Elena tried her best to stay calm as she carefully observed the man who shared the same name as William Tris.
He had a messy mop of brown hair, exuding the aura of an artist—but more like a starving, down-on-his-luck street painter than an opera singer. When he lowered his eyes, his thin frame awkwardly stuffed into ill-fitting clothes, he looked uneasy, yet carried an odd, pitiful charm.
He looked up and gave Elena a shy smile. Only then did she notice he was much taller than her. However, there was such a naive joy in his eyes and expression, it felt like *he* was the one looking up to *her*.
Weird. Like a stray painter with the personality of a sweet, innocent fool. The combination was jarringly mismatched—yet oddly sincere.
He seemed real enough, but considering she herself had a shapeshifting badge, Elena wasn't about to jump to conclusions.
"That's good," Elena said as she tipped her hat in salute—she was almost getting used to this style of greeting by now. "Since everything's ready, let's run through the process once."
After all, any new feature needed multiple internal tests before the public beta.
The trained kids were already in place. For maximum thrill, Elena had deliberately paired one boy and one girl—he would play the male ghost, she the female one—for a more immersive experience.
That evening, Elena personally went through the entire route as the kids guided her. She had to admit, ghost stories paired with children's voices made for a perfect combination. When the girl began sobbing eerily, Elena actually felt goosebumps rising.
This kind of thing would scare her even in a modern-day dark alley.
"Maybe we should add some sound effects," she suggested. "It's a little too calm right now. We could have the boss dress in black and follow behind them, creating shadowy footsteps. When the story is about a ghost who died violently, he could stand a short distance away and sharpen a knife. And when telling the tale of a ghost who jumped to their death, we could throw a heavy bundle from the top of a nearby building."
The chubby boss looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, remained silent.
"Add in some dramatized acting too. For example, William and this gambling actor could act out a betrayal and murder scene under this lamp," Elena said, scouting a spot lit by a dim oil lamp—possibly once a bathhouse. From the alley entrance, the light cast perfect silhouettes for drama without revealing that the same actors were being reused.
"The wind is strong here; candles blow out easily," Elena continued as she led everyone to a street corner, lighting a candle that was quickly extinguished by the wind, plunging them into darkness. "Let's add a little extra here. A person lights a candle, a ghost blows it out. When the ghost draws near, the flame is extinguished."
William, walking behind her, looked thoroughly confused.
"But I've never heard of such a legend," the chubby boss said with a puzzled look.
"I just made it up," Elena said calmly. "After the candle goes out, you can walk over with heavy footsteps, maybe even let out a few sinister laughs. It's pitch-black—they won't see you anyway."
In truth, this idea came from Eastern tomb-raiding folklore. Western grave robbing didn't involve intricate traps like in China, but it was still creepy enough to borrow.
The boss, now responsible for tailing guests, slowing his steps to scare them, and practicing cold laughter, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The kids enthusiastically jotted down Elena's new six-word mantra.
"When the wind isn't strong, you don't need to say it," Elena reminded them. "Say it just as you arrive here, then the candle goes out—*that's* the timing we want."
*This lady's a living devil,* everyone muttered silently.
Most of Elena's suggestions were adopted. Even just hearing them was spooky. The chubby boss was already looking forward to the guests getting scared—so much so that he seemed to have completely forgotten the original purpose of this ghost tour: to draw more business to the inn.
However, with the ever-growing investment required by the increasingly elaborate show, the budget had far exceeded what was originally set aside for hiring the children. Elena eventually decided to give the boss a cut of the ghost tour profits. After all, he was putting himself into the act too, and deserved proper pay.
Soon, the latest issue of *The Strand Magazine* was released. The readers of this publication showed a strong interest in the "Covent Garden Ghost Tour." After all, *The Strand* catered to an audience that loved strange and thrilling experiences. To attract as many readers as possible, the ticket price was set very affordably—only six pence.
Six pence was a bargain. A circus show, freak exhibit, or wax museum visit all cost a full shilling. Although the ghost tour was new and still relatively unknown, Elena was confident she could turn it into a signature horror attraction in Luneton.
Albert was one of the readers.
A seasoned literature professor, he subscribed to numerous newspapers and periodicals. As he flipped through the latest *Strand*, his eyes unintentionally caught Elena's pen name. That instantly triggered memories he had long buried. Back then, he had fully believed the urban legends she wrote, even rushing to inform his friends and family. But the next issue made it painfully clear—it had all been fictional.
He didn't quite know what "social death" meant, but he knew well the sting of losing face before friends and family. That embarrassment was unforgettable. Old grudges mixing with new irritation, he became angry—mildly angry.
There wasn't much he could do. The article had clearly stated it was just a friend's story. The disclaimer was right there. He could only blame himself for being so gullible.
This time, he vowed to read Elena's latest piece very carefully. He would not let himself be fooled again.
"A betrayed opera singer killed by a friend…" Albert murmured. "I think I read a news article about something like that. Has it really become a ghost story now? Hahaha. Ghosts don't exist. You won't fool me this time."
He continued reading the rest of the ghost tales. They were actually quite entertaining. Some of the legends were familiar, though he had long forgotten them. This article rekindled some old memories—perhaps from his childhood, or maybe his youth. If time permitted, he thought he might visit Covent Garden to see if he could spot any of those so-called "eyewitnessed" ghosts.
But soon, his eyes landed on the end of the article, which boldly declared:
> "The Covent Garden Ghost Tour awaits your visit. Our professional guides will lead you through the eerie dark streets, unraveling long-forgotten tales. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, this tour will offer a unique experience. Now on sale for just six pence—a rare opportunity not to be missed."
Albert felt the sting of being tricked once again.
He took a deep breath, set the newspaper aside, and began reflecting on himself.
He was *not* someone easily fooled—yet it was this same author who had caught him twice in a row. He couldn't help but re-evaluate Elena's writing.
He quickly realized something both stories had in common: a sense of realism. The urban legends were outrageous, yet still plausible in real life. The ghost stories were similar—he had heard them before. The first article tapped into people's deepest fears—untrustworthy nannies, tainted wine, fragile infants—and exaggerated them to catastrophic outcomes, creating widespread panic.
The ghost tales, on the other hand, added even more detail—the aria sung by the dying opera singer, the gambling club's former location, the alleyway used by flower sellers. All described so vividly, it felt like the author had stood right there, whispering these tales to the reader. He had unconsciously immersed himself, naturally wanting to experience it in person.
After finishing his analysis, Albert felt relieved. It wasn't his fault for being fooled—this author was simply too cunning.
Six pence? He was curious to see what tricks she had up her sleeve this time.
When night fell, he stepped into Covent Garden. A quick glance revealed a rather terrifying sign—a black background with white ghosts and the bold words "Ghost Tour."
The man collecting money looked quite plain. He accepted the coin, handed Albert a wooden tag and a candle, and gave a few instructions: "No heart problems, right? Not easily frightened?"
Albert felt slightly offended and raised his chin with confidence. "Of course not."
The man gave him a glance and said calmly, "Then please wait a moment. The next tour starts at eight thirty."
It was only about ten minutes away. Soon, Albert was joined by what looked like a couple, two students who seemed to attend a nearby school, and a pot-bellied middle-aged man.
The ticket man gently rang a bell. In the distance, two children—around ten years old—came running up and greeted them in unison: "Dear guests, please follow us."
They wore matching clothes and had similar builds and hairstyles. In the flickering candlelight, their perfectly synchronized smiles were unnervingly eerie.
Albert had a feeling—this "Ghost Tour" would be anything but simple.