Our story begins with a young boy who ventures into the underworld after his death. Have you ever heard the strange tales whispered among the common folk? Have you ever admired or yearned for the mysterious abilities of those gifted individuals in these stories? This book weaves the tales of extraordinary people scattered across the land, masters of arcane arts. They are skilled in divination, exorcism, talisman crafting, and the enigmatic secrets of Qimen Dunjia. In an era that no longer acknowledges their powers, what choices will they make?
The Tale of Our Ancestors
Back in the old days in Northeast China, in our village, there lived a widow. Now, this widow was a real beauty—legs like legs, you know, the whole package. She lived with her young son, scraping by in the village by washing clothes for folks to earn a meager living. Life was tough until her boy turned seven and could help the local landlord by herding cattle. That's when things finally settled down for her.
One day, the boy was out tending the cattle on the hillside behind the village. The cows were grazing, and he dozed off under the sun. When he woke up, the cattle were gone. Losing a cow was no small matter—back then, the landlord was like an emperor in the village, and a lost cow could mean a beating, or worse. Terrified, the boy frantically searched for the missing cattle. He wandered and wandered until he stumbled into a ravine—a place the villagers avoided, whispering it was heavy with yin energy, haunted by spirits. But the boy, scared of the landlord's wrath, didn't care about ghost stories.
The ravine was overgrown with waist-high weeds. As he pushed through, he stepped on something hard. Looking down, what do you think he found? A large stone tablet, half-buried, with faint, weathered words carved into it. The widow had taught her son a few characters, so he struggled to make out the inscription:
"Echoes in the empty mountain, clanging loud; enter the deep cave, meet the King of Hell."
It sounded like a tongue-twister, so the boy didn't think much of it and kept moving forward.
A wind kicked up, howling through the valley, and the sky darkened with storm clouds. Rain was coming, and the boy didn't know what to do. He ran deeper into the ravine, hoping to find shelter.
As he hurried along, he tripped over something soft and fleshy. Guess what it was? A massive silver python, coiled on the ground, as thick as a small water barrel—about fifteen meters long by today's measure. And on its head, a small, fleshy horn protruded. The boy, a simple cattle herder, had never seen such a creature. His soul nearly fled his body in terror.
Luckily, the python seemed to be asleep, lying still as stone. Near it, he spotted a blue cloth tied to one of his cows' heads—a marker he'd used to track the herd. Shaking with fear, his legs trembling, the boy scrambled away, crawling and stumbling until he hid behind a large tree. Just then, dark clouds rolled in, and a torrential downpour began, as unpredictable as mountain weather.
The boy thought to himself, If I go back without the cow, I'm dead anyway. Why not take a chance? If I'm lucky, I might find something valuable—something that could change my life and my mother's forever.
Suddenly, the great white python stirred. It raised its head, bowed three times toward the north, and then—astonishingly—rose into the air and flew toward a distant mountain peak. The boy was stunned. Could this be the legendary dragon? he wondered. It must've eaten my cow. What now?
A bold idea struck him. If I'm doomed either way, why not try my luck? They say no dragon's lair is without treasure. The thought of returning empty-handed, facing death, pushed him forward. If he could find something valuable, he and his mother might never want for anything again.
So, he mustered his courage and headed toward the mountain peak. Halfway there, he came across a grave. In front of it stood an old woman in black, burning paper offerings and wiping tears. Who would bury someone in this desolate place? he wondered. Approaching, he asked her about the grave. She told him it was a cenotaph for her son, who had been swallowed by a great snake in that very ravine.
The old woman asked the boy why he was there. He recounted his story—the lost cow, the python, everything. After listening, she warned him, "Don't go now. Every month on the thirteenth, that snake leaves to hunt. That's when you should go to its lair to find what you seek." She added, "My son's bones might be there too. Could you retrieve them for me?"
The boy replied, "I can't wait until next month. If I don't find the cow, the landlord will kill me." The old woman reached into her clothes and pulled out a large silver ingot. Handing it to him, she said, "This should be enough to buy a new cow."
The boy had never seen so much money. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he bowed three times to the old woman and invited her to his home to repay her kindness. She didn't refuse, and they returned to the village together. The silver ingot was worth a fortune—more than enough to replace the cow, with plenty left over. The boy bought fine wine and food, and they welcomed the old woman into their home. The widow, hearing the boy's story, thanked the old woman profusely and promised her son would search the snake's lair for her son's remains.
Northeast folks are honest and repay kindness, you see. They prepared a feast, and the old woman, unable to hold her liquor, got drunk. The widow helped her to a small room to rest, and she and her son retired to the main house for the night.
