Chapter 6: Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6: The Collection Speaks

The vibration started as a low hum. Fang felt it through the soles of his shoes, through the concrete floor, through the bones of his legs. It was not mechanical. It was not the air conditioning kicking on or the subway passing beneath the building.

It was rhythm. A pulse. A heartbeat.

Thirty-seven containers in the basement refrigerator. Thirty-seven pieces of skin harvested from thirty-seven spirits. And every single one of them was waking up.

The Taoist's beads clicked faster. His eyes had not left Mrs. Chen's face, but his body had shifted. The old man stood broader now, his shoulders squared, his feet planted. He looked less like a retired grandfather and more like a soldier bracing for impact.

"How long have you been storing them?" the Taoist asked.

"Three years."

"Three years." The Taoist closed his eyes. "You've been peeling spirits for three years, and you never once wondered why they didn't cross over?"

"They were dead. I didn't think—"

"No. You didn't." The Taoist opened his eyes. They were yellow now. Not jaundice yellow. Golden yellow. Like a tiger's. "A spirit without its skin cannot cross. It cannot enter the cycle. It becomes trapped. Wandering. Hungry." He pointed at Mrs. Chen's face. "And eventually, it finds a way back."

The face on Mrs. Chen had stopped weeping. It was listening now. The eyes were closed, but the skin had gone slack, turned inward, as if the spirit was concentrating on something far away.

"She's talking to them," the Taoist said. "She's telling them where we are."

The vibration grew stronger. The containers in the basement were no longer just vibrating. They were rattling. Fang could hear it now—a thin, metallic chatter rising through the floor vents.

"Tell me where the collection is," the Taoist said. "Now."

"Basement. Through the supply closet. There's a hidden door behind the sterilization unit."

"You're going to take me there."

"I can't leave Mrs. Chen—"

"She's not going anywhere." The Taoist reached into his robes and pulled out a strip of yellow paper. Characters were written on it in red ink. He pressed it against Mrs. Chen's forehead. Her body went rigid. The face stopped moving. The paper held her like a pinned butterfly.

"She'll stay like that for one hour. That's all the time we have."

Fang followed the Taoist through the clinic. The hallways were dark. The emergency lights had kicked in, casting everything in a sickly orange glow. The Taoist moved quickly, his sandals slapping against the tile, his beads clicking with each step.

"You knew they were coming," Fang said. "That's why you showed up tonight."

"I showed up because I felt the barrier break. Three years of accumulated spirit energy, and you chose tonight to cut into another patient. That was the trigger. The last piece of the puzzle." The Taoist stopped at the supply closet door. "They've been waiting for a way in. You gave them one."

He pushed open the door. The supply closet was narrow, lined with shelves of gauze, surgical tape, sterilized gloves. The Taoist walked to the back wall and pressed his palm against it.

"Behind the sterilization unit."

Fang grabbed the edge of the unit and pulled. It was heavy, bolted to the floor, but the bolts had been loosened. He had designed this. He had built this. He had never imagined he would be showing it to someone else.

The unit slid forward. Behind it was a steel door. No handle. No lock. Just a smooth, cold surface.

"Biometric," Fang said. "Palm print."

The Taoist stepped aside. Fang pressed his hand against the door. A scanner hummed beneath the surface. There was a click. The door swung inward.

The smell hit them first.

Formaldehyde. Blood. Something sweet beneath it, something that reminded Fang of rotting flowers. The stairs descended into darkness. The vibration was louder here. It was almost sound now—a chorus of whispers, overlapping, indistinguishable, rising and falling like a frequency.

The Taoist produced a small flashlight from his sleeve. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing the basement.

It was clean. Fang had kept it clean. White tiles. Stainless steel counters. Medical equipment that would make any hospital envious. And against the far wall, the refrigerator.

It was industrial-sized. Eight feet tall. Six feet wide. The door was glass, and behind the glass, on titanium racks, were the containers.

Thirty-seven glass jars. Each one filled with a pale yellow liquid. Each one holding a face.

The faces floated in the solution like jellyfish. Some were young. Some were old. Some were beautiful. Some were plain. But all of them were moving. The skin rippled. The mouths opened and closed. The eyes—where they had eyes—stared at nothing.

The refrigerator door was vibrating so hard that Fang could see the glass bowing outward.

"They're trying to get out," the Taoist said.

"They can't. The jars are sealed. The solution keeps them stable."

"The solution keeps them preserved. It doesn't keep them contained." The Taoist walked toward the refrigerator. The faces turned as he approached. They tracked him. Every single one of them watched him move. "They know I'm here. They can feel the barrier I carry. It's the same barrier that's been keeping them from crossing over."

"What barrier?"

The Taoist didn't answer. He stopped in front of the refrigerator and pressed his palm against the glass. The vibrations stopped. The faces went still.

