Chapter 101: Extra – The Confessor on a Rainy Night (Part 1)
Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations
Editor: PlumSauce
The following took place after the main story ended.
Rain tapped lightly against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a staccato rhythm like someone typing on a keyboard in the study.
Coraci had a steaming cup of coffee at his side and was completely absorbed in his work. He didn’t notice John walk in until John’s face appeared on his computer screen.
“John, you won’t succeed,” Coraci said while typing. “In my life so far, I’ve encountered countless incidents of strange creatures crawling out of the shadows, sounds of footsteps behind me, handprints smeared across glass… Wu Jiu and Hai Jiu greeted me through walls every day. If something like your little trick could scare me, I wouldn’t be alive today.”
John pursed his lips in mild disappointment. He had intended to startle Coraci; then, like in the movies, pounce onto him and hug him from behind saying, “Hey, don’t worry, it’s me.” He had seen Coraci lose his composure before. Though it hadn’t been a pleasant situation at the time, John had secretly thought that a flustered Coraci was pretty captivating.
“Aren’t you writing a report?” John asked as he wheeled a chair over and sat beside him.
“Mm, I finished those. It’s cold and damp today, and the rain just started — perfect for writing something else. I’m working on a short story.”
Since the identity “Deville Coraci” had died, Coraci hadn’t written much for a long time. Recently, however, he had fallen in love with horror novels again.
At first, John assumed he would use a new pen name. Surprisingly, Coraci chose to submit under his old identity, claiming the new works were “previously unpublished works” by Deville Coraci. His friends acted as his agents, sending the stories out for submission and publication.
It had to be admitted — it was a clever move. The public image of “the writer Coraci” was bizarre: his stories were dark and terrifying, three spouses had died mysteriously, and he himself had died under unexplained circumstances. Now, “Coraci’s posthumous works” were extremely popular.
His agents often feigned reluctance, saying, “Mr. Coraci left many private works, but his friends and family don’t want too much published.” Publishers would then coax and plead, trying every way possible to get the manuscripts. The agents would reply, “Many of these works are handwritten in personal notebooks, involving private matters. They need to be sorted by his family and it will take time.” Publishers would respond that the delay didn’t matter, as long as they got the rights.
Not long ago, his short stories had begun appearing in magazines again. Beyond the horror plots, readers were fascinated by the “late” author’s mindset and secrets. Some even tried to use his fiction to profile what kind of person he had been, and whether the murders really happened.
In Coraci’s own words: these stories were pure fabrication. Any profile drawn from them described Sidov, not him.
John watched Coraci type. Most people disliked being observed while they worked, but Coraci didn’t mind.
The document on the screen read:
He slipped through the filthy alley, thinking he had finally lost the child. But he hadn’t. The little girl in the black hoodie stood across the street, slowly raising her hand to point at him. His feet felt nailed to the ground. Every time she pointed, he heard something hit the ground behind him — a dull thud. This time was no different. He heard it again. He clearly remembered the first time it had happened: the sound landing ten feet away, growing closer each time. Now, it landed against his spine…
John suddenly jumped to his feet, almost colliding his chair with Coraci’s.
“What’s wrong?” Coraci asked, turning his head.
“Nothing,” John replied. “I won’t disturb your writing. Uh…want more coffee?”
Coraci stared at him for a few seconds, holding back a smile. “John…are you scared?” He studied John’s expression. “You’re a bloodkin! I promise, even if the things in my story came to life, they wouldn’t stand a chance against you!”
“It’s not about whether I could beat them,” John protested weakly. “I just… can’t really process stuff that’s so unreal, so surreal.”
“Then listen,” Coraci said, standing up and cupping John’s face in his hands. “You have to remember: all of this is made up. It’s all from my imagination. Think of me, and it won’t seem scary.”
John grasped his hands and pulled them away, frowning. “Why does your tone sound like a parent comforting a child afraid of the dark?”
Coraci didn’t answer. He stood on his tiptoes and lifted his chin, trying to touch John’s brow with his lips. Before he could reach it, John intercepted him, pulling Coraci’s wrists and drawing him closer.
The rain outside had grown heavier. During the kiss, Coraci whispered that John should close his eyes. John knew he should, but whenever they pressed close, he couldn’t resist examining Coraci’s eyes, checking the clarity of his pupils and irises. He could never forget those lifeless eyes, so he constantly sought reassurance.
He obeyed, closing his eyes and releasing Coraci’s wrists. At that moment, a light tapping sounded from the direction of the living room, blending with the rain.
The instant he heard the sound, John’s mind automatically replayed a scene from one of Coraci’s stories — a heavy object falling to the ground, drawing closer and closer, in the dead of night. He knew how ridiculous his thought was, so he held back from saying it.
Someone was knocking on the door. Three taps, then a pause, repeated politely.
Coraci’s home had a video security system, yet the person outside — probably human, he assumed — persisted. The two of them exchanged a glance and silently moved toward the hallway next to the living room.
When they turned on the camera, they saw a tall, pale man in a casual suit with a straight collar and a perfectly knotted tie, looking as if he had just stepped out in the morning. A long-handled umbrella rested on his arm; the only sign of disarray was the tips of his hair dampened from the rain.
“Lucian?”
Looking at the image on the screen, the two inside were so surprised that they almost forgot to open the door.
This Title is available for faster chapter releases through paid Patreon membership. Any proceeds go to keeping the website running. Check it out HERE.
