I still vaguely remember the first time I went to Lilac Lake. It was on a weekend sometime last year, and I arrived just as the sun was going down.
This time, I showed up around half past midnight.
The whole thing had started earlier that day. After I woke up in the morning, I spent a while wavering between staying home and playing games all day or going outside for a change. Then I opened the window and felt, with complete certainty, that autumn had arrived. That seemed like enough of a reason to go out.
Unfortunately, the place I chose was packed. There were people everywhere, not even an empty public bench where I could sit down for a moment. Worse still, everywhere I looked there were unruly children charging around. I made one quick loop and came back almost immediately.
But I refused to let the day end in disappointment, so I bought a pile of food: a pizza, three chicken wings, a portion of fried chicken strips, and three peaches. To be honest, I ate too much. Then sleepiness came rushing in, and I struggled my way into a nap.
When I woke up, though, I was still uncomfortably full. It felt as if I had to digest at least part of it before I could possibly fall asleep again. So at eleven o’clock at night, I went out. Downstairs, I bought a bottle of Gatorade.
By about 12:30, I had ridden to the area near Lilac Lake.
I took a quiet side road.
This part of the city is an industrial warehouse district. Transport trucks were parked along both sides of the road, and there was even an abandoned railway line nearby. Looking back toward the city from there gave me a strange feeling, like the childhood version of Manhattan I used to imagine: high-rises standing far away, their lights scattered across the dark. It was the kind of moment that called for Marvin Gaye.
What made me uneasy was that all the trucks were facing me.
Their windshields looked like pairs of eyes, glaring straight at me. It felt as though they were furious that I had disturbed them, and that any second they might open their mouths and swallow me whole.
The road there was rough and uneven. At one point, the Gatorade in my bicycle basket bounced out. I stopped to pick it up, but something beside the bottle was moving.
There was no one around. No light at all.
The thing looked like a bloody heart, pulsing and twitching in the dark.
In a panic, I pulled out my phone and shone the light on that “bloody heart.” It turned out to be an absurdly calm toad, as steady as an old dog, and about the size of my palm.
I grabbed the Gatorade and pedaled away as fast as I could.
But then things started to feel wrong.
I clearly remembered that the road ahead should have had a turn. So why did it seem to have become a stretch of woods? I must have lost my way. After all, aside from the faint starlight reflecting in my eyes, there was basically no light anywhere.
I began to lose my nerve. Maybe I should just go back.
On the way to retreat, I noticed another road on my right.
Strange. I hadn’t seen it just now.
I switched routes and, as expected, ended up entering the warehouse area itself. Because it was night, and because most of the warehouses stored industrial materials, almost none of them were open. The street was perfectly straight, all the doors shut tight on every side. It reminded me of the scene with the Spirit King in Journey to the West.
By then, though, I didn’t feel especially scared anymore.
At least, I wouldn’t have—if the theme song from A Chinese Ghost Story hadn’t started playing in my earphones at that exact moment.
After breaking through the warehouse street, I finally reached Lilac Lake.
For a moment, I hesitated. I wanted to take a shortcut along the east bank and get home as quickly as possible. But another voice in my head said: Go on. Ride the full loop. Otherwise, didn’t you come all this way for nothing?
So I turned around and headed for the west bank.
In the direction of the west bank, there is a stretch of road where motor vehicles are allowed. After that, the road becomes one of those sections where cars are forbidden at night. I assumed there would be nobody there.
But then I actually heard crying and shouting, followed by a weird burst of cheering.
I pulled the bike to the side, ready to find out what was going on.
About twenty seconds later, two ridiculous-looking guys rode past on an electric scooter. They were discussing how great it would have been if the guy sitting in the back had been a woman.
Only then did I remember: the day before had been Qixi Festival.
Still, brother, be brave. Why worry about whether he’s a woman?
On my left was an elevated bridge, not for cars but for trains. Just then, a freight train happened to pass overhead. I was surprised to notice that beneath the bridge there was an opening, a dark passage leading into an even blacker place.
I did not dare go in.
The west bank already had plenty of broken streetlights as it was. They flickered on and off like something from a ghost film.
At last, I reached the road that crosses the lake.
The last time I came here, the sky had been overcast, and dead fish were floating on the water. The scene looked as if Cthulhu were about to crawl up from the depths. This time, I had every reason to believe that the god really might emerge.
After taking a few photos, I had only gone a short distance when I turned back to look at the road. The side facing the city was lined with colorful light strips in the distance. Compared with the side facing away from the city, it was practically another world.
From there, the road got closer to the island in the middle of the lake, and to the areas that would be submerged when the water rose. Mist began to gather. Even the light had to pass through it before reaching the ground.
Ah! That scared me to death—
It was only a spiderweb.
No, wait. It was Gao Tianbao messaging me on WeChat: “I know you’re still awake.”
Yes, I was indeed still awake. I was trying to add a little excitement to an otherwise ordinary life.
And so, accompanied by Gao Tianbao’s complaints about World of Warcraft, I rode back into the city.
An hour later, I got home completely drained. It was already three in the morning. I checked the time and distance: the whole trip had taken me about four hours, and I had ridden roughly thirty kilometers.
I took a quick shower, threw my sweat-soaked, foul-smelling clothes into the laundry basket, found a bottle, drank some water, and fell into a heavy sleep.
When I woke up, it was already noon. My hands and feet felt as if they had been pinned down by something heavy. I lay there for a while and realized my limbs were terribly sore.
Apparently, I had overdone it.