The pale shadow vanished behind the second-floor window, leaving only endless darkness and a sudden, tightening chill in Chen Hui's heart. Raindrops dripped from his hair, tracing icy paths down his neck, but he barely felt them, his entire attention focused on that silent window.
An illusion? A hallucination born from the fatigue of the long drive, the sudden grief of losing his father, and the oppressive atmosphere of this old house?
He stared fixedly at the window, not blinking. Minutes passed. Aside from the trails of rainwater snaking down the glass and the frantic, dancing reflections of the locust tree branches outside, there was no movement. Behind that profound darkness, it seemed as if there was nothing, yet also as if something lurked there, capable of swallowing all light.
The hard, cold touch of the bone fragment in his hand pulled his thoughts back to reality. He looked down, opening his palm. The pale piece of bone was about the length of a finger, slightly curved, one end somewhat blunt, the other sharper. Its surface was smooth yet carried an unnatural, disquieting texture. It was definitely not the bone of any common livestock or wild animal. Its strange shape inexplicably evoked a sense of aversion and fear.
Why was it buried in the flowerpot in the backyard? Had his father put it there? If so, for what purpose? And that flowerpot—had it really been knocked over by the wind? Or… had something, from inside the house or from the tree, pushed it? To make him discover this?
A series of questions pressed on his nerves. He looked up at the second-floor window again, suppressing the urge to rush up and investigate immediately. Alone in this eerie environment, acting rashly was unwise.
He took a deep breath, clutched the bone fragment, quickly retreated to the kitchen, and firmly bolted the back door. The sound of the wooden door slamming shut echoed loudly in the silent house, a reverberation of his own unease.
Returning to the relatively open living room did little to alleviate the sense of oppression. The interior light grew dimmer; the rain showed no signs of stopping, and the sky was inexorably sinking into the dusk of twilight. He needed to find a light source.
He remembered there seemed to be some old candles and kerosene lamps in the storage room. Relying on childhood memories, he groped his way down the hallway and pushed open a slightly ajar small door. The storage room was crammed with old furniture and various discarded items, the smell of mildew even heavier in the air. Inside a dusty wooden box, he found a half-used candle, a rusty candlestick, and beside them, a box of damp matches.
Struggling, he struck a match. The weak flame ignited the candle. A dim, yellow halo of light spread out, barely dispersing a small patch of darkness around him, yet making the surrounding shadows appear denser and more distorted. The flickering candlelight stretched his shadow and cast it upon the wall, where it swayed gently with the flame like a specter with a life of its own.
By the candlelight, he re-examined the old photograph that had caught his attention. It was black and white, the background showing the large locust tree in the backyard. Under the tree stood several elderly townsfolk, including a much younger version of his father and Uncle Chen. Their expressions were serious, even somewhat stiff, their gazes seemingly avoiding the lens. And next to them, in the shadows cast by the locust tree's densest branches, that blurred figure became clearer.
It was definitely not a printing flaw or a trick of light and shadow. It was an extremely gaunt outline, as if draped in a large, floor-length robe. Where the head should be was just a patch of deeper shadow—no features, no details—but one could clearly sense a "presence"—a cold, silent, non-human stare. It was like a ghost that had quietly intruded into the frame, standing silently at the edge of the celebrating or gathered crowd.
A chill ran down Chen Hui's spine. His father had never mentioned such a presence. What was this shadow? Some forbidden legend from the town's past? Or was it related to his father's death?
He needed to learn more. And his father's belongings were likely the only clues.
Holding the candle, he walked towards his father's bedroom. The furnishings were simple, almost Spartan: an old-fashioned wooden bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and a chair. The bedding on the bed was still slightly messy. On the nightstand sat a water glass and a few common blood pressure medication bottles. The lingering smell of medicine mixed with the faint, musty odor of old dust.
The desk was relatively tidy. He pulled open the drawers. Inside were some account books, letters, reading glasses, repair tools, and other miscellany. The letters were mostly utility bills from the town or routine greetings from distant relatives—nothing unusual. He searched carefully, his fingertips touching a slight raised section at the very bottom of a drawer. He pried at it, and a thin piece of wood lifted away, revealing a hidden compartment.
Inside the compartment were a few items: a yellowed, dog-eared notebook; a small, dark-colored wooden placard tied with a red cord, engraved with some unrecognizable, twisted symbols; and a few folded, even older and more yellowed pieces of paper.
Chen Hui's heartbeat quickened. He first picked up the small wooden placard. The wood felt heavy and cold to the touch. The symbols were definitely not Chinese characters, nor any writing he had seen before—curved and twisting, like crawling insects or abstract patterns. Staring at them too long made the lines seem to squirm slightly in the candlelight. The red cord also appeared aged, a deep brownish color. It looked like some kind of… talisman? Or something else?