In the dead of night, the widow heard a loud, guttural snoring—nothing like a human sound. Curious, she crept to the small room and peered through the paper window. What she saw made her heart stop. On the kang lay not the old woman, but a Zhang San—a wolf spirit, a monster from Northeast folklore.
The widow's blood ran cold. I've brought a demon into our home! she thought. Zhang San were known to devour people, bones and all. If she didn't act, she and her son were doomed. But how to kill it? After racking her brain, she devised a plan: boiling water.
She quietly stoked the fire, boiled a pot of water, and poured it into a large ladle. Trembling, she crept to the small room and poured the scalding water over the sleeping Zhang San's head.
"Aaah!" The creature shrieked, waking in agony. The widow fled to the main house, locking the door behind her. The boy, startled awake, asked what was wrong. Outside, the Zhang San went berserk, pounding on the door, snarling curses and threatening to eat them both.
The widow, terrified, realized the boiling water hadn't killed it. The flimsy village door wouldn't hold for long. As the boy sobbed in fear, she grabbed a pair of tailoring scissors from the kang. The door had no glass, only a small paper window. Peering through, she saw the Zhang San's head. With all her strength, she thrust the scissors through the window, stabbing the creature's head.
A sickening thud followed, then silence.
Too scared to check, the widow held her son until dawn. At first light, she opened the door. In the outer room lay a massive black wolf, dead, with the scissors buried in its left eye. Its body was already stiff.
Relieved, the widow and her son buried the creature in secret, not daring to tell anyone. But Zhang San are vengeful spirits, even in death, and their curses linger—though what that curse was, no one knew.
Later, the widow wondered, Why did the Zhang San give my son silver? If it wanted to eat us, why wait? And why send him to the snake's lair? Could there really be treasure?
Greed is human nature, and the widow was no exception. Her curiosity grew until, by the thirteenth of the month, she couldn't resist. She told her son to go to the mountain and investigate.
The boy, obedient, climbed the mountain, following the path of the strange snake. Sure enough, he found a cave. But he remembered the stone tablet's warning: "Enter the deep cave, meet the King of Hell." Hesitant, he lingered outside. Suddenly, a deafening roar echoed from the cave. He hid just as the silver python burst out, soaring northwest into the sky.
Once it was gone, the boy gathered his courage and ventured into the cave. The deeper he went, the narrower it became, until a faint light appeared. At the cave's heart stood a stone platform with a box on it. Inside the box was a book, its cover bearing bold characters: The Heavenly Book of the Three Purities.
The boy took the book and returned home.
Now, let me tell you the boy's name. His surname was Liu. The mountain was called Nianzi Mountain, later known as Snake Cave Mountain. This is the story of the Liu family's ancestors.
As for the Zhang San's curse, it fell upon Liu Shuqing's eldest son, Liu Xi. The wolf's pierced left eye became Liu Xi's yin eye—a mark of the supernatural.
Volume One, Chapter 1: Sticky Rice
My name's Cui Zuofei—yep, Zuofei as in "acting recklessly." Sounds a bit odd, doesn't it? Almost like "Cui Zuofei" could be mistaken for "Cui Waste." Honestly, I'm not thrilled about it either. But according to our family genealogy, my generation was stuck with the character "Zuo." My parents, not exactly scholars, struggled hard to come up with a name. Legend has it my dad had a stroke of genius, grabbed a dictionary, and declared, "Whatever page I flip to, the first character's his name." Just my luck, he landed on "Fei" (waste). My mom, a fiery Northeast woman, wasn't having it—who'd want their kid named "Waste"? She put her foot down, refusing to let her son's life be "wasted" like that.
So, my dad compromised. Pointing to another character on the same page, "Fei" (not), he said, "Fine, our boy's Zuofei then. May he grow up to do something extraordinary." And that's how my name was hastily decided.
What I'm about to tell you, you can take as a story. No need to take it too seriously.
I come from Longjiang, a small county near Qiqihar in Heilongjiang Province. My grandpa used to say Longjiang was once called Zhujiakan. Small town, big trouble—as the saying goes, "Small temple, big evil winds; small town, big gossip." In a place like that, you'd be surprised to hear there was a gang of "beards" living in the nearby woods. For those unfamiliar, "beards" are bandits, like the infamous Zuoshan Diao from Tracks in the Snowy Forest. There's even an old water tower in town, rebuilt from a wartime blockhouse. Times of chaos always breed the strangest tales, and many local legends come from those days. Like this one from my grandpa's youth.
