You’ve heard of vampires that sparkle…
Vampires that seduce you…
Vampires that turn into bats…
But have you ever met a vampire that… has ADHD.
Kevin knew there had to be a catch. Apartments in Hong Kong didn’t go for that cheap unless they came with mold, murder, or both.
The landlord had only smiled thinly when Kevin asked.
“Unit has… historical energy,” he said. “Very quiet tenant.”
Kevin thought “quiet tenant” meant maybe an old woman with a mahjong habit. It did not.
The First Night
It started at midnight: boing. boing. boing.
Kevin sat up in bed. The sound was wrong—too rhythmic, too heavy. Not footsteps. Not plumbing. Something in between.
He cracked the door open and froze.
A pale figure in Qing Dynasty robes stood rigid in the hallway. Arms stretched forward, eyes glazed white. It moved in awkward little hops, like an undead pogo stick trying very hard to look dignified.
Kevin screamed. The figure didn’t flinch.
“WHAT—WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU?!” Kevin shouted.
The vampire—if you could call it that—paused mid-hop, frowned faintly, and croaked,
“Tenant. I’m working out. I’ll clean after. I need a swifter.”
The Bargain
Kevin considered running, but when he checked his bank account the next morning, reality set in. He couldn’t even afford a cab to escape, let alone another apartment. He returned that evening with a bag of groceries and the determination of a man trapped by poverty.
“Are you going to eat me?” Kevin asked, setting down instant noodles.
The hopping-cleaning corpse, paused, tilted its head, looked him up and down, “You are not organic.”
Relief washed over him. For the moment. The corpse continued sweeping the floor.
“In the battle of man versus monster, poverty always wins. Kevin stayed.”
House Rules
They settled into an uneasy truce. Folklore dictated the basics: no eye contact, keep sticky rice nearby, don’t block its path. Modern life added more: share the Wi-Fi password, and let the Jiangshi borrow the Netflix login.
Every night, Kevin would hear boing, boing, boing down the hallway, floor getting swept, vacuum getting turned on, followed by the rustle of plastic dumpling wrappers. Mr. Wong—as Kevin decided to call him—would perch stiffly on the sofa after his workout and cleaning is done, eyes glued to a glowing screen.
“This woman… betray emperor,” Wong muttered during a K-drama marathon. “Shameful. I eat her soul.”
Kevin tossed him a bao without looking up from his notes.
“Eat this instead, Uncle Hop. Leave Song Hye-kyo alone.”
The Shoe Rack Incident
Harmony lasted until Kevin tried to do some cleaning, feeling slightly embarrassed at leaving it all to Mr. Wong.
He shifted the shoe rack to vacuum the entryway. That night, the noise came again, but louder, sharper. BOING. BOING. THUD.
“You move shoe rack?!” Wong snarled, his rigid body trembling mid-hop.
“I was vacuuming!” Kevin protested.
“I do the vacuuming! Now I must detour… through the toilet! Unholy path!”
From then on, messages appeared on sticky notes around the apartment.
- The floor is dirtier after you clean.
- No garlic near rice cooker.
- Your chi smells like instant noodles.
- You need girlfriend.
Kevin stared at the last one. “Passive-aggressive much?”
Coexistence
Eventually, a deal was struck. Wong could roam freely between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. In return, he would handle the supernatural chores of the household:
- Cleaning the house.
- Scaring off noisy upstairs neighbors.
- Obliterating cockroaches with psychic energy.
- Floating through walls to steal better Wi-Fi.
It wasn’t a perfect system, but it worked.
A Strange Kind of Friendship
One night, the two sat across from each other under the moonlight, a mahjong set spread between them. Kevin was exhausted from midterms, but oddly comforted by the company.
“You know,” Kevin said, arranging his tiles, “you’re not so bad for a chi-sucking corpse.”
Mr. Wong showed the faintest trace of a smile, fangs catching the light.
“And you are not so bad… for a modern child with no filial piety.”
Kevin laughed. Against all reason, the sound wasn’t nervous anymore.
The Jiangshi endures in folklore because it embodies unease: the fear of restless spirits, of traditions refusing to stay buried. But Kevin’s story suggests another lesson. Sometimes monsters aren’t meant to be fought. Sometimes, like bad landlords or noisy neighbors, they’re just part of the lease.
Always read the fine print.
And never underestimate the stubborn dignity of a hopping corpse in Qing Dynasty robes.
