Such thoughts followed naturally.
Not every mother loves her child, nor should motherhood be burdened with excessive moral pressure.
Maternal love comes with prerequisites. It wasn’t just that Yang Shumei and Liu Zhengxing had no emotional foundation before marriage, or that after losing her first child, Yang Shumei became mentally unstable and lost all desire to have more children.
The fact of rape alone meant that, as the victim, Yang Shumei had no obligation whatsoever to love the child of her abuser.
Marital rape is still rape. Yang Shumei was unwilling, the one forced to suffer injury—the same as women abducted to remote villages and forced to give birth. Whether through brutality, intoxication, coercion, or deceit; whether the perpetrator is a stranger or a husband, the situation is the same, and so is the outcome.
The woman is the victim.
Yang Shumei was a pure victim.
And as the victim, the child she carried was proof of the assault she could not resist; the extension of her pain, carrying the abuser’s genes. Not loving him is entirely normal.
Shen Huanhuan fully agreed with Jiang Yan’s deductions.
“Since the haunted house is run by the second child, his childhood must have been filled with suffering. He never experienced his parents’ love. Liu Zhengxing had clearly resented Xiao Mei for a long time—selfish and self-serving, hardly the type to show fatherly care. As for Xiao Mei—” Shen Huanhuan paused, continuing, “From the first child, we know she was capable of deep maternal love, but she did not give that love to her second child. Judging by all we know so far, if she had truly wanted to have that child, she would have loved him—now she does not.”
“This can only mean she didn’t want the child. She was forced.” Shen Huanhuan’s tone was firm.
Zhao Kepu was hesitant. “But I read some articles—some mothers even after such things choose to keep the child and raise them with care… Isn’t a mother’s love for her child just instinct? My mom says she loved me from the moment I was born.”
“You can’t say that,” Shen Huanhuan replied seriously. “Once you link anything to instinct, it becomes a kind of coercion—like those who don’t have this ‘instinct’ aren’t worthy of being human.”
“I’ve read similar reports. It’s true, some women, forced to have children, still love them deeply—appeasing abusers for the child, even taking them along if they run away. But plenty of women, once free, choose never to see their child again.”
As she spoke, Shen Huanhuan drew a deep breath, her expression growing solemn.
She looked at Zhao Kepu. “Reports will call the first type ‘great mothers’ and make a show of it, sometimes filming their story for others. But the latter are just as great—their lives were so bitter, yet they found a way to rescue themselves and fight for a normal life.”
“Never use the actions of the first type to coerce the second.”
A few comments swept through the livestream chat:
[Maybe we don’t understand Xiao Mei, can’t put ourselves in her place. But try to imagine it’s Meng Chunhong in that cellar, pregnant with Zhang Chenxi’s child, forced to give birth—how can anyone demand Chunhong to love that child?]
[That’s different! Yang Shumei and Liu Zhengxing were married!]
[It’s the same in essence—rape is rape, inside or outside marriage.]
[Agreed. If you haven’t suffered what Xiao Mei suffered, just don’t judge. I’m with Sister Yan and Huanhuan—Xiao Mei really didn’t love the second child. Not even a trace of love mingled with hate—just not loving him at all.]
After hearing Shen Huanhuan, Zhao Kepu fell into deep thought. Shen Xiaoxiao slapped his shoulder casually.
Shen Huanhuan summed up:
“Liu Yitian lived a hard life—he never received any love from birth, not even in his name, which was a shadow of the first child. Yang Shumei’s life was even harder—she lost her first daughter, the cat she pretended was her lost daughter, had an unhappy marriage, was forced to bear children, fell into insanity, and even her parents, not wanting shame, refused to send her to a hospital.”
“Liu Zhengxing is the root of all this.”
“His logic is easy to guess: frustrated by his wife’s breakdown after losing their daughter, he ignored her emotional needs, believed having another child would stir her motherly love and bring back their happy family, so he forced Xiao Mei to have another child.”
At this moment, Mu Wang quickly raised his hand.
