A year ago, I got an impulse and told my wife a story.

Because the content was strange and the details were too realistic, she was terrified and lost her mind.

Afterward, I regretted it deeply and repeated many times that the story was made up.

However, her trust in me had already collapsed, and her eyes were filled with fear when she looked at me.

That night, she ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and called the police.

As a result, I was arrested. Now I am going to narrate the whole process as follows.

01

My name is Chris, and I am forty-two years old this year.

Since I was a child, I have loved mystery and detective stories, and I am now a mystery novelist.

I have been married to Nora for many years, and we’ve always had a harmonious relationship.

She has always been my devoted first reader.

Besides writing novels, I have another hobby that I have persisted in for many years, which is keeping reptiles.

Turtles, frogs, lizards—I’m fascinated by these various little creatures.

I’ve dedicated a room in my home to my reptiles and have put in considerable effort to create a large ecological tank in the room to simulate a tropical rainforest ecosystem, trying to provide my pets with a natural and comfortable home.

Although I now make a living from writing, I actually studied biological engineering in college, which has proven useful.

When I first met Nora, she was initially skeptical about my hobby.

However, she is quite easy-going, and over time, she eventually grew fond of these reptiles.

After we got married, we didn’t have children and instead raised reptiles together, which has brought us endless joy.

Many times, while I was busy rushing to meet deadlines, she took care of the pets even more than I did.

That night, I finished work, and it was already midnight.

Nora had not gone to bed yet.

I entered the reptile room and found her observing a frog.

She remarked, “Actually, I used to be quite afraid of these cold-blooded animals.”

Then she casually asked me, “Chris, is there an animal you’re afraid of?”

I paused to think, and suddenly a peculiar thought struck me.

“Yes,” I said seriously, “I have a fear of sheep.”

She looked puzzled, “Why? Sheep are so gentle.”

“Because their eyes are quite peculiar,” I said earnestly, ” Let me share a story with you.”

In the quiet of the night, the reptile room was softly lit, and those lizards with their long vertical pupils were staring at me.

“How mysterious!”

Nora laughed, “Go ahead.”

“The protagonist of this story is named Chris.”

“Why is it your own name?”

“It adds a sense of immersion.”

02

Story 1

My name is Chris.

Since I was a child, I have loved mystery and reasoning, and I aspired to enter the police academy to become a criminal police officer in the future.

At that time, I thought that life would always go smoothly.

An unexpected event occurred in the summer of 1997 when I was 17 years old, and my father took me to the SAT.

Just before entering the examination room, my father called to me, looked at me deeply, hesitated for a moment, and finally said, “You will definitely achieve good results and get into the police academy.”

At that time, I didn’t notice anything unusual about my father; I took it as a routine encouragement, nodded, and turned to go in.

I did quite well.

After finishing the last exam, I hurried out of the examination room, excited to share my joy with my dad.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

Every time there was a major exam, my dad would always wait for me outside the exam hall.

He would lean against his bicycle, watching the entrance with anticipation.

When I came out, navigating through the crowd, I rushed to him, but he was still looking around.

I called out to him, and he suddenly looked surprised, slapping the seat of the bike, “Son, you’re done! Let’s go home!”

I jumped onto the back seat of the bike, my spirits soaring as I bragged about how easy the questions had been; he just smiled and told me to be humble, but he pedaled even harder, creating a nice breeze.

My dad rode with me up hills, down slopes, on mountain roads, and dirt paths.

The wheels kept turning as the years went by, and though his shoulders were gradually stooping, he was still strong.

I took these little things for granted as they became habits, seeing them as just the way things were.

My dad was a silent yet strong support, allowing me to focus and move forward without distraction.

But when that order was disrupted, I was left feeling panicked.

I anxiously scanned the area outside the exam hall, running and shouting, describing a typical middle-aged man to people passing by.

But precisely because he was too ordinary, no one seemed to notice him.

I searched aimlessly, my heart filled with unease.

Nothing could have happened; he might have gone home first.

I thought to myself and then headed home alone.

But my dad didn’t come back early either.

My father was missing.

03

My mom said that the night before my final exam, my dad was inexplicably irritable, and they had a bit of a disagreement.

Perhaps he left home in a fit of anger and would calm down and return in a few days.

I found this explanation a bit strange, but I had no choice but to accept it.

It didn’t look good for a man to leave home.

