13 Minke Street

Karen’s heart skipped a beat.

Then, there was a brief silence.

Strangely, the other party did not hang up the phone either.

‘You’ve interrupted my artistic creation.…’

This sentence kept repeating in Karen’s mind, including the tone of voice.

Karen didn’t think he had dialed the wrong number, nor did he think someone was joking with him.

It was even more impossible to naively think that the other party was just an artist, doing some traditional art in the crematorium.

Sometimes, intuition is really important. It can help you skip a lot of unnecessary details and get straight to the heart of the matter.

Although reason told him this was too bizarre and downright absurd, after a brief silence, Karen still pinched his throat with his right hand and said:

“Then do you need some valuable artistic advice?”

“Huh?” The other person sounded puzzled, seemingly caught off guard by the unexpected response. Then, he chuckled.

Hearing the laughter on the phone, Karen knew it was a man’s laughter, slightly gloomy and sharp. Karen continued, “Or perhaps, you don’t really have much confidence in your own art.”

“You’re quite interesting. It’s a pity, though. If you had called a little earlier, I would have been willing to hear your opinion. But unfortunately, not this time.”

“Why?” When he asked this question, Karen closed his eyes. It was a question that didn’t need to be asked.

On the other end of the phone, the response aligned with what Karen had in mind. “Because my creation this time is already finished. There are only a few finishing touches left, which makes me a little anxious. Can you understand this distress?”

Karen replied, “When I was a child learning to draw, my teacher would point out that certain corners of my artwork were too empty, needing something to fill them—even if the added elements had no direct relation to the overall composition. It was the act of adding for the sake of adding that truly vexed me.”

“Yes, exactly! That’s the kind of distress I’m experiencing now.”

“This is actually a sign of insufficient skill,” Karen continued. “That’s why I didn’t become a painter when I grew up. A person who can’t even do the composition before painting and needs to make up for it in the end, what kind of painter is he? What kind of artist is he? And how can he talk about art?”

After Karen finished speaking, the breathing on the other end of the phone suddenly became more rapid.

Psychologists know how to calm people’s emotions and avoid stimulating their patients. Conversely, they are also naturally good at finding where the pain points are.

Karen continued: “You think you’re an artist? No, you are not. You are just an arrogant and narcissistic fool. Please don’t insult the word ‘art’.”

The sound of teeth grinding came through the phone. Obviously, Karen’s words had stung him.

Karen, who was holding the phone, also felt a little helpless. There was nothing he could do now. He couldn’t even call the police, because to call the police, he would have to hang up the phone and then dial again.

At the same time, he couldn’t go to the basement to find Aunt Mary, and he couldn’t go upstairs to find Grandpa, because the phone cord wasn’t that long.

Shouting loudly for someone would undoubtedly be audible through the phone.

The voice on the phone said, “I’m very disappointed in you. When we first started talking, I even thought for a moment that you might be the person with the same aesthetic that God had gifted to me. Unfortunately, you are not.

“You are still young, so your understanding of art is too superficial. Art….has no levels.”

Karen calmly responded, “But art has standards.”

BANG!

The other party hung up the phone with a great force.

Karen also put down the phone. Frowning in confusion, he muttered, “He said…”

Karen released his fingers that were pinching his throat, as it was a little painful after being pinched for so long, and he had to gently caress it while coughing a few times.

“I’m still young?”

This last sentence changed from its previous low tone to Karen’s original tone of voice.

……

Knock… knock…

“Come in.”

The study door swung open, revealing Diss sitting behind the desk. He looked up at Karen standing at the door.

“Grandpa.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Hughes Crematorium. It seems something happened there.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I just called them. The person who answered seemed to be the murderer—that deranged killer from the Crown Ballroom.”

Grandpa put down his pen and asked, “Did you call the police?”

Karen shook his head.

“Call the police,” Grandpa suggested.

But Karen wasn’t keen on reporting it. The person on the other end of the phone had already made it clear: his latest creation was complete.

In other words, if there were any victims, they were already dead.

Calling the police to collect a corpse—what purpose would that serve?