His motion was so swift only Jiang Yan noticed; he was sitting cross-legged atop the bookshelf, making the small study feel even smaller.
It was clear he’d found something, so Jiang Yan asked, “What did you find?”
Mu Wang pointed at the potted plant in the study.
“There’s something behind that—caught my eye.”
Everyone looked where Mu Wang indicated. The plant had toppled, shattered pieces of the vase and soggy earth scattered everywhere in a chaotic mess.
Mu Wang leapt down, rummaged beneath the greenery, and pulled out a twenty-centimeter-high golden Guanyin statue.
He read the four small words carved in the base: “Songzi Guanyin.” (“Guanyin Who Grants Children”)
Mu Wang handed the statue to Jiang Yan. After inspecting it briefly, she passed it to Shen Huanhuan.
Shen Huanhuan understood, so she pulled out a talisman and stuck it to the statue.
A few minutes later, she shook her head.
“No issues. Probably just bought from a normal temple—neither useful nor harmful.”
Shen Xiaoxiao asked, “Did Liu Zhengxing get it?”
“Most likely,” Shen Huanhuan replied.
“Based on Xiao Mei’s age, she was just over twenty at marriage, and with no feelings for Liu Zhengxing, it was unlikely she’d want such a statue then. So this was probably bought by Liu Zhengxing for the second child.”
“If Xiao Mei conceived easily, they wouldn’t need a fertility Guanyin. So something went very wrong for her with the second pregnancy. Her life was even more miserable than we thought.”
Shen Xiaoxiao sighed deeply.
She flopped onto the study sofa, tilting her head, stretching her neck. The others kept searching for clues. After half a minute of rest, just as Shen Xiaoxiao was preparing to get up, she heard that “grr-grr” sound again.
This time, it was right at her ear—well within half a meter.
Shen Xiaoxiao quickly scanned the surroundings, but nothing seemed amiss. Several breaths later, as if realizing something, she slowly straightened her back.
The sofa had bulged out slightly, and from beneath the upholstery, the cat’s tongue protruded, licking Shen Xiaoxiao’s ear over and over. Even through the layer of fabric, the sensation was clammy and damp—making her leap off in disgust.
“Geh geh geh—”
A malicious laugh rang from inside the sofa. But this time, no one paid it any mind. They all continued with their tasks. After an exhaustive search, they moved on to the other rooms.
Still, they found nothing.
But fortune and misfortune travel together—inside the children’s room, they discovered Yang Shumei’s death certificate.
The documents were extremely well hidden. The room was clearly decorated for a girl: a pink block palace, pretty little dresses, and hundreds of battered dolls stacked in every corner, all covered with cat-scratch marks.
The records were hidden inside a plain, ordinary doll.
The document made it clear: Yang Shumei’s date of death was [March 5th].
The cause: suicide by jumping.
The cat had died on March 4th; Yang Shumei killed herself the following day.
This fixed the place of the tabby in Yang Shumei’s heart: after her daughter died, Yang Shumei fell into madness and poured all her maternal love onto the cat. She bought it dolls and spoiled it to excess. After the cat died, she couldn’t accept the loss of her “daughter” and followed soon after.
Jiang Yan put down the death certificate.
“This pretty much confirms the haunted house’s operating principle.”
Shen Xiaoxiao: “What?”
Jiang Yan explained, “In the real world, Yang Shumei saw the cat as her daughter and spoiled it terribly. In the haunted house, Liu Zhengxing sees the cat as his wife and suffers endless torment at its paws.”
“And this haunted house was created by the second child—Liu Yitian.”
Shen Xiaoxiao looked both puzzled and enlightened.
Jiang Yan continued, “He seems to want his father to experience life from his mother’s perspective—truly feel what it’s like.”
“He’s begun the conversation with his father, substituting himself for his mother.”
—If what others saw as just a cat was, in your eyes, Tiantian, could you be so cruel as to not love it, to abandon it, to have another child?
—And if the cat, seen by others, was your wife in your own eyes, could you abandon it, leave it behind, and truly let go?
Jiang Yan said, “Yang Shumei couldn’t do it.”