We didn’t make a big deal out of it and searched quietly.

However, after a few days, there was still no word.

The final exam really felt like a turning point in my life.

My dad vanished from the world after I finished the exam.

I couldn’t understand why my dad would leave us; looking back, there were no reasonable signs.

As far back as I could remember, my dad had always been a steady, family-oriented guy, honest and down-to-earth.

He cared for our family in the simple way that most fathers do, silently protecting us.

I never doubted my dad’s love.

Yet, he just up and left.

Then my mom asked, “Do you think he went to find your brother?”

I have an older brother, five years older than me, who was born blind.

My brother left home to work when he was young and never came back, disappearing like he just vanished.

Could that be why? Something told me it wasn’t.

A month later, the neighbors also noticed something was amiss and reported it.

One concerned neighbor even provided the police with a description of my father’s appearance, height, and weight.

The police arrived at our house with serious expressions, avoiding any discussion about the search for him and instead focusing solely on collecting fingerprints around the house.

The next day, they returned with a shocking revelation about my father.

04

In 1985, a massacre occurred in a mountainous area of a neighboring province, where a family of five was completely wiped out.

The crime scene was remote, and the family lived in seclusion, resulting in no direct witnesses.

The police investigated social connections but found nothing.

The murderer was not a personal enemy but rather a random passerby.

This significantly heightened the difficulty of solving the case.

The police collected fingerprints from the victims and the murder weapon, and through interviews, they got a rough description of the suspect, but still had no leads.

The case was shelved for 12 years.

A small-town police officer, who had been deeply invested in solving the case, had followed it since then.

Over a decade later, that same officer was transferred to our county.

After my father’s disappearance was reported, he sensed something was amiss.

The police came to my house, collected my father’s fingerprints, and took them back for comparison.

The results showed a match with the fingerprints of the suspect from the massacre case 12 years prior.

At that moment, it felt as if a heavy hammer was striking my heart, pressing down repeatedly.

In 1985, I was 5 years old.

My father worked away from home and would bring me a rattle drum when he returned, taking me up the mountain to play.

His warm hand held mine, and I had no idea it was stained with blood.

After I started school, my father would ride his bike to pick me up, encouraging me to study hard on the way there and praising me for being a good child on the way back.

Those joyful and laughter-filled moments turned dark, fading to black and white before shattering into pieces.

The towering figure I had always trusted crumbled overnight; the deep love I once felt from my father seemed like an illusory bubble.

The world shattered and reassembled, and the dull thud of my heart suddenly faded, leaving only the cold statement: my father had killed a family of five and then escaped.

05

He returned to his wife and children, his expression unchanged, continuing his quiet life.

He disguised himself well, so my mother and I became the family of a murderer, seemingly without explanation.

Then, when I was 17, he silently disappeared again.

This was not only an emotional blow for us but also a significant one.

Having a close relative commit such a serious crime had dire consequences, and my dream of becoming a police officer was shattered.

Later, I didn’t end up applying to the police academy and instead attended a conventional university for science and engineering, majoring in biological engineering.

After that, I studied, graduated, and worked, living a routine life, blending in with the crowd.

After my father went missing in 1997, he never appeared again.

The massacre case remained unsolved for years.

The case’s urgency faded over time, but the police did not give up.

My father was listed as a fugitive, and a warrant was issued for his arrest.

My family was already in shambles.

My mother fell ill and passed away after I graduated from college, my brother had been away for many years, and I moved to the city where I currently live, leaving my hometown abandoned.

After graduation, I worked at a microbiology research institute for several years, and my daily life was monotonous; apart from writing novels, I also raised reptiles.

That was until 2011, when the police discovered a skeleton in a remote valley in the mountains of my hometown.

06

According to local climate and the degree of decay, the person had likely died about 10 to 15 years earlier, which matched the timeline of my father’s disappearance in 1997.

Based on the bone age, the person was estimated to be 30-40 years old at the time of death, which also aligned with my father’s age (40) when he went missing.

The body had completely decomposed, and fingerprints were naturally useless.

However, modern forensic technology has another powerful tool: DNA analysis.

In 1985, when the massacre occurred, the technology was underdeveloped, and the police matched his fingerprints to the 1985 massacre, confirming he was the perpetrator.

When my father went missing in 1997, the police could not obtain my father’s DNA at that time, so they only collected my blood sample for their records.