He was 28 that year, and Northeast winters were brutal enough to kill. It's better now, but Grandpa said winters back then were several times colder. There's an old saying: "On the seventh and eighth of the twelfth lunar month, your chin freezes off." They used to joke you'd need a stick to tap while you pissed outside, or it'd freeze midstream. I can't relate, of course.
Around here, we don't have the tradition of eating Laba porridge on the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month. To be honest, I've never even seen what Laba porridge looks like. Instead, we eat sticky rice—yellow, glutinous, clumpy stuff that sticks to your chin like glue. If you've got a beard, good luck eating it without a mess.
Even in famine years, clever Northeast women would ration their precious grains to ensure a decent meal for festivals. My grandma was one of those women. Back then, we lived in a factory compound, five families sharing one courtyard. Grandpa worked all day, while Grandma handled chores at home. That day was Laba, and Grandma had saved up enough yellow rice for half a year. There's a saying here: back then, fine grains were so valuable they weren't even washed—you kept every bit you could for a family of mouths to feed.
She put the rice in the pot, covered it, and the cornstalks in the stove burned fiercely. Soon, the aroma of cooking rice filled the air. It was around six in the evening, and winter nights came early, plunging everything into darkness. The wind howled outside, no moon in sight, whipping up snow that stung like knives on your face. Grandma sat on a small stool, waiting for Grandpa to return, and dozed off. She later said she had a vivid dream of a weasel-like creature darting around her, impossible to shoo away. Just as she got mad enough to throw a rock at it, a loud knock woke her.
It was Old Zhai's wife from across the courtyard, banging on the door and shouting, "Little Cui's wife, come quick! We caught a wall-burrower!"
A "wall-burrower" was a thief's trick back then. The courtyard walls were tall but flimsy mud, risky to climb without collapsing. So, some clever thieves dug out dog holes—small openings left in the walls for dogs to come and go, since most families let their mutts roam for food. These thieves would widen the holes at night, slip in to steal grain, or even poison the dogs to eat them later.
This particular thief was dumb enough to try it in broad daylight and got caught red-handed by Old Zhai. Probably starving, desperate. Grandma stepped outside and saw the whole courtyard gathered, Old Zhai pinning the thief to the ground with his foot. The thief, head raised, stared at the crowd with terrified eyes.
Grandma recalled he wasn't local—nobody recognized him. About 40, with a sharp, rat-like face, a scruffy mustache, and a tattered cotton jacket. His shifty eyes darted around nervously.
Just then, Grandpa came home. Seeing the thief, he sighed, thinking, It's tough to survive in times like these, but everyone's got their path. You got caught, you pay the price.
Life was harsh, especially in an era when lives were worth less than grass. The village was starving, and letting an outsider thief go would only invite more trouble. It's not that people were cruel—it was survival. If they didn't deal with him, he'd keep preying on the area. Hard for us to understand now, but that was the reality then.
Grandpa told Grandma to scoop a bowl of sticky rice from the pot and fetch a ladle of cold water. The steaming rice gave off an irresistible aroma, and the thief perked up, sniffing hungrily, his small eyes blinking rapidly.
The courtyard folks tied him up tight. Holding the bowl, Grandpa said, "It's not that we don't want to give you a chance, but we're all struggling to survive. Eat this, and be on your way. May you find a better life in the next one."
He dipped a chunk of sticky rice in cold water and fed it to the thief, who wolfed it down greedily, even grinning at Grandpa, oblivious to his fate.
Now, you might wonder why they fed him. Sticky rice, fresh from the pot, is scalding hot—near boiling. Dipped in cold water, the outside cools, but the inside stays burning. Swallowed whole, it scorches your stomach half-cooked. By the time the bowl was nearly empty, the women, including Grandma, went inside to avoid the gruesome scene. As Grandma sat on the kang, she heard the thief's agonizing screams. They went on for a while before stopping. Her heart raced, picturing his mouth gaping like a steaming kettle, vapor rising from his stomach through his throat.
An hour later, Grandpa returned, brushing snow off his clothes. He set the table and called for dinner. Grandma set out bowls, pickles, and a warmed bottle of liquor, but her mind was still on the thief. Grandpa, noticing her unease, put down his chopsticks. "Look at you, scared stiff over a lousy drifter."
Grandma sighed, staring at the snow outside. "No matter what, we shouldn't have killed him. It's a life."
Grandpa downed a shot and said, "You think I wanted to? That drifter was likely a scout for the bandits. He's not from our town, and the nearest one's been deserted. Where'd he come from if not the bandits? If we don't deal with him now and he reports back that we've got sticky rice, they'll raid us. How'll we survive the year?"
