Chapter 1228 One hundred and sixty-six. Bizarre Syndrome (6)

If you were a good cook, this wheat would be ground into flour to make fragrant bread or sweet and delicious porridge, but at this time I prided myself on the craftsmanship of the chefs, because the toasted golden grains are very good for my hungry me. A fragrance far superior to the former.

I first picked out a few overcooked grains to steal my mouth, the aroma of the seeds erupted in my mouth, followed by pain - I covered the sore masseter muscles and recovered for a while, and then the stomach sac twitched due to hunger Before pouring a few grains of wheat from the palm of the hand into the mouth.

   It’s a pity that there are only a small bag of them, they at most saved me from starvation today.

  The roasted wheat kernels are very dry, I don't want to be thirsty and waiting for water. So temporarily removing the dinner plate from the fireplace, I went back to the downstairs kitchen to rummage through the discarded, undamaged tin can, a bundle of twine, and even a rusted kitchen knife under the cupboard.

The presence of the    weapon made me feel more secure, even though it was hardly useful in the face of the weirdness.

Carrying the sundries I found in the kitchen, I went back to the attic. I took a short breath to recover from my unrecovered body fatigue. I ran back downstairs, squatted by the street drain to wash the tin cans and hemp rope, and went back to the attic without stopping to pick up the kitchen knife. Poke holes in the edges of the tins and string them together with twine to make a string of jingling tins, and let them out through the attic window to catch the rainwater.

   That way, I don't have to carry a heavy bucket or run frequently between the door and the attic.

  The cool water gushed into the attic. I sat in front of the warm fireplace and smelled the aroma of wheat grains. I listened to the rain falling outside the window.

  When the tin cans were full, I grabbed the hemp rope tied to the wooden frame and pulled the tin cans back to the attic, took out the tin can and put it in front of the fireplace to boil the rainwater.

  The rust-smelling tin can reminded me of the shade not too long ago, but it wasn't filthy—a cup of hot water went into the stomach and warmed the heart.

   If only there were coffee beans, I thought to my dissatisfaction.

   After eating the only meal in the past three days, it was another afternoon near the end of the day. I have a handful of toasted grain left over to not be engulfed by a hopeless future, looking forward to tomorrow.

   My body signaled to me that it was time for a long sleep after eating and drinking in a safe and warm place, but not yet. Before it started to get dark, I put a few pieces of burning wood into the lampshade, climbed down to the attic with the oil lamp in hand, and checked every room from the second floor.

   For windows that let in light or just have sashes I couldn't do anything to nail them for a while, so I simply closed the door, then stopped when I realized that closing the door darkened the hallway.

   From the stairs back to the lobby on the first floor, all I can do is block the doors and windows with tables and chairs. When I approached the corner to move the wooden chair, I was startled by the shadow of the human figure on the wall, and when I approached it carefully, I found that it was just a coincidence of water seepage. This is very common in coastal dwellings. If the tavern is not a masonry structure but a wooden house, it may have long been in a state of disrepair, like a clinic.

   Despite this, I still did not dare to get too close to the human-shaped scars. I hurriedly blocked the wooden chair in front of the human-shaped scars and fled back to the attic, recovering my courage in the warm and safe attic.

  It was getting dark outside the window, and I dragged the bed frame to the fireplace and put the dry sheets and bedding on it.

  I didn't hear the church bell, maybe too far away, but I didn't hear it yesterday. Before falling asleep, I moved the bedside table to press down on the trapdoor, pulled the string of tin cans outside the window back into the attic, closed the window, and blocked the wood against the window to prevent the fire from penetrating the room.

   Finally, stuffing enough firewood into the fireplace, I climbed into the bed and wrapped myself in the warm old quilt. I'm usually used to thinking about something before going to bed, but as soon as I lay down, I'm falling into a dream under the firelight.

   I experienced a long, comfortable and worry-free long dreamland.

This death-like slumber lasted until a certain moment, when a dull, subtle sound of collapse suddenly broke into my consciousness. The sound was like a pile of wooden chairs collapsing under the action of external force-as the imagination became concrete in my mind, I woke up suddenly from a bright and warm dream.

  The fireplace was burning steadily, and the elongated shadow swayed in the attic.

   I stuck my head out of the bed and listened carefully. Gradually, from the noise of wind and rain beating on the window, I heard the sound of collapse from downstairs intermittently. A terrifying scene came to my mind: the seats that stacked up the door were being pushed open by a strange claw...

   The bravery that appeared out of nowhere, or the hysteria of wanting to be overturned, I grabbed the kitchen knife in my right hand and the half-burning wooden stick in my left, pushed the bedside table with my shoulders, and stepped on the ladder a little bit to return to the second floor.

   I am like breaking into a dark tomb, only the narrow area where the torches shine is bright. I regretted that I should not come down hastily, but I had no choice but to step on the stairs to the living room on the first floor.

   I didn't hear the rain, I didn't feel the wind, the sound of the collapse disappeared, and the door was still closed.

   Just when I thought it was all just an illusion, I found that the collapsed table and chairs were piled up in front of the human-shaped scars. What really gave me the chills was the disappearance of the human-shaped smears on the walls.

   I seemed to have fallen into the forgotten river of Protos, lost my memory, and when I woke up again, I was leaning against the bedside table against the trapdoor, sweating as if the previous experience was just a nightmare.

   Only the emaciated, morbid smudges of the attic walls gradually revealed to me that this was not a dream.

   They're here...

   The back-to-back bedside table was pushed open with a shudder, and a dry, char-black arm protruded from the trapdoor. I didn't even think about waving my right hand holding the kitchen knife, and the kitchen knife that pierced my arm seemed to stir up the ashes and kick up dust.

The    arm retracted into the trapdoor, but more ghastly phantoms were rising from the walls and appearing in my attic.

   My heart started racing, my breathing became rapid, and an invisible force grabbed me, fighting the invading figure. The crazy blood in the body was stimulated, and even began to regret why he was looking for a stone room. If it's still a wooden house, I can burn the house down and bury them with me. But soon, I started to feel lucky. Because they can't break the stone house, they can only penetrate a little bit from the wall.

   These monsters, whose powers have not yet escaped the realm of human beings, were stabbed by me with a kitchen knife before they could get out of the wall.

During the    melee, the wooden board blocking the window fell, and the flashing white light outside the window instantly evoked a fragment of my memory: On the vast sea, a ship fighting a storm swept through the dark sea with a searchlight.

  Thunder followed, and an atmosphere of amazement enveloped me as I screamed and swung my kitchen knife, attacking every phantom that broke into the attic. After half a night of frantically defending like a monster, the heavily damaged monster finally faded away, and the walls were returned clean.

   I gasped to confirm that they had indeed left, and the kitchen knife slipped from my hand and fell to the floor feebly.

  The stormy night, I spent a spooky night exhausted and terrified.

   (end of this chapter)