In the dead of night, I stood alone in a strange space—a forest as black as ink. Clouds swallowed the sky, blocking every speck of light. I could feel the bone-chilling cold. For some reason, I was barefoot. People say your feet measure the world's temperature: the rough ground and freezing air numbed my skin, pain flickering across every step.
I slipped and tumbled into the thicket before me.
Then… from a distance, the clang of a broken gong rang out, stuttering, interspersed with the low, somber beat of an underworld drum.
I looked up and saw—far ahead, a red palanquin was moving toward me. My heart leapt; I thought it was my savior. I was about to run toward it... when—
Pause.
My heart dropped.
Those carrying the bride's procession hovered—feet never touching the ground. Their faces were deathly pale, their sclera drained of life. They glided toward me, soulless.
Who still had weddings like this? And in a forest, in the deadest hour of night? My mind screamed: this was a ghost wedding—a "minghun," the wedding between the dead and living that folklore whispers of.
Fear tightened my chest, my breath shallow. I crept away silently, heart pounding.
---
"Lead the bride to the underworld bridge…
Transfer her soul to cross the river of the dead…
Though the bride may not consent…
She must step onto the palanquin."
---
The man in the four-cornered hat in front of the palanquin began chanting, then abruptly fell silent.
Deadly stillness, a silence that made hair stand on end. Cold sweat drenched my back, electricity-like chills running down my spine. Tears slid down, icy and unstoppable.
Shaking, I slowly turned my head.
The bridal procession paused. Their blank eyes fixed on me, as though they'd caught prey attempting to escape.
I froze, heart like a taut string. I clamped my hand over my mouth to prevent any scream and prayed silently.
After what felt like eternity without movement, I dared to look again...
---
Thankfully, no more horrors awaited. The procession had drifted far away. Seizing my chance, I bolted in the opposite direction, fear fueling every stride.
I ran until a creaky old wooden house appeared ahead—made of dark, glossy camphor wood, its straw roof rotted, walls blistered from age. The door sat unlocked, adorned with a once-red cloth now faded and sticky—like stained with old blood.
The place seemed simple, crude—but strangely comforting. I stepped inside.
My bare feet sank into the warped floorboard, rotten from worms. Sharp, splintered wood pressed cold and rough against my soles as the boards groaned beneath me.
To the right stood a wedding altar draped in coarse black cloth—it wasn't velvet, but a scratchy fabric that pricked my skin like tiny needles.
On it, two red candles stood, each carved with names in ancient characters—either Chữ Hán or Chữ Nôm—etched deep into the wax, surrounded by dark blood stains. Their flames sputtered, flickering, crackling like burning bones.
A cracked blue-glazed incense jar held seven incense sticks, none burned—they dripped black resin onto the altar, leaving scorched finger-shaped prints.
There was a wedding photo printed on silk. I reached out, then recoiled instantly.
Because—
The person's skin in the photo wasn't printed ink—it was real human flesh: coarse, rough, lifeless as if freshly peeled from a corpse.
---
In the center of the room stood a towering antique mirror—its cracked ebony frame carved with dragon-phoenix motifs, now rotted in spots. It smelled of damp earth, as if it had once been buried with someone.
The mirror's surface reflected nothing clearly—my silhouette blurred and distorted, unrecognizable.
Then the reflection shifted into a pale young man clad in blood-red wedding robes.
He stood motionless.
Then his lips parted—blue-gray, waxy thin. A cruel half-smile curling as he looked up at me.
His eyes lifeless, pupils drained white—I couldn't see his face clearly.
In a blink, I found myself seated in a bridal palanquin. Before me stood the man from the mirror.
He stared at me, empty and unmoving.
Then—a low, gentle voice drifted, as if from the underworld:
---
"An An…"
"I've waited for you… Until this body rots. Until I can marry you…"
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear.
---
"Are you afraid… if tonight, your groom holds you… but his body no longer holds warmth?"
His voice was soft, intimate—but a chill raced through my spine.
Suddenly, I found myself lying on a bed. The room painted in shades of blood-red and darkness. I wore the same dark-red wedding attire.
Beside me, a strange pair of eyes stared—his pale, chilling face pressed painfully close, making my heartbeat nearly stop.
Before I could process it, his skin split. Dark, decaying flesh flaked off his once handsome face. Eye sockets hollowing, red liquid leaking from the whites of his eyes. His nose collapsing; lips cracked. His entire body rapidly decomposed—yet he held me, pieces falling away in layers.
---
I thrashed, clawed, screamed—but he held me tighter than steel shackles. Even as his flesh rotted, his limbs coiled around me—unyielding, unwavering.
"Don't run… don't leave me… I'm cold…"
His voice trembled through me as decaying flesh slid under my fingers.
His rotten mouth—blackened, gaping, full of exposed gums and teeth—tenderly pressed against mine. I turned away, weak and disgusted. But that decaying head followed, ghostly obedient. His breath reeked of rot and death—sickening.
I screamed again. No sound came.
His oozing, foul-lipped mouth inched closer to mine, whispering softly as though from the grave:
"One kiss… stay with me forever."