The mention of bandits sent a chill through Grandma. Before liberation, Northeast bandits were a local menace, robbing landlords or anyone with something to take. In desperate times, they didn't care if you were rich or poor—they'd take your grain, your livestock, everything. Folks were too scared to fight back. Bandits, often poor themselves before turning to crime, usually left just enough food to keep you alive. But with the lean months of spring coming, that wasn't enough. Many fled as refugees because of them.
Bandits always sent scouts to check which households had "goods" before raiding. If you cooperated, you might survive. Resist, and they'd kill you without a second thought, dumping your body in the mountains for wolves and rats. No one would find you.
Volume One, Chapter 2: Mourning
As the saying goes, "The one with the weapon holds the power." In those days, life was cheap—something hard for us to grasp now.
Grandma was terrified, her hands trembling as she clutched her chopsticks. "What if the bandits find out we killed their scout? Will we even survive?"
Grandpa, face flushed from liquor, tossed his jacket onto the kang. "Don't worry. Me, Old Zhai, and Four-Corners dumped him in the back mountain's snowfield. By morning, wolves or wild dogs will have cleaned him up. If the bandits notice, they'll think he got eaten before even making it down the mountain. No proof, no problem. Tomorrow, we hide the grain. Everything'll be fine. Get me another bowl."
Grandpa's calm reassured Grandma, but she couldn't enjoy the rare fine meal. Exhausted, Grandpa slept soundly, but Grandma lay awake, haunted by thoughts of bandits. She didn't drift off until past ten.
What happened next was beyond anything she could've imagined.
In the middle of the night, Grandma woke to use the outhouse. Half-asleep, she squatted and heard faint crying, like a crowd wailing, almost theatrical. She snapped awake. Who was crying in the courtyard at this hour? As she pulled up her pants to peek out the window, someone tapped her shoulder. Too startled to scream, she turned and saw an old woman, dressed in mourning white, kneeling behind her. Her face was sharp and ghostly pale, lips blood-red. Clutching Grandma's pants, she wailed, "My poor grandson! Have you seen my grandson?"
Grandma screamed, broke free, and ran to shake Grandpa awake. He grumbled, "What's with the yelling? Someone die?" She told him what she saw. Annoyed, he grabbed a poker from the kang and stormed to the outhouse, lantern in hand. But it was empty. "You sick or something? Dreaming nonsense!" he snapped. Seeing her genuinely shaken, he softened. "It was just a dream. Go back to sleep."
Before she could respond, the eerie wailing started again. Grandpa's face paled—he heard it too. They exchanged a glance, saying nothing. Mustering courage, Grandpa peered out the window and froze. In the dark courtyard, over twenty figures in white mourning clothes and pointed hats knelt, crying and kowtowing toward the back mountain. The sight of a midnight funeral procession was chilling.
Both were terrified. Ghost stories were just folktales, something to spook kids or pass the time. But seeing this, they were thrown into panic. Grandpa quickly pulled Grandma inside, drew the curtains, and lit a candle meant for New Year's. The faint light offered some comfort. Grandma, sobbing quietly, clung to the quilt. Grandpa, gripping the poker, whispered, "We'll check at dawn."
The crying stopped around four or five in the morning. Grandpa peeked out and saw the courtyard empty, the gate locked tight—no sign of intruders. But the family dog lay dead, its guts torn out, blood frozen in the snow.
He told Grandma, "Stay home today. I'm going to Nianzishan."
Trembling, she asked, "Did we mess with something?"
Grandpa didn't answer. At dawn, he reheated the leftover sticky rice, ate quickly with Grandma, and left with a sack of sorghum and a jug of home-brewed liquor.
"Messing with something" is Northeast slang for crossing paths with spirits—basically, seeing a ghost. Science might call it hallucinations triggered by strange events, but back then, people called it "colliding with evil." The world's full of mysteries, and while many tales are hearsay with vague endings, this one shaped my life in ways I'll explain later.
Grandma, still scared, asked Old Zhai's wife and Four-Corners' wife if they'd heard anything the previous night. Both said no. When Grandma recounted the story, the women freaked out—one called it ghosts, another spirits. They asked where Grandpa went. "To Nianzishan," Grandma said, "to get help."
Nianzishan, northwest of Qiqihar in the Daxinganling foothills, is known for the legend of Snake Cave Mountain. They say in the Guangxu era, a massive snake emerged from a cave, its head drinking from the Yalu River while its tail stayed inside. When Russians built the railway, the snake blocked the tracks, so they shelled it. Angered, it killed several people with flung stones before retreating, never seen again. Locals worshipped it as a deity.
