Li Ke's Personal Account
Two years later, the nightmare of Li Jia'ao still occasionally haunts my dreams, and when I wake up, the coldness clings to my bones until morning.
My father's scarred face always appears at the end of the dream, his lips silently moving, desperately trying to say something but unable to utter a single word.
He entrusted me to my master, and I became my master's shadow, a silent little tail.
Dropping out of school?
That was inevitable. The wind of 1966 (the start of the Cultural Revolution) howled sharper than the cries of beasts in the mountains, and the county was thrown into chaos by the rebels.
As a "feudal little tail," I couldn't even step into a proper school.
The books were full of "struggle sessions," "model operas," and "promoting production through revolution" – political battles that felt all too close. Even peace seemed like a luxury.
My master and I had no choice but to leave the scene and retreat to the countryside.
We made a living solving strange matters that lingered in the shadowy corners beyond the government's reach.
When villagers encountered "supernatural problems" that couldn't be resolved through official means, they would stop the traveling peddler, the last old woman in the village, and eventually learn about an old yin-yang master and his quiet, slightly gloomy apprentice.
We helped people with "house illnesses," checked for evil spirits, and sometimes relocated graves of those who had died in an unfair manner.
The rule was set by my master: we did not accept money but only the coarse rice, salt, and mountain herbs necessary for survival, and occasionally a bit of cinnabar or realgar.
Once the work was done, we would quietly leave before dawn or under the cover of nightfall. No one asked where we came from or where we were going. In this land, some secrets are better left untold.
On cold nights in dilapidated temples, when we could only huddle together, my master would, by the faint glow of fireflies, fiddle with his worn copper pipe, and the flickering light would cast shadows on his weary eyes. "The Cultural Revolution has come," he would murmur quietly.
"The road ahead will be difficult. Learn more characters, speak less." Then, a long silence would follow, lasting until the fire completely died out, leaving nothing but the bone-chilling darkness.
In the summer of 1966, the wind blew into a mountain village called "Old Crow Gap."
Time: Late summer of 1966, the sky was heavy with dusk, about half an hour before the sun sank behind the western hills.
The mountains of western Sichuan are rugged and steep, with roads winding through them, making them hard to traverse. The heat of the day clung to the trees and grass, and sweat soaked through Wang Yan's faded coarse cloth jacket, sticking to his back.
Li Ke followed him, carrying a small bundle of cloth, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. His lips were pressed tight. After two years of wandering, the boy's face, once naive, had gradually hardened into calm maturity.
When his master quickened his pace, Li Ke kept up, his eyes scanning the deep valleys and wild trails on either side. The lesson from the tragedy at Li Jia'ao two years ago had taught him that danger thrives in solitude.
They had come from the remote forests at the border of Sichuan and Yunnan. The incident began half a month ago, when they stayed in a nearly isolated village and helped a family with some minor supernatural disturbances.
As they were about to leave, an old man who smoked dry tobacco lowered his voice and pointed toward the northern mountains.
"If you two gentlemen understand this, maybe... you should take a detour," he said. "There's trouble in Old Crow Gap... Cattle have been dying, and the old folks are burning paper, saying it's the 'Cat Granny' (a type of evil spirit)."
Wang Yan had thanked the man but his expression had darkened as the name "Old Crow Gap" matched a note he had once seen in his geographical records.
"Not peaceful..." Those words coiled in Wang Yan's mind like vines. He glanced at Li Ke, and a deeper sense of responsibility weighed on him.
This task was no longer just about surviving on a half-bag of rice but fulfilling the debt to his master, who had protected the last heir of the Li family, and perhaps proving that some things—like the ancient Chinese arts of divination—still existed, even as the "Four Olds" were being swept away.
Several days later, the silhouette of Old Crow Gap appeared at the end of the mountain road. A few strands of sunset colored the low grass roofs with a tragic golden-red hue.
Wang Yan quickened his pace. "We need to reach the village before sunset, find a place to rest, and gather some information," he murmured to Li Ke, his voice dry.
However, just before they reached the village, when they passed through a sparse grove of trees, Wang Yan suddenly stopped! His whole body tensed.
"Stop!" he barked sharply, and Li Ke immediately halted, his senses alert. Wind? No, it wasn't the wind.
A breeze, carrying the dampness of the forest, blew through, which was normal for the mountain valley.