In 2011, when the skeleton was discovered, DNA technology had advanced significantly.

The police extracted DNA from the skeleton for testing and comparison, and the results indicated that the skeleton was related to me as father and son.

Thanks to advancements in technology, more convincing evidence finally emerged.

The skeleton found in the valley was indeed my father, missing for so many years.

The police quickly notified me.

Years later, I still remember what my father wore the day he took me to the SAT.

It was a striped T-shirt.

Now, remnants of clothing with the same pattern were faintly discernible around the skeleton.

The wanted criminal was dead, and no further criminal responsibility would be pursued.

The massacre case was thus concluded, and the shadow of my father’s legacy was finally lifted.

Since it was resolved, I felt no need to discuss it further, so I had never shared this with my wife, Nora.

At this moment, I turned to Nora and asked, “What do you think of this story?”

Nora’s astonishment was evident as she asked, “Is this true?”

“Don’t worry about whether it’s true,” I replied.

But Nora pressed on: “I don’t know much about your past.

All I know is that you grew up in a single-parent family with your mother, your father went missing when you were young, and your mother passed away afterward.

I know these past experiences are painful memories for you, so I’ve never actively probed into them.

“But today, you chose to share such a story with me: the protagonist is also named Chris, his father also went missing early on, his mother passed away later, he studied biological engineering in college, then became a novelist and raised reptiles, and in 2009, he married Nora, which is me… So this really is your own story, right?”

“This is meant to create a stronger sense of immersion and enhance your reading experience,” I explained.

“Don’t worry about whether it’s true; let’s focus on the story itself and share your thoughts.”

Nora looked at me suspiciously but ultimately decided to believe.

After a moment of thought, she said, “You said you were afraid of sheep, and then you told this story.

But it seems this story has nothing to do with your fear of sheep.

“There’s also a detail that seems off. In the story, after the father went missing, the mother and child searched for a month without reporting it, and it was the neighbor who finally reported it, which feels a bit strange.

Four or five days might be understandable, but a month. That seems a bit careless; it doesn’t sound like they were genuinely worried about the father.”

“The content is quite convoluted, but the story feels too straightforward. The father was a murderer, then he went missing, and finally, his body was found, and the case was solved.”

“You’re right,” I paused before continuing, “but the story isn’t over yet.

What I’ve just shared is only the main thread; now we delve into the subplot.”

“The father is, in fact, not dead.”

-The Subplot-

I’ve loved mysteries and puzzles since I was a kid and once dreamed of entering the police academy to become a detective.

In 1997, I was 17 years old and took the SAT.

The moment I put down my pen was the closest I had ever been to my dream.

But then an unexpected event occurred.

With a close relative committing a serious crime, I could no longer become a police officer.

So my father said to me, “Son, I must die.”

In fact, the day after the SAT, I found my father.

My home is in the mountains, surrounded by endless mountain ranges.

Since I was young, my father had taken me hiking, studying the plants on the mountain, and catching small animals like lizards and frogs.

So my hobby of raising reptiles has its roots.

We even opened a path exclusively for us father and son to climb the mountain, which was thrilling and fun.

Somehow, I had a premonition.

I anxiously searched for my father for two days, feeling helpless, when suddenly, a thought struck me: the mountain path.

I hurriedly followed the path up the mountain and indeed found my father at the edge of the cliff.

After I was sent into the examination room, he came here by himself, sitting there all day without eating or drinking.

He wanted to die, but he was scared.

I was confused and cried out, “Why, Dad?”

He also cried.

He revealed to me the secret he had kept buried in his heart for years.

Shortly after I was born, my father went away for work and only came back for the New Year.

In 1985, on his way back home, his car broke down, and he had to walk part of the way.

At night, he stayed at a stranger’s house.

Since he had a lot of cash on him, he was extra cautious while sleeping.

In the middle of the night, he heard someone sneaking into his room—it was the male owner of the house.

My father was filled with rage and got into a struggle with the man.

The homeowner pulled out a knife, determined to rob him.

My father panicked; the more anxious he got, the more violent he became, and he ended up grabbing the knife and killing the homeowner.

With someone dead, my father grew even more anxious, fearing he would be reported.

His blood ran hot, and he lost his composure, his eyes going red.

By the time he caught his breath and realized what had happened, the whole family of five was dead, including women and kids.