At the foot of Nianzishan lived Liu Shuqing, known as Mr. Liu. He ran the only coffin shop for miles, a family business tied to a legend of an ancestor finding a heavenly book in the snake cave. The Lius were skilled in feng shui, exorcisms, and picking dates for weddings or funerals. Mr. Liu was especially renowned, even feared by bandits, and he helped the poor for free. His only flaw? A stubborn streak and a love for liquor. He drank from morning to night, even carrying a flask while working. Some said he could "cross to the underworld" when drunk, earning him the nickname "Drunkard Liu"—not an insult, but a nod to his ability to deal with spirits.
Grandpa went to Nianzishan to fetch Mr. Liu, who'd helped with my great-grandpa's burial years before. The two bonded over drinks, becoming like brothers, and kept in touch during holidays.
Volume One, Chapter 3: Mr. Liu
Grandpa told Liu's wife everything. Having lived with Drunkard Liu, she wasn't fazed by such tales. Grandpa sighed, "This is really weird. Big Brother's still passed out. I'm worried about tonight…"
Liu's wife, grasping the gravity, said, "I've got an idea! Don't worry, I've got this. That drunkard's out cold—take him to Zhujiakan. Problem solved."
Grandpa hesitated. "No way, it's freezing! He'll catch his death!"
She laughed, pulling out Liu's coat. "He's fine. How many times has he passed out outside after drinking? He won't freeze." Still, she grabbed extra clothes and a quilt, showing her kindness. Grandpa, overwhelmed with gratitude, knelt to thank her. She pulled him up, scolding, "What're you doing? Don't make me mad, Little Cui."
In the back room, Liu was snoring like a bear. His wife joked, "Some fortune-teller, sleeping like a dead pig while his brother's in trouble." They dressed him, wrapped him in layers, and laid him on the quilt-covered donkey cart. She packed a box of Liu's ghost-hunting tools, secretly adding back the rice and liquor Grandpa brought, knowing his family wasn't well-off. Years later, Grandpa still spoke of her kindness, urging me to be like them.
Back home, Grandma waited anxiously as night fell, terrified the spirits would return. Old folks said when you encounter "unclean things," stay home—your luck's low, and wandering risks attracting more trouble. Dozing off, she dreamt of the white-clad old woman again, sitting on the kang, sneering, "You think you can call for help? I'm not scared. My grandson's death must be avenged." Then she vanished out the window.
Grandma woke in a cold sweat. Just then, Grandpa's shout came from outside: "Wife, help!" Relieved, she ran out, finding Grandpa and the still-drunk Liu. They carried Liu to the kang, and Grandma returned the cart to Old Bao. On her way back, she felt someone following her but saw nothing—a creepy feeling we've all had at some point.
Back home, she watched Grandpa tuck Liu in, marveling at how he slept so soundly in the icy cart, face rosy from drink. She told Grandpa about her dream. He frowned. "Her grandson… could it be that drifter? What do we do?" They were at a loss, but having Liu there eased their fears.
Grandpa had Grandma fetch two pounds of flour meant for New Year's to make steamed rolls for Liu. They also grabbed pickled cabbage and frozen meat, preparing dinner. Liu didn't stir. Starving since morning, they reheated sorghum rice and ate. As night fell, their nerves returned, dreading another visit from the spirits.
Sure enough, around one or two a.m., the wailing resumed. Grandpa and Grandma felt a strange pressure, their minds chaotic, almost like they wanted to stab themselves to relieve it. As Grandma reached for scissors, Liu rolled over in his sleep, slurring loudly, "Quit your damn noise! Can't you see I'm sleeping? Scram!"
The cry snapped them out of it, and the wailing stopped. Grandma dropped the scissors, shaken. Still half-asleep, Liu mumbled, "Goddamn annoying. Stick this upside-down on the north window. Let's see it wail then. I'll deal with it tomorrow." He tossed out a crumpled paper—a New Year's "Fu" (fortune) character. Grandpa obeyed, pasting it upside-down on the north window. The night passed quietly.
Why the "Fu" on the north window? I puzzled over this as a kid. Later, I found in Menglinag Lu that pasting "Fu" (meaning "happiness" now, but "luck" or "fortune" then) was a tradition to ward off evil, as it sounds like "subdue." It's just my guess—many old folk practices are lost now.