But the whispers continued. They were louder now. Clearer. Fang could hear words.

*Let us out.*

*Please.*

*We're cold.*

*We're so cold.*

The Taoist turned to Fang. His face was unreadable. "You have one chance to make this right. You're going to open every jar. You're going to remove every piece of skin. And you're going to burn them."

"Burn them?"

"Fire is the only thing that can sever the binding. Once the skin is destroyed, the spirits can cross. They can finally leave."

"But the patients—"

"The patients will lose their new faces. They'll return to their original appearance. They'll be confused. They'll be angry. But they'll be alive." The Taoist stepped closer. "The alternative is that the spirits take full possession. They wear the skin like a suit. They walk around in your patients' bodies. And eventually, they push the original owner out entirely."

Fang thought of Mrs. Chen. He thought of the face twisting on her skull, the voice that came from her throat, the words it had spoken. *I'm going to tell her everything.*

"How long until that happens?"

"For Mrs. Chen? A few hours. Maybe less. The spirit that attached to her is strong. It's been waiting a long time."

"And the others?"

The Taoist gestured at the refrigerator. "These thirty-seven spirits have been waiting three years. They're not patient anymore. They're desperate. And desperate spirits do desperate things." He pulled a lighter from his pocket. It was cheap. Plastic. The kind you bought at a convenience store. "Open the jars."

Fang's hands were shaking. He walked to the refrigerator. The faces watched him. He recognized some of them. The girl from the karaoke bar. The woman from the car accident. The man who had died in a hospital bed, alone, his face untouched but his eyes full of fear.

They had all come to him. They had all trusted him. He had promised them peace. He had given them jars.

He opened the refrigerator door.

The cold hit him. The smell hit him harder. The whispers became screams.

*KILL HIM.*

*TAKE HIS FACE.*

*WEAR HIM LIKE HE WORE US.*

Fang grabbed the first jar. The face inside was a woman in her forties. She had been a mother. She had died of cancer. He remembered her. She had asked him to make her beautiful again, so her children would remember her smiling.

He unscrewed the lid.

The solution splashed onto the floor. The face rose to the surface. It floated there, suspended, and then it opened its eyes.

The eyes were brown. Warm. Human.

"Thank you," the face whispered.

Fang dropped the jar. It shattered on the tile. The face fell with it, landing on the floor, skin-side down. It lay there, trembling, and then it began to dissolve. The edges curled. The color drained. It turned gray, then white, then ash.

The woman's voice faded. "Thank you," she said again. And then she was gone.

The Taoist nodded. "Keep going."

Fang grabbed another jar. Another face. Another lid. Another release.

One by one, he freed them. The faces rose, spoke, dissolved. Some wept. Some laughed. Some cursed him. Some forgave him. Each one took a piece of him with it.

When he reached the thirty-seventh jar, his hands were raw. His eyes were wet. His chest was hollow.

The last jar held the face of the girl from the karaoke bar. She was young. Nineteen. She had been a student. She had been drunk. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fang had killed her.

He had not meant to. He had been careless. He had taken too much, cut too deep, and she had bled out on his table. He had panicked. He had stored her face in a jar and told himself it was for science.

But it was for profit. It was always for profit.

He unscrewed the lid.

The girl's face rose. Her eyes opened. They were dark. Empty. She looked at him, and she did not speak.

"I'm sorry," Fang said.

The face did not answer. It simply stared. And then, instead of dissolving, it began to grow.

The skin stretched. The features expanded. The face became larger, larger than a human head, larger than a human body. It rose from the solution like a sheet being pulled from a table, and it hung in the air, translucent, terrible.

"She's not crossing," the Taoist said. His voice was tight. "She's not ready."

The face turned toward him. The mouth opened. The voice that came out was not a whisper. It was a scream.

"YOU. You were supposed to protect me."

The Taoist's beads glowed. "I tried. I couldn't find you. He hid you too well."

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FIND ME."

"I know." The Taoist lowered his head. "I failed you."

The face hovered. The eyes burned. And then, slowly, it began to shrink. It folded in on itself, compressing, condensing, until it was no larger than a fist. It dropped to the floor with a wet sound.

And then it was still.

The Taoist exhaled. "She'll cross now. She just needed to be heard."

Fang stood in the middle of the basement. The jars were empty. The solution pooled around his feet. The whispers were gone.

But the vibration had not stopped.

The Taoist felt it too. He turned, his flashlight sweeping across the room. "What else is down here?"

"Nothing. Just the collection."

"Then why is the floor still shaking?"

Fang looked down. The tile was vibrating. Not from the refrigerator. Not from the jars. From beneath.

The Taoist knelt and pressed his palm to the ground. His eyes went wide. "There's something under us."

"There's nothing under us. The basement is the lowest level."

"Then explain this." The Taoist pulled a