Realizing he had committed a crime, my father fled that night.

The crime scene was in a nearby province, a fair distance from home.

He crossed two mountains, slowly calming himself down.

He got onto the highway and caught a ride back home.

After that, he never went out to work again and stayed home to farm.

My mother was easygoing and never pried into what my father did outside, always believing in him.

The terrifying word “murder” felt far removed from us.

We never thought it could be so close, nor did we notice any signs.

To us, my father was a genuinely good man, valuing family ties, loving his wife and children, and wholeheartedly caring for the family.

But my father’s psychological burden grew heavier as time went on.

I was smart and performed well in school, and my father was always proud of me.

As I grew older, he became increasingly worried that he would become a burden to me.

Because I dreamed of becoming a police officer, while he had a dark secret of having killed someone.

Time flew by, and by 1997, a string of murders happened in a nearby city, causing a significant social impact.

The local police kicked off a massive investigation, collecting and screening fingerprints from hundreds of thousands of local men.

If they didn’t find anything in the neighboring city, they might come to our area and potentially uncover the suspect from another cold case from twelve years back.

My father knew he would eventually be exposed.

If he didn’t end his life before the storm hit, I’d have to carry the label of being the son of a murderer.

So, the same year I took the SAT and stepped onto a broad new journey, my father’s path also reached its end.

My father revealed everything.

I don’t know if the details he recounted were true or if he had embellished his motives for killing.

Hearing about my father’s past made it difficult for me to fully trust him.

But in any case, whether that family wanted to rob him or if he acted impulsively in a burglary, he killed someone.

I remained silent for a long time before quickly calming down and said, “Dad, come over here.”

He stood at the edge of the cliff, covering his face and shaking his head vigorously.

Unbeknownst to him, the ground beneath him gave way, and he was about to fall backward.

My father’s pupils dilated, and his arms flailed; my heart raced.

I dashed forward and managed to grab him, pulling him back from the edge of the cliff.

The wind howled through the mountains, and rocks and dirt tumbled down, making no sound.

My father was panting heavily, looking dazed.

Fortunately, there was no harm done.

I knew my father was afraid of death.

Rationally, he wanted to end his own life, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t be as calm as he imagined.

I held my father’s hand and said, “Dad, it’s too high here; let’s go down and see how high it is.”

My father, led by me, did not refuse.

So we went around to the side and slowly made our way down towards the valley.

The path down was treacherous and uncharted; we stumbled for two hours before finally reaching the flat ground of the valley below.

Above us was the previous cliff, high and distant, obscured by layers of plants on the mountainside, leaving only a sharp peak visible.

I looked up and said, “It’s so high; if you jumped down, it would hurt.”

My father replied, “I have no choice.”

It was dusk, and the sky was filled with colorful clouds.

The wind rustled softly as it passed through the valley, feeling a bit cold.

At that moment, I felt a quiet yet terrifying gaze.

Looking around, I discovered a sheep not far away, watching us quietly.

It stared at us so calmly, like an outsider observing.

I suddenly trembled all over.

I am afraid of sheep because of their eyes.

This is my childhood trauma.

Since I was young, I have been deeply tormented by the terror of being watched by sheep’s eyes.

Most animals have round pupils or vertical pupils, which reveal emotions and can be explored.

But sheep have horizontal pupils, and such eyes are a mystery, completely inscrutable.

They are neither cute nor fierce, devoid of emotion, appearing exceptionally eerie.

A sheep stands not far away, watching me approach quietly, and I don’t know what it is thinking.

Staring at it for too long, it remains as calm as ever, but humans can lose control.

Clearly, it is such a gentle and fragile creature, yet it seems to possess some power to manipulate human hearts, leading one to do something, especially to kill it.

This seems to be a preordained arrangement.

I averted my gaze, wrapped my arms around my father, and said firmly, “Dad, you have killed someone, but I am not afraid, nor do I hate you.

You will never be a burden on me.

Perhaps others see you as a demon, but to me, you are just my father, the best father.

I want to be a police officer, but that doesn’t mean I have a strong sense of justice; I just enjoy mystery and reasoning.

This hobby can lead down two paths, one towards good and the other towards evil.

Even if I don’t become a police officer, I won’t be left without a way forward.

If my beloved father is a criminal, I will willingly abandon my original choice and steadfastly stand by his side.”