At dawn, Liu woke. Grandma brought water and food. He bowed to Grandpa, chuckling, "Sorry you had to see me like that, brother." Grandpa waved it off, embarrassed for dragging him over unconscious.
Liu laughed, sitting on the kang. "No worries. My wife, Fenlian, insisted. I married her for her good heart. Don't blame me—I was too drunk to wake up."
Dinner was ready: steamed rolls, pickled cabbage stewed with pork, and warmed sorghum liquor. As Grandma set the table, Liu explained his drunken state. He'd been picking a grave site, drank half a jin of liquor, and on his way home, ran into Old Wang, a friend who'd died two years prior. Unfazed, Liu, being in the trade, asked why Wang was back. Wang said he'd done good deeds in life, becoming a ghost deputy in the underworld, assisting soul-reapers. That day, he'd taken leave to visit his son and grandson.
Those in the "underworld trade" often face the "five disadvantages and three deficiencies"—widowhood, loneliness, disability, poverty, short life, or lack of power. Liu knew his was a short life but not when. Only masters of the Three Pure Books could predict such fates, and Liu only knew basic divination and charms. Curious, he wanted to know his lifespan from Wang.
Volume One, Chapter 4: Curse Across Three Generations
Liu invited Wang for drinks, burning paper money and offerings for the underworld officials to extend Wang's stay. Money talks, even in the afterlife, and Liu's trade gave him leverage. They drank with willow-soaked liquor—willow being tied to ghosts. After a few rounds, Wang, tipsy, revealed Liu had two years left due to revealing too many heavenly secrets. But if Liu quit the trade, he could live five years total.
Ecstatic, Liu thanked Wang, but the yin-heavy liquor hit hard. He was drunk for nearly two days, barely able to move. His wife's kindness saved the day, sending him to help Grandpa. Last night, Liu had used all his strength to hand over the "Fu" charm.
Grandpa was torn—grateful for Liu's help but heartbroken at his short lifespan. Liu waved it off. "It's fate, brother. After we eat, I'll fix this mess."
Grandpa protested, "How can I let you do something that'll shorten your life?"
Liu downed a cup, smiling. "Fate's set, but I've lived upright, never done wrong. This is my burden. If I don't help you, my last five years would be spent in guilt."
Grandpa and Grandma, moved to tears, could only keep serving him food and drink. After eating, Liu had Grandpa take him to where they'd dumped the thief's body, in a place called "One Slash" mountain—so named after an earthquake split it in half. Snow reached their knees, making the trek tough. At the site, Grandpa was stunned: two days, and no wolves or dogs had touched the body?
Liu signaled calm and cleared snow around the corpse. He noticed something odd—the belly was flat, not bloated as it should be from scalding. Pulling back the clothes, his face darkened. The corpse's stomach was hollowed out, a foot-long weasel curled inside, its head clamped onto the esophagus—a grotesque sight.
Grandpa froze, sweat beading down his back. Liu calculated quickly and said, "This is big trouble."
Panicked, Grandpa asked what was wrong. Liu explained, "In chaotic times, monsters arise. This weasel's a mountain spirit, too weak to fully transform like a fox, which needs a human skull to become human. Instead, it burrows into a corpse's belly to control it. This thief was likely a bandit, killed and used as a puppet. Probably came down the mountain hungry due to the snow. You killed it, and weasels are vengeful. That mourning you saw was the weasel's doing. If you hadn't called me, anyone who sees a weasel's funeral dies within three days."
Grandpa, terrified but trusting Liu, pleaded, "Big Brother, what do we do?"
Liu sighed, hesitating, then said, "Burn it first. We'll talk back home."
They pulled the weasel out, burned it with pine branches, and buried the corpse in snow. Liu promised to find it a proper grave later—a good deed. By noon, they returned home.
Grandma had lunch ready. As they ate, Liu sighed, "This is tough. Weasels are vicious, killing even what they can't eat. Once they gain power, their revenge spans three generations. If it can't get you, it'll target your kids, then grandkids, until the fourth generation or the debt's paid. The mountain's full of them—you can't wipe them out."
Grandma and Grandpa's hearts sank, unable to eat. They looked to Liu for a solution. After a long pause, he slapped his thigh. "There's one way, but it's a bandage, not a cure."
Grandpa, desperate, asked what it was. Liu explained, "There were two options. First, I could perform a ritual every year on the weasel's death anniversary for ten years to end the grudge. But with only five years left, I can't guarantee your safety after I'm gone. So, the second option: I'll negotiate with it tonight and set up yearly offerings. I'll give you a charm—your youngest must wear it, never getting it wet except for bathing. It'll protect you until your youngest grandchild turns twenty, ending the grudge. The weasel will become your family's guardian spirit, ensuring prosperity."
