Mr. Whitmore's Ninth Wife

All the neighbors lining the alley stood up as I passed, sneering openly.

But I didn’t pause. Without hesitation, I climbed into the car.

The convoy drove slowly, the atmosphere heavy, and it took nearly half an hour to reach the ancestral temple of the Whitemore family.

But when we were still about 500 meters away, the driver abruptly brought the car to a halt.

“Miss Morgan, this is as far as we go,” he said, turning to face me. “You’re on your own from here. We will never enter that place.”

I gave him a slight nod, then stepped out of the car and looked ahead.

Maybe it was the stormy sky, or maybe the place really was brimming with yin energy, but for a summer night, the air felt bone-chilling and sinister.

The narrow path ahead resembled the road to hell—silent, foreboding. But I stepped forward without hesitation.

A few minutes later, the ancestral temple came into view. It stood solemn and bleak at the end of the lane.

The wooden door creaked open slowly, and Mrs. Whitmore appeared at the threshold, lifting her hand to wave me in.

Perhaps it was the harsh white makeup she wore, or perhaps it was just the effect of the night, but in that moment, she looked less like a person and more like a paper effigy.

Without a word, she shoved a worn scripture scroll into my hands.

“Go. Chant the sutras,” she said coldly. “Recite them again and again. Don’t fall asleep—no matter what. If you do… well, no one can predict what might happen.”

There was a glimmer of pity in her eyes, as though she already considered me lost.

On the side, Julian emerged from the hall, followed by several attendants. He squinted at me, lips curled in a smirk.

“Your sister was much prettier than you,” he sneered, “but it doesn’t matter. Even if a pig survives the night, I’ll marry it.”

His arrogance burned in my chest. I clenched my fists tightly.

I was certain—absolutely certain—that Julian had something to do with my sister’s death.

And now, my enemy stood just steps away from me, untouchable. The rage in my heart swelled, but I could do nothing yet. That helplessness nearly choked me.

“Can I go in now?” I asked the old lady calmly.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she gestured to one of the servants, who pushed open the interior doors of the ancestral hall.

I stepped inside, my heart heavy with every footfall. Each step felt like descending deeper into an abyss.

Behind me, the doors creaked shut.

With the final sliver of light fading, darkness swallowed me whole.

Swish!

Suddenly, a row of wall-mounted candles lit themselves, one after another, casting trembling shadows across the room.

The flickering light made everything around me feel distorted and surreal.

My heartbeat quickened.

On the walls hung solemn portraits of generations of Whitmore ancestors, their painted eyes seeming to follow my every move. Fear climbed steadily up my spine.

Dozens of spirit tablets stood on the altar in eerie, perfect alignment.

In front of them, a single futon awaited.

Taking a deep breath, I walked forward with determination, knelt, and opened the scripture scroll. I tried to steady my thoughts, tried to silence the fear clawing at my mind.

But just as I was about to begin chanting, something surfaced in my memory—something sharp and vivid.

Suddenly, I jumped to my feet, voice trembling but loud.

“Let me out! Open the door!”

“I know what happened!”

“I know why those brides died!”