"Right. Then the Cultural Revolution came, things quieted down. Now they're building a dam—it's starting again. That crazy worker, his grandfather was one of the ones who worked on the dam in '34—the batch where all thirty-seven vanished."
Mike hung up and looked at Lin Mo.
Lin Mo was already standing, pulling down the Qingcheng County map from the wall. She circled the Qinghe's location in red pen, then pulled a yellowed Qingcheng County Gazetteer from the file cabinet.
"The fifteenth of July, the twenty-third year of the Republic." She flipped to a page and read: "Qinghe suddenly flooded, destroying three downstream villages, drowning one hundred and seventeen people. Thirty-seven corpses found by the riverbank, unidentified, impossible to recognize."
"Corpses?" Mike frowned. "Didn't you say all vanished?"
Lin Mo pushed the gazetteer toward him. On that page, a line had been heavily circled in pen:
Thirty-seven corpses found by the riverbank, all wearing work clothes, impossible to identify. Possibly the missing personnel from the upstream dam construction team.
"Thirty-seven corpses, wearing work clothes, but 'impossible to identify'?" Mike looked at the line. "What does that mean?"
Lin Mo was silent for two seconds: "Look at when they were found."
Mike followed her finger—July sixteenth.
The day after the disappearance.
"One day later, all the corpses surfaced?" he said. "Drowned people take at least three days to float up."
Lin Mo nodded.
"And," she flipped to the next page, "there's another section in the gazetteer, torn out. Only half remains."
On that half page, a few words lingered:
River water crimson... three days before clearing... villagers all said... River God...
"What the River God wants," Lin Mo closed the gazetteer, "isn't lives. It's replacements."
At 6:17 PM the next evening, Mike, Lin Mo, and Zhao Tiezhu arrived at Qinghe Village.
The sun was setting, its last light painting the whole valley dark red. The Qinghe flowed past the village entrance, its surface flat as a mirror, the color an undissolvable dark green.
But looking closely, the green wasn't the water's color—it was water weeds. Dense water weeds, growing from the riverbed to the surface, each thumb-thick, swaying slowly in the current like countless beckoning arms.
Zhao Tiezhu stood by the river, raising his detector to scan. The numbers on the screen jumped from thirty: forty, fifty, sixty—finally settling at eighty-three.
"Something's in the water," he said, his voice heavy. "And it's big."
The construction site had shut down. The massive excavator sat by the river, its bucket still holding fresh dirt. That pit was cordoned off with caution tape, several uniformed officers standing nearby, expressions grim.
Lin Mo showed her credentials and entered the cordon.
The pit was three meters deep, with a hand sticking up from the bottom. Not a complete body, just a hand, thrusting straight from the earth like a misshapen white radish.
Zhao jumped down and crouched beside it. He didn't touch it immediately, first examining the nails with a magnifying glass, then the joints, then looked up:
"This isn't a human hand."
Mike blinked: "What?"
"Look." Zhao pointed at the nails. "Human nails are flat. The cross-section here is round. And this joint—one more than humans have. This is a monkey's hand."
Lin Mo crouched at the pit's edge, looking at that hand, then suddenly asked: "Where does Fifth Grandpa live?"
A local worker pointed toward the village depths: "The last house, with the big locust tree in front."
Lin Mo stood, brushing dirt from her knees: "Let's go. Find Fifth Grandpa."
In Fifth Grandpa's yard stood a massive locust tree, three arm-spans thick, at least two hundred years old. Beneath it lay a bamboo lounge chair; Fifth Grandpa reclined there, eyes closed, seemingly napping.
Hearing footsteps, he opened his eyes. His cloudy pupils shifted, settling on Lin Mo's face.
"You're here," he said, his tone as flat as commenting on the weather. "Faster than I expected."
Lin Mo crouched beside him: "Fifth Grandpa, you knew we were coming?"
Fifth Grandpa didn't answer. He reached beside the lounge chair and pulled out a yellowed cloth bundle, handing it to her.
Lin Mo opened it. Inside was a black-and-white photo. Thirty-some people in work clothes stood by the river, some holding shovels, some picks, smiling at the camera. In front stood a young man, early twenties, delicate features, wearing a long gown, like the leader.
