Ma Laosan's wife died under eerie and gruesome circumstances.
According to Ma Laosan, she and the child had gone to bed as usual that night. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Sometime past midnight, he heard faint noises in the courtyard—but after a long, back-breaking day of fieldwork, he was too exhausted to get up. Eyes half-shut, he thought he heard someone calling his wife's name.
Or maybe he was dreaming. He couldn't say for sure.
Moments later, his wife suddenly sat up in bed.
Still half-asleep, Ma Laosan mumbled, "Where are you going?"
She didn't answer.
He figured she was headed to the outhouse and dozed off again. But by morning, she was gone. Not in bed, not in the house—nowhere.
Panic rising, he called on the neighbors. They searched the village, every street and alley, but she was nowhere to be found. Eventually, the entire village joined the search.
They found her corpse in the woods behind the village.
No one dared approach.
It was the most horrific death the villagers had ever seen. Her body was covered in ragged bite marks—deep, bloody gashes as if torn apart by animals. One leg had been gnawed clean to the bone.
But what terrified everyone the most… was her face.
Her eyes were wide open.And at the corner of her mouth curled a faint, eerie smile.
How could someone die in such agony—and still smile?
Ma Laosan collapsed in tears. The villagers helped gather her remains and brought her home.
According to Jiushan Village tradition, a corpse must remain in the house for three days before burial.
During those days, villagers came to pay their respects.
Everyone knew each other. My father also brought offerings and paper money to burn for the deceased.
But something strange happened.
When he threw the yellow spirit money into the ritual brazier, it wouldn't catch fire. Other people's offerings burned clean within minutes, leaving only ash. But my father's paper remained untouched by flame. Even after he poured high-proof liquor over it, only half of it caught fire—then it sputtered and went out.
Then came a gust of strange wind.
It blew the ash and soot out of the brazier, covering my father from head to toe in a fine layer of gray.
Frustrated, he lit three sticks of incense instead.
They had just begun to burn when two of them snapped in the middle—only the middle one remained whole.
A bad omen. The villagers call it "three long, two short." It means the dead harbors resentment toward the living.
The incense was rejected. The spirit money was refused.
My father, pale and shaken, rushed home and told my grandfather everything.
Grandpa sighed deeply. He knew this wasn't ordinary.
Anyone with a bit of sense could see—Ma Laosan's wife's death had something to do with me.
She had beaten me days earlier for sharing my blood with her son.Now she was dead.The timing was no coincidence.
Wu Banshen, the fortune-teller who named me, once said I'd face a deadly trial every three years: either I die, or someone else does.
This was one of them.
And the wounds on her body? They looked exactly like those made by yellow weasels and foxes.
Everyone in the village knew what happened the day I was born. Hundreds of yellow weasels and foxes had gathered outside our home, bowing toward our door. Ever since then, wild game appeared at our doorstep every morning—offerings from the spirits.
Whispers began to spread.
People said I had caused Ma Laosan's wife's death.
At first, it was just rumors.
Then came the second night.
Everyone in my family had the same nightmare—except me.
In the dream, Ma Laosan's wife came to our house. She stood on one foot, the other stripped down to bone. Her lips twisted in a cruel smile.
She said I had killed her.Said I had to die in her place.Said if my family didn't kill me, the whole Wu family would be buried with her.
That same night, Ma Laosan had a dream too.
He saw his wife sobbing before him, crying that I had taken her life.She begged him to avenge her, to kill me—only then could she rest in peace.
The next morning, Ma Laosan came to our house, rage burning in his eyes.He was holding a hatchet.
My parents panicked. They didn't know what to do.
Then my grandfather stepped forward. He pulled me out from behind him and looked Ma Laosan straight in the eyes.
"If you truly believe this child killed your wife," Grandpa said coldly, "then do it. Kill him right here, and let him pay the debt with his life. If you have the guts—go ahead."
Ma Laosan's grip tightened on the hatchet... then loosened.
He turned and left, defeated. He didn't have the courage to spill a child's blood. Even if he did, he'd end up executed for murder.
Three days passed.
Time for the burial.
That morning, the sky was overcast. Gray. Still.
A group of young men lifted the coffin. But they had barely reached the front gate when one of the ropes snapped.
The coffin crashed to the ground with a heavy thud.
A terrible omen.
In Jiushan, there's an old belief: once a coffin leaves the house, it must never touch the ground until it reaches the grave. Dropping it meant disaster.
Ma Laosan collapsed over the coffin, wailing.
"Dear wife," he sobbed, "I know your death was cruel. I know you're not at peace. But if you're angry, go find the one who wronged you. Don't torment your own family... please…"
Just then, a strange rustling sound echoed behind him.
People turned—and froze.
Hundreds of yellow weasels and foxes had appeared, just like the day I was born.
Leading them was a massive weasel, unusually large, with a streak of white fur running down its spine.
The giant weasel marched to the coffin.
It circled the box three times.
Then it lifted a paw and thumped the lid three times.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
And just like that, it turned and vanished into the woods—along with the entire swarm.
Once they were gone, the young men tried lifting the coffin again.
This time, it rose with ease.
After the spirit beasts gave their signal, the dead could finally be laid to rest.
But peace didn't last.
The very next day, someone discovered the grave had been dug open.The coffin was empty.The corpse… had vanished.