He put down the placard and unfolded the old papers. They were so fragile they seemed ready to crumble at a touch. On them were crudely drawn maps in ink brush, the style naive, marking some locations with small annotations beside them. The center of the map was his family's old house and the huge locust tree in the backyard. The location of the locust tree was carefully circled in vermilion red ink, with two small characters written beside it: "Return to the Shadows"
Surrounding the old house and the locust tree, several directions of the town—the dried-up well to the east, the old opera stage to the south, the river bend to the west, the small hillock to the north—were also marked with strange symbols. Some looked like arrows, some like chains, and others were twisted symbols similar to those on the wooden placard.
What did these maps mean? What was "Guī Yìn"? Did it mean the return of the locust tree's shade? Or something else?
Finally, he opened the notebook. The handwriting inside was his father's, evolving from neat in his youth to increasingly shaky and scribbled in recent years. It wasn't so much a diary as a collection of fragmented, intermittent notes, mixed with accounts, weather observations, and very few personal sentiments.
The early entries were mostly mundane: "July 3rd, rain. Fixed the leak in the roof." "Winter month, Old Li from the east end of town passed away. Went to help." "The locust blossoms are out. Picked some. Hui'er used to love locust blossom cakes."—Reading this, Chen Hui felt a lump in his throat.
He flipped forward. The content of the notes gradually changed. The closer to the present, the more the tone conveyed a suppressed and vaguely uneasy anxiety.
"They came again, under the tree. There are always sounds at night." "Uncle Chen came to talk. The old method again. But how long can it hold?" "Dreamt she came back, wearing that blue blouse she left in, standing under the shade waving. I know it wasn't her." "The boundary is getting blurrier. That thing… is hungry." "It's been raining constantly. It's becoming more active. The people in town are all avoiding us." "It was wrong. Perhaps it was wrong from the start. But for Hui'er's sake…"
The handwriting on the last few pages was almost illegible, filled with tremors and despair: "It got in! How could it get in?! Did the charm fail?" "Saw it… outside the window… that face…" "Too late… must… guard the door…" The date of the last entry was three days before his father's passing, with only two words, scrawled and almost piercing the paper: "It's here."
The notes ended abruptly there.
Chen Hui closed the notebook, his palms sweaty. The candle flame flickered uneasily, casting his distorted shadow on the wall. What were the "they," the "it," the "thing" his father wrote about? What did "Guī Yìn" and "boundary" mean? His father seemed to be guarding something, fighting against something, and it all was intimately connected to this old house, to that locust tree. His father's death was definitely not natural!
The bone fragment from the flowerpot, the blurred shadow in the photo, the fleeting white figure behind the second-floor window, his father's secret records and maps… All the clues wove together into a vast, suffocating web, tightly entangling him.
He picked up the cold bone fragment, examining it carefully in the candlelight. Suddenly, a terrifying thought struck him—this curved shape, this pale color… could it be… a human finger bone?!
A wave of intense nausea and fear washed over him. He almost threw it away.
Just then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Slow, clear knocking sounds suddenly came from outside the main door.
Chen Hui jumped, the candle nearly slipping from his hand. He snapped his head up towards the door.
Who could it be, so late and in such heavy rain?
Mayor Uncle Chen? Or… something else?
The knocking came again, unhurried, with a stubborn rhythm, piercing through the gaps in the rain and wind, striking directly at his heart.
Holding his breath, he gripped the cold, suspected finger bone tightly in one hand, shielding the flickering candle flame with the other, and walked step by step towards the door.
With each step, the floorboards underfoot emitted faint creaks, as if issuing a warning.
He reached the door and asked in a low voice, "Who is it?"
The knocking outside stopped. After a brief silence, an aged and weary voice came through the door:
"Xiao Hui, it's me, Uncle Chen. Heard you were back, came to check on you. The rain's heavy outside, open the door."
It was Uncle Chen's voice. Chen Hui relaxed half a breath, but his vigilance didn't completely subside. He remembered Uncle Chen's urgent tone on the phone, his father's note about "Uncle Chen came to talk, the old method again."
He hesitated for a moment, then finally drew the bolt and slowly pulled open the heavy door.
Outside stood an old man hunched over, wearing a worn raincoat. Rain dripped from the hood's brim, forming a curtain of water. Under the hood was a face deeply lined with wrinkles, etched with fatigue and an indescribable worry—it was Mayor Uncle Chen. He held an old-fashioned lantern in his hand, its dim yellow light illuminating a small patch of wet stone pavement at his feet.
"Uncle Chen," Chen Hui said, stepping aside to let him in.
Uncle Chen stepped over the threshold, removing his rain hood to reveal graying hair. He glanced around the dark interior, his eyes lingering momentarily on the candle in Chen Hui's hand and the open notebook on the table, his expression complex.
"The power's out. The wiring in this old house has been faulty for ages, no one in town knows how to fix it anymore," Uncle Chen's voice was hoarse. "You just got back, this place… ai… my condolences."
"Thank you, Uncle Chen," Chen Hui said, closing the door and re-bolting it. "It's so late, is there something you needed?"
Uncle Chen didn't answer immediately. He placed the lantern on the table, where its light intertwined with the candle's glow. He looked at Chen Hui and sighed. "Your father left suddenly. The whole town is sad. The funeral arrangements… were rushed. Don't mind."
