Forgotten Photo Studio

Chapter 8 Echo Ghost

Photo studios are no longer safe "archives" but have instead become huge bait boxes.

And they are the bait waiting to be slaughtered in the box.

"quick!"

Suppressing her physical and mental discomfort, Chen Zhiwei stiffly lunged at the filing cabinet, trying to press down on the vibrating file folders with her hands. But they jumped up as if they were alive under her palm. "The seal must be reinforced! Before they are fully activated!"

Xu Yan also rushed over. Although her brain was still throbbing and blank, the instinct for survival overcame everything.

He looked at the vibrating bags and could almost hear countless twisted obsessions and painful screams trying to break free from the constraints of the photographic paper.

"Spirit-Suppressing Nails! The three copper nails with runes engraved on them on the second layer of the box!" Chen Zhiwei shouted urgently, but before she finished speaking, she paused for a moment, seemingly unsure whether this sudden piece of knowledge was correct.

Xu Yan rushed to the metal sealed box and frantically opened the second layer.

There were indeed several similar nails scattered inside.

Which one?
Runes?

The details of these tools in his memory became blurry again, leaving only an anxious blank.

In the instant that he panicked due to hesitation.

"Thorn--!"

The seal on the E-03 file folder suddenly snapped.

It wasn't broken off, but rather as if it were precisely cut open from the inside by something extremely sharp.

An invisible force shoved Chen Zhiwei away, causing her to stumble and crash into the coffee table behind her with a muffled groan.

The file folder was wide open.

There was no black mist as expected, nor any hideous ghostly figures.

Only sound.

First came a very faint "sizzle" sound, like the sound of a cassette tape just starting to turn.

A young man's terrified, tearful gasps suddenly took over, so clear they seemed to be right next to his ear:

"No...don't come any closer! I can't hear you! I can't hear anything! That voice...it keeps ringing in my head!"

boom! boom! boom!
A heavy, rhythmic thud suddenly rang out, not from outside the door, but from the ceiling above them.

Dust fell in a flurry. It was clearly the dull thud of someone being grabbed by the hair and slammed their head against the concrete floor again and again.

The man's voice became broken and indistinct, filled with bloody spittle and desperate sobs: "Please, let me go. I'm not... I'm not a test subject."

The sobbing lasted only a second.

Then, a new, eerily calm voice rang out.

It was still that young man's voice, but it was devoid of any emotion, leaving only mechanical precision and repetition, like a broken phonograph endlessly playing the "echo" of its death:
"Help."

"boom."

"Help."

"boom."

"Help."

"boom."

Each cry for "help" was accompanied by a clear, dull thud of a skull hitting the ground. The two sounds intertwined seamlessly, forming a maddening, deathly symphony that filled the entire photo studio. The lights shattered with each "bang," the photos on the walls trembled violently, and the entire space twisted and shuddered in this terrifying "echo."

"It's repeating the moment it was killed!" Chen Zhiwei covered her ears, her voice trembling, her face deathly pale. "It was used as an experimental subject by the 'Center,' and was observed and recorded until the very last step! Its 'echo' is an infinite loop of its death!"

“It’s the ‘Echo Ghost’!” Chen Zhiwei’s face turned ashen as she struggled to stand up straight. “It’s not a ghost…not entirely. It’s like…a dead voice that’s been forcibly pulled back. The voice is looking for an audience, and we…are its new stage.”

As if to confirm her words, the calm male voice abruptly stopped.

At the same time, the scene inside the photo studio began to distort.

The lights flickered on and off, in sync with the screams.

On the wall, the shadows of those old, once quiet photos began to stretch and twist wildly, as if the people in the photos were experiencing the same terror.

The counters, filing cabinets, and even the floor began to creak under the weight, as if a pair of invisible giant feet were pacing heavily in the corridor, getting closer and closer.

"It's pulling us into this 'echo'!" Chen Zhiwei's voice trembled. "If we can't break it, we'll collapse along with this 'record'!"

Physical attacks are ineffective.

It's just a sound, a lingering memory.

Xu Yan grabbed his camera and instinctively aimed it at the file folder that was gushing out terrifying sounds.

Through the viewfinder, he saw a distorted energy field that was violently vibrating and constantly emitting piercing noises.

Press the shutter?

What's the cost?
What will be forgotten next?
His master's teachings? The instinct to operate the camera? Or the name of the junior sister who was anxiously looking at him? His hands were trembling violently, and the emptiness of lost memories made him feel an unprecedented fear and resistance to "pressing the shutter".

"Senior brother!" Chen Zhiwei's shout pierced through the increasingly loud footsteps and screams. "Its core is 'sound'! Use high frequency! Or... or cover it with an even stronger 'recording'! The filing cabinet! The cabinet itself can record everything here!"

Filing cabinet?
Xu Yan suddenly looked at the huge old elm wood cabinet.

He staggered forward, not caring which floor it was, and randomly pulled open the drawer closest to him.

Inside was a thick notebook filled with event logs categorized by year.

The drawer was pulled open too forcefully, and several booklets slid to the floor with a "whoosh," their pages scattering.

The echoing footsteps seemed to have been pressed against the door of the photo studio. A huge thud resounded, and dust began to fall from the door frame.

The screams reached their peak, turning into some kind of inhuman, dying groans.

Xu Yan's gaze swept desperately over the scattered pages.

Just then, a handwritten text, with slightly messy ink, suddenly caught his eye.

At the same time, it felt as if an ice needle had pierced his temple, and a very brief fragment of memory flashed through his mind—the scene of his master writing these words under the oil lamp, gritting his teeth and mixing his fingertips' blood with cinnabar.

[On the fifteenth day of the seventh month of the Bing Shen year, at midnight. The 'Soul-Suppressing Bell' rings, and all ghosts vanish. The master uses blood as ink to re-seal the seal. Remember: the ringing of the bell is the signal, and the mind's intention is the guide; it can calm the mind and drive away evil spirits.]

A warm stream flowed from his nose, and when he wiped it with his hand, his fingertips were stained with bright red.

The fragment of memory vanished instantly, along with the clear memory of his master teaching him to identify the scent of a certain herb, completely obliterated.

But enough!

“Zhiwei! Bell! That’s not a compass, it’s a bell!” Xu Yan shouted hoarsely, pointing to the copper-plated object in the corner of the counter.

Chen Zhiwei understood instantly.

She practically lunged forward, grabbing the heavy copper bell with both hands.

(End of this chapter)