So there I was, skint as usual, scrolling the giveaway ads at 2 a.m. when this post pops up: “Black leather three-seater, must go tonight, curb-side, Mong Kok.” No photo, just that. My flat’s got four walls and a rice-cooker; a couch would turn it into a palace. I grab my flatmate’s old trolley and race over.
The thing looks mint under the sodium light, no rips, smells faintly of cologne. I’m already picturing Netflix marathons when an auntie shuffles by, clicks her tongue, and mutters “椅背向北，鬼易入” — chair back to the north, ghosts walk in. I laugh, haul it home anyway. Superstition’s cheap; rent isn’t.
Next morning the living-room feels… tilted. I blame hangover. I shove the couch against the only blank wall, which—yeah—faces north. Whatever. I flop down, remote in hand, and the cushion exhales like it’s been holding its breath for years. Cold air creeps up my neck, the kind that makes your teeth itch. I crank the AC off, still freezing.
That night I dream of a guy in a 90’s suit sitting beside me, knees touching, repeating “Move the feet, lose the seat.” I wake up on the floor, nose bleeding, couch spun sideways like it tried to walk. My phone shows 3:33 a.m. Cute.
I tell myself it’s urban legend nonsense, but I Google feng-shui anyway. First rule: never place seating with back to entrance—called “poison arrow.” Great, I’ve arrowed myself right in the wallet. Second rule: north sector governs career; block it and you block cash. Explains why my freelance gigs dried up faster than soy sauce on a hot wok.
I spin the couch west, toss a mirror on the opposite wall to bounce the energy back. Instant relief, like someone turned the volume down on static. I even land a copywriting job that afternoon. Coincidence, sure, but I’ll take it.
Week later the mirror cracks clean down the middle while I’m out. I come home to glass shards shaped like tiny arrows pointing at—guess where—the couch. The cushion now bears a dent the size of a man’s rear, and I haven’t sat there since the spin. My neighbor’s cat, usually fearless, peers through the window, fur puffed, tail bottle-brush thick, then bolts.
I’m done being macho. I ring Uncle Bing, the mall fortune-teller who owes me for fixing his website. He arrives with a canvas bag stuffed like Mary Poppins: compass the size of a pizza, copper coins tied red, and a spray bottle that smells suspiciously like gin. He circles the couch, compass needle twitching like it’s at a disco.
“Previous owner died mid-signature,” he says. “Contract unsigned, butt-print eternal. Spirit thinks seat still his.” Uncle Bing pours salt along the north edge, chants something that sounds like karaoke backwards, then flips the couch face-down. The air whooshes out, warm this time, smelling of gunpowder and lilies. My ears pop like landing from a plane.
We drag the thing to the building’s service corridor, chalk a broken octagon around it, stick nine coins under each leg. Uncle Bing makes me apologize aloud for disturbing rest, promises the ghost a proper west-facing altar in the next life if he just quits hogging the cushions. We burn joss paper; the smoke curls into a perfect thumbs-up before vanishing up the vent.
Next day I list the couch again: “Free, must go tonight, curb-side.” I add a photo this time—leather gleaming, no butt-dent, no weird chill. Within minutes a hipster dude messages, “Sweet, perfect for my Airbnb.” I almost warn him, then remember rent’s still a thing. I help him strap it onto a pickup, north-facing in the truck bed. As they drive off, the auntie from night one reappears, gives me a toothy grin, and says, “Round and round, energy goes. Let’s see if he listens.”
I shut my door, shove a beanbag where the couch once stood—south-facing, feet pointing east, every rule ticked. The room feels lighter, like someone opened a window I didn’t know existed. My inbox pings: new client, paid upfront. I pour myself tea, no nosebleed, no whispers, just the hum of the fridge and the city outside. Still, whenever I pass that curb and see another black shadow waiting for a sucker, I walk a little faster. Feng-shui’s only fake until it isn’t, and ghosts? They’re just picky roommates who never signed the lease.