★Suspense master Cai Bigui (aka "Uncle Ghost"), a top influencer with 4.76 million Weibo followers, finally publishes his sensational work—once restricted and deleted on the "Tianya" forum for its explosive content—now thrilling six million fans!
★A series of bizarre and eerie stories, heart-stopping and addictive, each standalone yet interconnected, pointing toward the ultimate future of our lives.
★Acclaimed suspense writers Cai Jun, Zijin Chen, and Spider highly recommended: A unique blend of horror, mystery, sci-fi, and mind-bending twists!

We don’t know if the cat in the box is alive or dead — unless God rolls the dice.
But curiosity kills more than just cats.
If you're not a freak, you won’t encounter these strange events.
If you're not Uncle Ghost, you couldn’t imagine such madness.

The series includes 8 volumes:
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: The Basement Prison"
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: Taboo of the Snow Mountain"
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: Death Pending"
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: The Island Dream"
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: Delusional Reality"
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: The Assassination Loop"
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: Game Shadows"
"Weirdo's Bizarre Case Files: The Time Prisoner"

After a night drinking with my college classmate Lao Xiang, he vanished. When I asked others about him, some remembered him drowning during our university years, while others — like me — insisted he was alive. As I hunted for proof of his existence, the unthinkable happened: those who recalled him alive began to doubt, and my evidence faded or disappeared. Lao Xiang’s fate became a Schrödinger’s cat-like paradox.
More people got entangled, but their familiar faces now filled me with unspeakable dread. Only after hearing Lao Xiang’s "last words" in a sinister well did I glimpse the truth — or so it seemed...

Cai Bigui, born Cai Zeng, is a bestselling sci-fi and mystery novelist with six million followers online. Awarded "2019’s Top 10 Most Influential Book Reviewers".
Since 2009, his novels have sold over a million copies, including the "Long Game" series, "The Hyperbrain", the short story collection "BBQ Horror Tales", and the screenplay "Memory Reconstruction". "BBQ Horror Tales" won "Fifth Chinese Original Fiction Awards — Most Popular Short Story Collection", while "Memory Reconstruction" received the 2019 Golden Feather Award. A film adaptation of "BBQ Horror Tales" is currently in production.

Chapter 1　　 Classmate Lao Xiang 　　　　001
Chapter 2　　 Irreconcilable Memories 　　014
Chapter 3　　 Old Friends Reunited 　　　035
Chapter 4　　 83 or 84? 　　　　　　　　048
Chapter 5　　 Altered Reality 　　　　　　066
Chapter 6　　 S University’s You Shan Lake 084
Chapter 7　　 Who Is Lillian? 　　　　　　100
Chapter 8　　 Matter-Antimatter Reconfiguration 118
Chapter 9　　 Recollections of the Past 　131
Chapter 10　　Motive Analysis 　　　　　　149
Chapter 11　　The Search for Li Shihai 　　165
Chapter 12　　Scouting Lychee Grove 　　　184
Chapter 13　　A "Nonexistent" Romance 　　200
Chapter 14　　Parallel Worlds 　　　　　　214
Chapter 15　　A Bird in a Cage 　　　　　　230
Chapter 16　　The Full Truth 　　　　　　　244