"Not at all," Chen Hui shook his head. He decided to be direct. "Uncle Chen, my father… how did he really pass away?"
Uncle Chen's gaze shifted, avoiding Chen Hui's direct look. "It was… a sudden illness. He was old, his body was failing. By the time we found him, it was… already too late."
"What kind of illness?" Chen Hui pressed, thinking of the desperate words in his father's final notes.
"Hard to say… maybe a heart problem," Uncle Chen's reply was evasive, his tone carrying a barely perceptible urgency. "Xiao Hui, your father's things… how's the sorting going? Some of the old objects, you should deal with them, get rid of them. Don't keep too many reminders, it's hard on the spirit."
His eyes swept over the notebook, the wooden placard, and the maps again.
Chen Hui's mind raced. Uncle Chen seemed very interested in his father's belongings.
"Just started sorting," Chen Hui said neutrally. "Found some of father's old notes and things. Some are hard to understand." He picked up the carved wooden placard. "Uncle Chen, have you seen this before?"
Uncle Chen's face changed slightly when he saw the placard. Though he quickly masked it, the flash of fear in his eyes didn't escape Chen Hui's notice. He cleared his throat. "Oh, the older generation liked to make little toys for warding off evil. Nothing special."
"Warding off evil?" Chen Hui seized the word. "Ward off what evil?"
Uncle Chen clearly realized he had misspoken, looking even more uncomfortable. "It's just… the town is old. The old folks are superstitious, talk about this and that. You left early, you wouldn't know about these things." He waved his hand, clearly wanting to drop the subject. "Xiao Hui, listen to me. After your father's affairs are settled, leave town as soon as possible. There's nothing good here. You're doing well outside, don't come back."
"Why?" Chen Hui's suspicions grew stronger. "This is my hometown. My father just passed. I wanted to stay a few more days, for him."
"No!" Uncle Chen's voice suddenly rose, carrying an almost anxious forcefulness, but then softened again, nearly pleading. "Xiao Hui, be good. Listen. It's for your own good. Some things… it's better you don't know. Leave quickly. It's better for you, and for the town."
"What things?" Chen Hui pressed step by step. He held up the notebook. "What are the 'they', the 'thing' my father wrote about? What is 'Return to the shade'? Why guard the door? Uncle Chen, is there more to my father's death?!"
Uncle Chen's face turned pale in the candlelight. His lips trembled as he looked at the notebook, his eyes filled with fear and a deep helplessness. He shook his head repeatedly. "Don't ask! A youngster shouldn't ask so much! Those are just nonsense! The ramblings of an old man whose mind was failing! Burn it! Burn it now!"
He grew so agitated he almost lunged to grab the notebook, but ultimately restrained himself, though his breathing became ragged.
"Uncle Chen!" Chen Hui insisted, looking at him.
Uncle Chen avoided his gaze, slumped his head down, and muttered, "Sinning ah… it's fate… can't escape…" He suddenly looked up, his expression becoming unusually serious, even stern. "Xiao Hui, there are rules you must follow! Since you're not leaving immediately, remember my words!"
"First, after dark, absolutely do not go near the old locust tree in the backyard!" "Second, if you hear any strange sounds at night, whether it sounds like crying, laughing, or calling your name, do not respond, and definitely do not go out to look!" "Third, if… if you see something you shouldn't see, pretend you didn't see it. Never, ever make eye contact with it!" "Fourth, the old well at the east end of town, the abandoned opera stage to the south, the rocky river beach to the west, and the barren hill to the north—do not go to these places! Remember?!"
Uncle Chen's tone was urgent and severe, carrying an air of indisputable authority, but more like a terrified plea.
Chen Hui was stunned by this series of bizarre prohibitions. He wanted to ask more, but Uncle Chen had already put his rain hood back on and picked up his lantern, clearly preparing to leave.
"Remember what I said! Remember it well!" Uncle Chen gave him one last deep look, his eyes complex and hard to read—fear, worry, perhaps even a trace of pity. "For your own good, and for your father to rest in peace. Lock the doors and windows. Tonight… no matter who knocks, don't open it."
With that, he gave Chen Hui no further chance to ask questions, quickly pulled open the door, and his hunched figure soon disappeared into the curtain of rain and the thick night outside.
Chen Hui stood rooted to the spot. Uncle Chen's words echoed in his mind like thunderclaps. Those prohibitions, the desperate records in his father's notebook, the eerie bone fragment in his hand, the blurred shadow in the photo… Everything pointed unmistakably to one fact—Huaiyin Town hid a vast and terrifying secret, and his father,and even the entire town, was deeply entangled in it.
His father's death was no accident.
He closed the door, leaning his back against the cold wood, feeling utterly isolated and helpless. Outside, the wind and rain seemed to grow louder, mingled with the rustling of the old locust tree's leaves, like countless whispers closing in from all directions.
He looked down at the pale finger bone in his hand, then at his father's notebook and maps on the table.
He knew he couldn't just leave. He had to uncover the truth behind his father's death, had to unravel the heavy mystery enveloping the old house and the town.
And this was only the beginning.
The night was still long.