BEIJING, China — Just last summer, residents of the upscale Yangguang Shangdong community in Chaoyang District still boasted about their address: gleaming glass towers, infinity pools, international schools nearby, and apartments priced in the tens of millions of yuan. Then everything changed in a single night.
Around 7 p.m., a young woman’s screams erupted from the 28th floor. At first, neighbors assumed it was a domestic argument. But the cries did not stop. They continued—interrupted only by crashing furniture and unfamiliar male voices—until nearly 3 a.m. Multiple residents called the police, yet when officers finally forced entry, the apartment door was locked from the inside with no signs of forced entry from the hallway.
Ambulances and police cordoned off the floor. By morning, official information remained scarce: a 34-year-old female homeowner had been rushed to the hospital with multiple severe injuries; three unidentified men had apparently left the scene before authorities arrived. No arrests were announced. No charges were detailed. The single fact that leaked and chilled the community: the victim lived alone.
Rumors exploded across Weibo and resident WeChat groups within hours. Some claimed sexual assault and domestic violence; others pointed to loan-shark revenge or organized crime; a few even whispered about a “curse” because the building supposedly stood on former graveyard land. Although authorities denied any supernatural element, fear had already taken root.
Within two weeks, 27 units hit the market. By the end of the third month, the number surged to 93—almost a quarter of the entire complex. Prices plunged 15–30% below market value, an unprecedented drop for prime Beijing real estate. Many owners accepted massive losses just to escape immediately.
“I couldn’t sleep anymore,” one former resident told a reporter via WeChat, requesting anonymity. “Every night I kept hearing those screams in my head. Even though the police said the case was closed, no one really knows what happened inside that apartment.”
Yangguang Shangdong was once the poster child of China’s new urban middle class: prime location near major parks, top-tier schools, and new metro lines. Today the hallways stand eerily quiet, the pool is shuttered, security patrols constantly because empty units attract thieves. On property forums the complex is now universally labeled “Beijing’s most cursed estate.”
Psychologists describe the phenomenon as a classic case of “fear contagion” in high-density living. When official information is slow or incomplete, people fill the void with the most terrifying explanations possible. The Chaoyang District government held community meetings, insisting the incident was merely a “personal dispute” that had been resolved—but the damage was already irreversible.
Yangguang Shangdong still stands, outwardly magnificent yet hollowed out. Dozens of apartments remain listed at ever-lower prices while potential buyers hesitate, haunted by an invisible stigma. One night of screams was powerful enough to destroy the urban dream of hundreds of families, leaving behind a ghost district in the heart of modern Beijing.
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