Chapter 1 Classmate Lao Xiang

"Mr. Cai, what'll you have tonight?"
The bartender — a man with a ponytail who looked like Yohji Yamamoto — smiled from behind the counter.
I took a deep breath. "Macallan 30. Neat."
I'd already downed two glasses of Macallan 18 and a Yoichi single malt, paired with some Spanish jamón, but it hadn't done much for my mood. Now, I'd finally mustered the resolve to order the 30-year.
This was a high-end whisky bar, where drinks came with eye-watering price tags — 1,500 RMB for a single ounce (30ml) of Macallan 30, barely enough to wet the bottom of the glass. But my hesitation wasn't about the cost.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Still neat?"
I licked my lips, then shook my head. "Actually... on the rocks."
"On the rocks?" He looked puzzled.
I nodded solemnly. With a shrug, he turned to fetch the bottle.
I knew what he was thinking: This is sacrilege.
Generally, whisky can be enjoyed neat, on the rocks, with soda, or water. A few years back, some even mixed it with green tea — a travesty. Unless you're drinking it straight, any dilution is just masking the flaws of inferior spirits.
For a fine single malt like this, neat is the only respectable choice. Whisper "straight" at a bar, and both staff and patrons will know you're no amateur.
And I, Cai Bigui — Ghost Uncle — a self-proclaimed whisky connoisseur, understood this better than most.
"Your Macallan 30, on the rocks, Mr. Cai."
I lifted the frosty glass and took a quick sip before the ice melted further. The liquid was cold and diluted, its alcohol content and complex flavors washed into something unrecognizable.
I smiled bitterly. This was my only option now.
Because at this moment, inside my brain, there was a black hole the size of a ping-pong ball. Whenever I experienced true pleasure — whether from whisky, surfing, or sex — that void threatened to expand.
By "true pleasure", I mean soul-stirring, mind-blowing ecstasy. A glass of undiluted Macallan 30 would qualify. This watered-down version? I sighed. Not even close.
Until my cranial void healed, I could drink — but only with ice. I could have sex — but not...
I took another mournful sip and pulled out my phone to check WeChat.
I wasn't here alone tonight. I was waiting for someone.
Don't get me wrong — not some special someone, certainly not a woman. Under the "iron-fisted rule" of my girlfriend Tang Shuang, I wouldn't dare flirt even if you multiplied my courage across all parallel universes. Especially since I'd only come to Beijing with her — she'd been in meetings with the local execs since afternoon, hence my free evening.
Tang Shuang was a textbook alpha-female CEO. Her father — Uncle Tang — had built a shipping logistics empire from scratch before semi-retiring, leaving her at the helm. As VP, she'd steered the company toward an IPO within two years. Everything seemed perfect.
Her brother Tang Dan — my potential future brother-in-law — was the archetypal spoiled heir: a glorified figurehead collecting a fat paycheck while contributing nothing. During Tang Shuang's absence (while accompanying me to Germany for "treatment"), certain board members had backed Tang Dan in a coup to seize control.
This Beijing trip was her counterattack to secure regional support.
Guilt gnawed at me — this mess was because of me. I wanted to help, but the "dominant CEO" refused. So I gathered intel in the shadows, waiting for the day she'd finally ask. Then I'd swoop in with a masterstroke —
Ahem.
I snapped out of my heroic fantasy and surveyed the bar. Stone House No.2 — a converted siheyuan hidden in Dashilan'r's labyrinthine alleys. Dashilan'r, near the Great Hall of the People, is pronounced "Da-shi-lar" by locals, not "Da-zha-lan" as outsiders assume.
Tonight, I was here to meet someone. Xiang Liang — Lao Xiang — a college roommate I hadn't seen in a decade.
At 10 PM, he'd texted "On my way". Now, nearing 11, there was still no sign of him. Given the bar's obscure location, I'd told him to park near the McDonald's 100 meters away — I'd meet him there.
How hard is it to find a McDonald's in Beijing after 10 years?
Annoyed, I sent a voice message: "Yo, Lao Xiang — where are you?"
(Note: My accent involuntarily veered into a cringey Beijing drawl—"Nàr ne?")
A minute passed with no reply. I scrolled through my contacts — oddly, his number was missing.
Did he vanish into thin air?
Just as I scratched my head, two words appeared: "Arrived".
I chuckled. Same old Lao Xiang — a man of few words.
He claimed to be at McDonald's. I directed him toward me and stepped outside.
The moment I exited, something felt off.
Dashilan'r had been bustling an hour ago — shops lit up, crowds milling about. Now? Every store was shuttered, the streets deserted.
Northerners really do turn in early, I mused. Southern cities would still be alive with midnight snack stalls at 3 AM.
Shrugging, I headed toward the golden arches glowing in the distance — my beacon through Beijing's maze-like hutongs.
But I shouldn't need to walk all the way there. Lao Xiang was supposedly coming toward me. We should've met halfway.
So where is he?
I sent another message: "I don't see you—where'd you go?"
Again: "Arrived".
Exasperated, I snapped: "Arrived where?"
This time, instead of replying, he initiated real-time location sharing.
I smirked. Still the strong, silent type — but quick with tech.
I tapped in — only to freeze.
The map showed only my blue dot. Did he go the wrong way?
Wait—
Zooming in, I realized there were two dots. They just happened to be...
Perfectly superimposed.
Not close. Not overlapping. Identical coordinates.
The only difference was our profile pictures and orientation arrows.
What the hell?
I whipped my head around. Within five meters: just darkened walls. Not a soul in sight.
For our locations to overlap like this, only three explanations existed:
We were in a very intimate embrace.
He was directly above me (I glanced up — no bridges, no rooftops).
Or... I stared at the ancient stone beneath my feet.
Beneath me.
It'd been ten years since graduation. For all I knew, Lao Xiang might not even be alive.
A chill crawled up my spine.
On the map, our dots weren't just overlapping — their arrows spun wildly. The GPS insisted we occupied the exact same horizontal position. The only variable was altitude.
I looked up again: empty sky.
That left... down.
Every city has sewers. Was Lao Xiang lurking below the pavement?
Ridiculous.
Yet despite logic, I instinctively sidestepped.
Just in case. I took a steadying breath. It's the whisky. The darkness. Nerves. There had to be a rational explanation —
Then I looked back at my phone.
The dots had separated.