Karen felt it was pointless unless the killer happened to break a leg while leaving the crime scene and a police car conveniently arrived right in front of him.

“Are you worried this might be a prank?” Grandpa asked. “Don’t worry. Even if it’s a false alarm, it’ll just result in a fine.”

Karen shook his head again.

“So, what do you want to do?”

“I want to go take a look at Hughes Crematorium now.”

Go take a look at his new ‘creation’.

Diss picked up the teacup and took a sip, nodding slightly. “I approve. You can go.”

Karen still stood at the doorway, unmoving.

“Hmm?” Diss put down the teacup, “What’s wrong?”

Karen licked his lips and said very straightforwardly, “I’m scared to go alone.”

“Hahaha.” Suddenly, Grandpa laughed. “When you were a child, you used to say the same thing to me when you were scared to go to the bathroom at night.”

Suddenly, Diss fell silent, and a hint of sadness appeared on his face.

……

“What’s the matter, my little Karen?”

“Grandpa, it’s dark, the bathroom, pee pee, I’m scared to go alone.”

“Then grandpa will stand here in the hallway and wait for you. Go inside and relieve yourself, okay?”

“Grandpa come with me, please? Can we go together?”

……

The taxi drove all the way from Minke Street to the outskirts where the Hughes Crematorium was located. The distance was quite far, taking more than twice the time it took Karen to take a taxi home from the Crown Ballroom.

Upon arriving at the entrance of the Hughes Crematorium, the taxi driver turned around and looked at Dis, who was sitting in the back seat, and smiled.

“That’ll be 45 lubi, sir.”

Diss handed over a 50 lubi bill, and the driver returned 5 lubi change, which Diss accepted.

Then, the grandfather and grandson got out of the taxi.

Watching the taxi drive away, Karen silently muttered to himself, “Dammit!“

The crematorium’s gate was tightly shut. At the entrance, there was a worn-out motorcycle with a bundle of blankets on the seat. Standing nearby were a man and a woman, both looking anxious.

Wrapped in the blanket should be the deceased body brought here to be cremated.

But there was a ‘Closed for Business’ sign hanging at the entrance of the crematorium.

The woman stepped forward and inquired, “Excuse me, are you from the crematorium?”

Karen shook his head and replied, “No.”

Hearing this answer, the man angrily kicked a rock in front of the gate and cursed, “We clearly made an appointment yesterday. Why is it closed for business today? Utterly shameless!”

The woman suggested, “Should we try another place?”

“It’s too late,” the man retorted. “It’s almost dark, and other crematoriums would be closed by now.”

“Is this place closed today?” Karen asked.

“We’ve been waiting since one o’clock,” the man replied angrily.

Karen noticed the blanket on their motorcycle. A corner of the blanket vaguely revealed some white hair—probably an elder of the family who had passed away.

Those who could afford to arrange funeral services at the Inmerales House were not ordinary people; they were mostly middle-class. Even the children of Mr. Mauson, who had been criticized by Aunt Mary many times and had cut down on services, still ended up spending several thousand lubi.

Thousands of lubi, for lower-income families, was not a small sum.

And the requirements to qualify for a ‘welfare voucher’ were to have no relatives. Even if your family was very poor and couldn’t afford funeral expenses, as long as you still had family around, you couldn’t enjoy the ‘welfare’ like Jeff did, because you weren’t considered pitiable enough.

When the truly impoverished residents of Roja City pass away, their family members often bring them directly to the crematorium for cremation.

Uncle Mason once said that customers who the Inmerales family considered ‘poor’ were already high-quality customers in the eyes of the crematorium.

At this moment, an old, red ‘Caimen’ sedan pulled up and stopped at the entrance.

As the car door opened, Karen was surprised to see Mrs. Hughes stepping out. She wore a blue dress with a coffee-colored down jacket over it.

Mrs. Hughes, who was still ‘alive’, smiled immediately when she saw Karen, but upon seeing Diss standing next to Karen, she immediately resumed her dignified demeanor.

“Why is the gate closed?” Mrs. Hughes stepped forward, pulling a spare key from her bag and unlocking the gate.

“Why are you only coming now!” the man stomped up to her and questioned.

