

A blue burial shroud, stained with blood.