Relieved, Grandpa and Grandma thanked Liu profusely and took the charm. That night, Liu went out alone with incense, candles, and paper, barring them from following. Two hours later, he returned, exhausted, saying, "It's done."
He had Grandpa get a wooden board and Grandma prepare paste. Liu revealed a red paper inscribed with "The Shrine of Third Granny Weasel." He pasted it on the board, lit incense, and instructed them to build a proper shrine and offer incense on holidays.
They thanked him again, and the next day, after another feast, Grandpa borrowed the donkey cart to take Liu back to Nianzishan. Following Liu's instructions, they maintained the offerings, and peace prevailed.
You might wonder if ghosts and spirits are real. As the saying goes, "Believe, and they exist; don't, and they don't." Ancient tales like Records of the Supernatural, What the Master Would Not Discuss, or Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio used such stories to teach morals. I'm just sharing what I've experienced—take it as entertainment, no need to overthink.
Some ask why such phenomena are rare now. I once heard elders in a Nianzishan village say these things were common before. But after liberation, the push for science and "smashing the four olds" changed things. Mao's call to "destroy all monsters and demons" led Red Guards to demolish temples, statues, and anything tied to superstition. With society focused on progress and faith in the leader, there was no room for ghosts or spirits—they simply lost their place.
Volume One, Chapter 5: Little White Grave
Years later, Grandma had six kids, my dad the youngest. The charm was sewn into a pouch and hung around his neck at birth. Decades later, it passed to me. As a kid, I was a troublemaker and didn't care much for it at five or six. Luckily, the pouch and red string kept it safe. I treasured it, but once, craving candy, I traded it to Fat Qu from next door for a bag of Pop Rocks. Dad found out, gave me a beating, and paid five yuan to get it back, tying it back on my neck with a warning: lose it again, and I'm dead.
I wanted to say he overpaid—Pop Rocks were only fifty cents—but his glare shut me up. Years passed, Grandpa died when I was in junior high, and I muddled through to high school. At seventeen, in my second year, I was a lousy student, doodling in textbooks. Dad, fed up, sent me to a vocational high school's art class. It was full of kids like me, hating school, aiming for a diploma or, if lucky, a second-rate college.
I'd fantasized about high school girls in short summer skirts—typical teenage dreams of a romantic, reckless three years. But reality disappointed. Sure, there were pretty girls, but they were always someone else's. By my second year, I realized a plain guy like me—average looks, no money—would be lucky to find an average girl for a first love. Even lowering my standards, I stayed single.
Our art class had eleven students, only two guys: me and Yang Xu, nicknamed "Yin-Yang" for his effeminate gestures. With a nine-to-two girl-to-guy ratio, I still struck out. My teachers, Old Jia (sketching) and Old Zhang (color), were cool, though. Both nearing ninety combined, they drank heavily and let us smoke in class. Once, during a sketching lesson, the principal caught Old Jia reading a pilfered copy of The Plum in the Golden Vase. Called to the hallway, drunk Jia slapped the principal twice, saying, "I can't stand your fake crap!" He stormed back, grabbed a stool to chase him, but we held him back, warning he'd lose his job. Sober, Jia apologized, and the principal, spooked, let it slide. Jia offered to buy him drinks, but the principal declined, probably scared of another beating. He never visited our studio again, leaving us to our freedom.
We admired our teachers' wild spirits. No girlfriend, but life was carefree.
One summer, Jia and Zhang announced we'd go sketching outdoors. Art students know summer and fall are perfect for it, but it's really an excuse to goof off—stealing watermelons in summer, roasting corn in fall. The girls squealed with excitement. Zhang sent me and Yang Xu to empty our art bags and buy liquor, peanuts, sausages, and spices for a picnic. We stuffed the bags, grabbed bikes, and joined the group heading to a scenic spot by the Eight Forks River, a tributary of the Yalu River.
The river's clear, and people still release turtles there for merit, though downstream fishermen net them to resell—a cynical cycle. Locals call it "Little White Grave." In the Republic era, during a drought, the river nearly dried up. One August day, a thunderclap sounded, and a white dragon fell from the sky, barely alive. A mysterious man in a yellow hat said it was a water god, punished by heaven. He told villagers to cover it with wet straw mats, but its body kept growing. He instructed them to cover both ends, and it worked. After it died, they gave it a water burial in the river. Clouds gathered, rain poured, and the river rose, saving the crops. The man vanished, rumored to be an immortal. Since then, the river's been called "Little White Grave."