Mrs. Hughes glanced at him, then looked at the motorcycle with the bundle of blankets. She replied, “I don’t know. We only had two reservations today—one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Well, the afternoon slot should be yours. So, I gave myself and another employee the day off, leaving an older staff member on duty.

“If it weren’t for the owner of the cement factory passing by and seeing guests waiting at our entrance, I wouldn’t have come. Well, it’s strange. Did Old Darcy take the day off today?”

“I don’t know what’s going on with your crematorium, but I’ve been waiting here with my mother for-”

“You can go complain to the government about me, or simply go to the police station and file a report. I’ve explained to you once already. I’m giving you the power to complain, but please keep your distance from me right now. This is where corpses are burned; believe it or not, I’ll toss you in the furnace and burn you up too!”

Facing Mrs. Hughes’ sudden aggressiveness, the man was frightened into silence, not daring to speak again.

A woman running a crematorium alone for so many years must have a fiery side to her personality, otherwise she really wouldn’t have been able to make it until now.

“By the way, Mr. Diss, what brings you here today…”

“My grandson wanted to come see you,” Diss replied.

Mrs. Hughes blinked. She really wanted to make some naughty remarks to tease the handsome young man from the Inmerales family, but she couldn’t. Diss’ aura was just too powerful. No wonder Mary always revealed an awe of her father-in-law during gossip gatherings with her girlfriends.

As the door swung open, Mrs. Hughes stepped inside. The man lifted the bundled blankets, and his wife assisted, following Mrs. Hughes.

“Do we need to go in?” Diss asked.

“Yes,” Karen replied. “If this ‘artwork’ isn’t Mrs. Hughes, then it must be someone else.”

Karen still firmly believed in his own judgment. The tightly locked crematorium gate itself was proof that something was off.

The three groups moved in an order.

Mrs. Hughes led the way, calling out “Old Darcy’s” name as they walked.

The couple carrying the elder’s corpse followed behind her.

And behind them were Karen and Diss.

Finally, they all stood before the glass wall of the cremation chamber.

The door to the cremation chamber stood open, but there was no one inside.

“Please cremate my mother first,” the man said.

“I have to find my worker!” Mrs. Hughes retorted angrily. She was upset because she noticed that the furnace was hot, indicating significant waste. “Old Darcy, Old Darcy!”

Karen’s attention was drawn to the countertop ahead, specifically the urns on it.

The last time he was here, the urns were neatly arranged with their price tags. But now, they were stacked like building blocks, forming a vertical rectangle rather than the usual triangular arrangement.

Also, all these urns were placed sideways, with their lids facing outward instead of upward.

Karen stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the leftmost edge of the display. He reached out, grasped the lid of one of the urns, and opened it.

“Ahhhhhh!!!!” The woman screamed.

“Ah!” The man dropped the blanket in his hands and his mother rolled out of it.

“Oh my god!” Mrs. Hughes covered her mouth.

Diss silently moved a little closer.

In the urn Karen had just opened, there was…a foot, a bloody foot.

And between the toes, there was a price tag, marked at 1500 lubi.

Karen opened another urn above it, revealing a knee inside.

It felt like opening mystery boxes, but with slightly less mystery.

Karen reached up for the lid of the urn at the very top and pulled it open.

Inside the topmost urn….was a head.

Old Darcy’s head. In his mouth was the price tag: 10,000 lubi.

Old Darcy had been dismembered, his body parts put into urns. And then, as if playing with building blocks, he was “reassembled”.

At this moment, Karen’s gaze fell upon the slanted office desk, where a telephone rested.

Approaching the phone, Karen picked up the receiver. As he turned back toward the urn stand, he realized that his position was directly in front of the ‘reassembled’ Old Darcy!

This spot was the optimal viewing position.

In Karen’s line of sight, a black figure seemed to appear. 

Originally, the black figure had his hands placed in front of him, admiring the building blocks he had just assembled.

Just then, the phone next to him rang.

He frowned slightly but didn’t answer.

Soon, the phone rang for a second time. This time, he picked up the receiver:

“You’ve interrupted my artistic creation.…”