“The child overestimated his father.”
*
With the haunted house’s origin roughly clear, everyone refocused on looking for Xiao Mei’s body.
After all, the haunted house mission was only to find the corpse. All the other details were just extra—for now, it didn’t matter if the whole story fit together, as the hotel would show the complete family narrative once the haunted house finished.
Now, they had to locate the body.
Yang Shumei had jumped to her death in the villa. The place wasn’t tall—even if you jumped from the second floor, you’d usually only break some bones. But Yang Shumei had gone head-first from the second floor and died on the spot.
In other words, her corpse could be right outside in the garden below the second-floor window.
But it also could be elsewhere—after all, this was Liu Yitian’s haunted house; he could have placed the body anywhere he wished.
After Jiang Yan pointed this out, Mu Wang volunteered himself, raising a hand to go turn the garden soil.
Zhao Kepu wanted to go too, but Mu Wang, by vaulting through the window, cut off his request before he could even speak.
Zhao Kepu watched Mu Wang land lightly and felt the man’s lone-wolf resolve; he shut his mouth awkwardly.
“What’s the hurry jumping like that? Not like I dared jump anyway. If the body’s in the garden, normal folks wouldn’t jump out a window.”
Jiang Yan: “You walk out the front door, of course.”
Zhao Kepu: “?”
Jiang Yan: “The first-floor door isn’t locked.”
Zhao Kepu mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. Jiang Yan turned to continue searching for hidey-holes for bodies. Only the guest bedrooms were left. Jiang Yan asked Yu Renwan which room she fancied. After some hesitation, Yu pointed at the one at the very end of the hall.
Jiang Yan nodded and headed directly to this guest room.
To play it safe, the twins checked other rooms. Stepping into the corner guest room with Yu Renwan, Jiang Yan immediately sensed something off—the floor was filthy, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in months.
Not cleaning meant you didn’t want others coming in.
It meant there was a secret.
Jiang Yan circled the room, finally entering the bathroom. The guest room was roughly the same size as the study, but its bathroom was a third smaller. Jiang Yan paused, recalling countless novels and movies, and reached for the bathroom mirror.
“Geh geh.”
The cat’s laughter sounded behind her, but even its interruptions seemed to confirm her actions. Without turning, Jiang Yan gripped the cat by the neck with one hand, while the other hand felt along the mirror’s edge.
After half a minute, amid the cat’s piercing yowls, Jiang Yan found a button the size of a grain of rice and slowly rotated the mirror upwards.
A half-meter-high hole appeared before her.
The stench pouring out made Jiang Yan wrinkle her brow.
She let go—the cat dropped to the ground in Xiao Mei’s form, glanced up at Jiang Yan, then scuttled out on all fours. Jiang Yan ignored it, steadied herself, and called over Yu Renwan as she crawled into the hole.
It was narrow inside.
Not even three square meters—turning around was tough, and Jiang Yan couldn’t stand straight, couldn’t even bend fully, but only half-kneel.
Really, you couldn’t call this a room—just a hole. There was no light. A battered bed, filthy and stinking bedding, a pillow spilling its stuffing, and right beside it a commode, with a moldy, half-eaten slice of bread rotting on its rim—it made the stomach turn.
But Jiang Yan paid no attention to these. Her gaze landed heavily on the bed.
A little boy of seven or eight lay stretched flat.
His cheeks were deeply sunken, thin as a rail. Someone had stabbed a knife deep into his chest; his eyes were wide open, hands locked around the blade, either fighting death or trying to stop its approach.
There were dried tear tracks at the corners of his eyes.
Who knew how long those tears had lain there.
Yu Renwan half-kneeled to the bedside and picked up a bloodstained note from the boy’s chest.
His handwriting was pitiful.
He probably never learned to write properly. Most of the short note was phonetic spelling, with plenty of mistakes.
Yu Renwan worked at it for a long time before deciphering the correct meaning.
“I saw it all, and I understood everything.”
She read softly, “When I was looking for my mother in heaven, I chose her.”
“When I left my mother, I forgave myself.”