Riding bikes, the air was fresh, wildflowers blooming, their scent mixing with the earth. Yin-Yang chatted up the girls, while Jia and Zhang planned a massage outing. I daydreamed about a girlfriend riding behind me, arms around my waist. Instead, I had a heavy art bag.
At the river by noon, Jia and Zhang said, "Girls, set up and sketch if you want, or do whatever—just don't swim or wander far. Boys, prep lunch."
Yang Xu and I grumbled—always the grunts in this class. I jokingly told Zhang, "Teacher, in this beautiful nature, I'm inspired to paint! Can't you feel my passion for art?"
Jia kicked my butt. "Paint, my ass! I know you. Go catch frogs!"
Defeated, we headed to a stream. Jia meant edible frogs, not toads—tender, perfect with liquor. In June and July, they're plentiful. The trick: wade in, stir the water to spook them, wait for them to settle, then grab fast. Toss them hard on the shore to kill them.
Volume One, Chapter 6: Death-Calling Fish
Yang Xu and I caught about thirty or forty frogs in half an hour—plenty. Not wanting to be Jia and Zhang's slaves, we lingered, chatting. Yang Xu said, "Hey, you know Yang Lei from our class split with that guy from Class One?"
Splashing water, I teased, "Yin Bro, you're well-informed! Got a crush on her? Stalking her daily?"
He blushed, stammering, "Who's stalking? If I were, I'd pick someone prettier!"
Grinning, I said, "I don't believe you."
He swore, "If I like her, you can splash me!"
Never heard that one before. I threw water at his head. He fought back, but I dodged easily. Laughing at his clumsiness, disaster struck. As the saying goes, "Too much joy brings sorrow." I slipped on something, fell into the water, and choked. Standing, I cursed, "What the hell was that?" A squashed frog lay at my feet. Yang Xu laughed, "Karma!"
Miserable, I lost the mood to catch more. We bagged the dead frogs and returned. The girls, snacking by a fire, mocked our soaked clothes: "You two take a mandarin duck bath?" I regretted not spitting on the frogs. Jia and Zhang, back from a pee break, laughed too. Shivering, I asked Yang Xu if he was cold. "Nah, you're cold 'cause you're weak," he said. I cursed him out.
Zhang seasoned the frogs, skewered them with wire, and grilled them with sausages. The aroma drove us wild with hunger. Jia pulled out beer and liquor, saying, "Dig in!" The girls, usually prim, went feral after a few drinks, gobbling frogs whole, cursing, "Damn, that's hot!" I was impressed.
Tipsy, I felt the urge to pee—beer always hit my bladder hard. I wandered off, ignoring the girls' calls for more frogs. Muttering, Catch your own damn frogs, I found a secluded puddle by the river. After peeing, I shivered and spotted something—a huge carp, over a meter long, trapped in the shallow water. With the river low, it must've been stuck. Drunk, I thought, If I grab this, I'll say I caught it in the river. The girls'll be floored, and my rep as a badass will spread. Girls will flock to me. Drunken nonsense, but I jumped in.
The cold water sobered me instantly. The shallow puddle was deep—over my head. Choking, I dog-paddled up, realizing I was in the river, not a puddle. I yelled, "Help!" Something grabbed my foot, pulling me under. I saw Yang Xu and Jia running, but it was too late. The force was immense, dragging me down as icy water filled my throat. My vision blurred. On the shore, a white-clad old woman in a pointed hat grinned wickedly. Then, darkness.
Folktales say water ghosts lure victims by posing as big fish in shallow water. If your energy's low or you're in a bad-luck year, you're fooled. What looks shallow is deep, and you're done for.
I woke to a gray sky, dry but disoriented. Where was I? No stores, silent paper-like cars, and people in black clothes walked silently in one direction. I clapped my hands—sound was fine, so it wasn't my ears. Was I saved by Yang Xu? Shouldn't I be in a hospital? Was this underwater? A dragon palace? No water. Did I… traverse?
At seventeen, I was hooked on web novels like I Am a Great Mage, daydreaming in class. I half-believed I'd time-traveled, but the silence scared me. I asked the black-clad people questions, but they ignored me or glanced briefly. Then it hit me—their clothes were familiar. I'd seen them in a funeral shop near school. Lifclothes!
My soul seemed to leave my body. Waking in a strange place with everyone in burial clothes? Most would think they're dead. I refused to believe it, clinging to the idea of time travel over death. Back then, I'd rather believe in superheroes or cartoon characters than ghosts.