I know I am not correct, and I understand that it involves the bloody lives of five people, but I cannot bring myself to uphold the righteousness of abandoning my kin.

I harbor selfishness and truly do not deserve to be a police officer.

After saying that, I did not wait for my father’s response; I bent down, picked up a stone, and walked over to the sheep.

The sheep, with its eerie horizontal pupils, watched me approach quietly, not moving an inch.

I struck the sheep several times until it lay still.

The birds returning home were startled from the trees, flapping their wings and scattering; blood splattered, reflecting the crimson glow of the setting sun in the river.

My father looked on in shock as I committed the act; he did not understand what I was doing, but as if guided by some divine force, he came to help me.

We each grabbed a leg of the sheep, lifting its corpse together and throwing it into a hidden thicket near the mountainside.

After doing all this, I looked deeply at my father and said word by word, “In religion, a sacrifice is made with a sheep, called a ‘scapegoat.’ Dad, the crime you committed will be repaid by it.

Now that you are dead, we can go home.”

This was a form of self-deception, but it was effective.

My father found some comfort in it, staring blankly for a moment, still feeling uneasy, “In the future…”

“We’ll talk about the future later.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said confidently.

“Dad, trust me, we’ll be fine.”

As dusk fell, I held my father’s hand and led him back up the mountain, following the same path back.

From childhood to adulthood, my father had taken me up the mountain many times, always holding my hand and leading the way.

This time, I wanted to walk ahead of him.

07

My mother learned about my father’s past before I did.

She loved my father just as much, but felt powerless against his choices.

A few days ago, she held back her sadness, hiding it from me, watching me frantically search, unable to speak.

When she saw my father again that night, she immediately broke down in tears.

After experiencing a false alarm of life and death, our family of three wept together.

From the next day on, my father became a ghost in the family, never to see the light again.

Even though his crimes had not yet been exposed, we had to erase all traces of him in advance, just in case.

This was not the best solution, but it was the most suitable one.

We could only take it one step at a time.

My mother and I spent nearly a month gradually clearing out my father’s belongings, and intentionally spreading rumors to create the appearance that my father had left home with his luggage.

Having watched many crime stories, I had some understanding of fingerprint technology.

So I carefully wiped clean every place in the house where my father might have left fingerprints.

When there were no visitors, my father could move around the house wearing gloves; if someone came, he would have to hide in the cellar.

This was a torment for someone who loved outdoor activities like my father.

But he could endure it.

Little did we expect that the judgment of justice would come so quickly.

A month later, a concerned neighbor “reported us” to the police, and the police began to have suspicions.

I wiped fingerprints meticulously, but the police were even more thorough.

They found a fingerprint left by my father on the top of the door frame.

Thus, the boots dropped.

08

When the police came for the second time, they collected my blood sample.

After that, they kept an eye on my house, in case my missing father returned.

In particular, a police officer named Luke took a keen interest in the case; he had handled the massacre case back then and had now coincidentally been transferred to our area.

My home was in a mountain village, surrounded by mountains, far from the road, so the police couldn’t keep constant watch and could only visit periodically.

My mother and I acted skillfully, showing shock and disbelief when the police revealed the truth, and later expressing hatred and ignorance during each visit.

Additionally, we subtly hinted to the police that my father’s behavior had been abnormal before he disappeared, that he had made some resolute remarks that we hadn’t taken seriously at the time, but in hindsight, it should have been my father fearing for our safety and not returning.

When the police were not around, we were equally cautious.

With a murderer in the family, our interactions with neighbors decreased.

Therefore, when the police visited the neighbors, the only information they could gather was that my father had left and had not returned.

Gradually, the police also concluded that my father’s chances of returning were slim, and the frequency of their visits decreased.

They could not have imagined that my father was still at home.

In 2001, I graduated from university, and my mother passed away.

I returned to my hometown to arrange her funeral.

After losing my mother’s protection, my father could no longer hide in the old home.

After four whole years, my father had had enough of hiding.

After the funeral, I secretly brought my father into the city, found a small clinic, and had him undergo plastic surgery.

The surgery was very successful, and my father recovered quickly.

His new face was not completely unrecognizable; at least it allowed him to walk in the sunlight.

At the clinic’s entrance, I wrote down my phone number and address on a piece of paper, handed it to my father, and told him that, just in case, we could not live together.

Thus, we parted ways in the morning mist.

To be continued