But this wind carried an odd scent! It wasn't the earthy smell of the soil or the foul stench of livestock but a faintly sweet and sour smell of decay. It was as if... stagnant water mixed with the stench of dead rats. This smell seemed to rise from deep within the earth.
What unsettled Wang Yan further was the icy, ominous aura that accompanied it! Something was off… something was very wrong.
"Something's... not right," Wang Yan muttered, his brow furrowed, his voice barely audible as sweat began to bead at his temples.
He didn't make any hasty conclusions. Though in his early thirties, Wang Yan had already experienced his fair share of strange events, and his instincts made him cautious, holding a sliver of doubt. He unconsciously flexed his fingers, as if preparing for something.
The village was near. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, but it wasn't completely behind the mountains yet.
The light was fading, becoming a dim, yellow glow. The expected sounds of chickens clucking, dogs barking, and people calling out to one another were absent.
Instead, the entire Old Crow Gap village lay in a strange, eerie silence. A few people were hurriedly gathering farm tools, but their movements were unusually quick.
Two of them, carrying hoes, hurried toward a courtyard, their heads bent low, shoulders hunched, eyes focused on the ground as if afraid to look around, as if any glance might invite disaster.
"Hey, villagers!" Wang Yan called, trying to raise his voice with a friendly smile—an essential skill for travelers.
Before he could finish, those two figures seemed to have been pricked by needles. They sprang to the side with unnatural speed, disappearing behind a row of low earth walls, their movements filled with unmistakable panic.
At the other end, a middle-aged woman stood at her low courtyard gate, anxiously peering outside. When she caught sight of the two suspicious travelers, her face drained of color!
Without a word, she slammed the gate shut with a loud bang. Instantly, a sharp voice, sounding like an old woman's, cried out from inside, "Quick! Sanwa! Lock the door! Fast!" The heavy sound of the door bolt being secured followed.
In less than a minute, Wang Yan's "friendly smile" froze, replaced by a growing sense of confusion.
As soon as they stepped onto the cobbled road at the village entrance, it felt as though cold water had been poured into a hot pan!
The sounds of closing doors and windows exploded around them! Houses nearby, even farther away, all rushed to shut their doors, boards pulled down and wedged into gaps, locks slammed shut. The frantic, fearful sounds flooded the village.
Wang Yan stood still, his spine straight, his muscles twitching involuntarily. He could feel an invisible fear rising swiftly in Old Crow Gap. He could even "smell" it growing and spreading.
"Vengeful spirits... but it's more than just that," he murmured under his breath, his hand once again reaching for the bundle on his back.
The village was silent, stifling. Even the mountain cicadas, usually the loudest, were now silent. Wang Yan caught sight of a half-collapsed, overgrown barn in the distance, its interior empty. "Where are the livestock?" A thought suddenly flashed through his mind.
The daylight was quickly fading, and the shadows grew long. They needed to find shelter before complete darkness fell. Wang Yan no longer hesitated. He grabbed Li Ke's arm firmly.
"To the west side of the village! Quick!" he urged, his voice full of urgency.
"Look for a secluded, abandoned house!" He dragged Li Ke down a small, overgrown path. At the end of the path was a small hill covered with dense, eerie bamboo. The closer they got to the slope, the stronger the foul, decaying smell became.
Wang Yan soon spotted their target—a crumbling stone house half-hidden behind a patch of tall castor plants. The walls were mostly collapsed, and the remaining doorframe tilted like an open, gaping mouth. "That one!" Wang Yan quickened his pace.
But just as they were about to reach it, Wang Yan stopped once more! His eyes fixed on the ground in front of the house. Scattered across the earth were torn bits of paper—mostly ordinary yellow paper, but mixed in were a few striking, dark red fragments.
Wang Yan's pupils contracted sharply! That color... cinnabar!
Who had used this here? In the middle of summer? He crouched down slowly, carefully pinched a fragment between his fingers, and brought it to his nose. A unique, mineral-like scent mingled with a faint smell of blood.
This house... was far from just abandoned.
"Tonight, we stay here!" Wang Yan stood up and, ignoring the sharp pain in his fingertips, stared into the pitch-black darkness beyond the stone doorway. "Make sure to block that door tightly!" His voice was decisive, his right hand already pulling out a heavy, oil-paper-wrapped package from his old bundle.
He took a deep breath, the summer heat now replaced by the coldness that hung between the abandoned village and the dark forest. This night was bound to be far from a simple rest in an abandoned house.