On the back, a line of handwriting:
Group photo of all comrades, Qinghe Water Conservancy Engineering Team, 10th day of the 7th month, 23rd year of the Republic
"This is my father." Fifth Grandpa pointed at the leader, his fingers withered like winter branches. "Wang Dezhu, engineering team leader. That year he was twenty-three. I was six."
Lin Mo looked at the photo, then at Fifth Grandpa: "Your father was one of the thirty-seven?"
Fifth Grandpa nodded.
"Then why did you let them build the dam?"
Fifth Grandpa was silent for a long time. The setting sun cast deep shadows on his face, his wrinkles holding something indescribable.
"I hated him for eighty-four years," he said, his voice very soft, like talking to himself. "That morning he left, I grabbed his leg, wouldn't let him go. He pushed me away and said, 'Dad's going to build the dam. I'll buy you candy when I get back.' I waited eighty-four years. He never came back."
He looked up at the giant locust tree.
"Later I understood. It wasn't that he didn't want to come back—he couldn't. The River God kept him. Not just him—all thirty-seven, all kept."
Lin Mo's hand tightened slightly.
"Then now you—"
"I want them back." Fifth Grandpa interrupted, a sudden light in his cloudy eyes. "Even just to see them once. One look, then they can go. That's enough."
He looked toward the river.
"Tonight's July fifteenth. The night the ghost gate opens. Those thirty-seven will come out of the river."
Eleven PM, the construction site.
Clouds hid the moon, leaving the world pitch black. Only the Qinghe River's surface glowed faintly—phosphorescence from century-old sunken wood and bones at the bottom.
Mike, Lin Mo, and Zhao Tiezhu crouched behind a large rock by the river, watching the water.
Zhao's detector numbers kept jumping—eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five, ninety-eight. The closer to midnight, the faster they jumped.
"It's approaching," he whispered.
Lin Mo said nothing, her eyes fixed on the river.
The water began bubbling.
Not occasional bubbles—the whole river was bubbling, like a pot of boiling water. Gurgle gurgle gurgle—louder and louder, denser and denser, until merging into one continuous sound, like countless mouths speaking underwater.
Then a whirlpool appeared in the river's center.
About a meter in diameter, spinning fast, growing larger and deeper. The center was pure black, bottomless, like an open eye.
From that black center came a sound.
Not speech, not wailing—a low hum, like someone striking a bell underwater. That sound pierced through water, through air, through bone, resonating in everyone's chest.
Mike felt his heart beating to that frequency. Thump—thump—thump—faster and faster, heavier and heavier, almost leaping from his throat.
"Don't look at that whirlpool!" Lin Mo snapped. "It's luring souls!"
Mike forced his gaze away, toward Lin Mo.
Lin Mo pulled three items from her pocket: a handful of sticky rice, three talismans, and a copper bell. She divided the rice between Mike and Zhao, kept the talismans, and hung the bell on her wrist.
"Whatever you see, don't go near the river," she said. "The rice might block it, the talismans suppress evil, the bell drives away ghosts. If that thing comes ashore, hit it with these three."
"It'll come ashore?"
Lin Mo didn't answer.
Because the whirlpool had stopped.
The river fell suddenly silent. The bubbling stopped, the hum stopped, even the sound of flowing water stopped.
The whole world seemed paused.
Then, from deep beneath the river, came an infant's cry.
Waa—waa—waa—
The cry was sharp, thin, like a newborn, but it made your scalp crawl. Because it wasn't coming from one place—it was moving, from the river center slowly approaching the bank.
Zhao looked at his detector—the numbers had maxed out. Ninety-nine, then straight to three question marks.
"It's coming out!" he shouted.
As he spoke, the river weeds suddenly parted, and something crawled out of the water.
Not human.
A mass—a pitch-black mass, shapeless, countless thin tentacles writhing, like octopus arms or weed roots. Those tentacles dragged on the ground, leaving a wet trail, carrying a thick stench.
It had no eyes, no nose—just a mouth. A mouth in the center of its body, round like a lamprey's sucker, lined with rings of teeth, from outer to inner, densely packed, like meat grinder blades.
It crawled toward them.
Zhao charged first, throwing a handful of sticky rice at it.
The moment the rice touched it, blue sparks exploded like fireworks. It shrieked, retreated half a step, then immediately pressed forward again.
"The rice is useless!" Zhao shouted.
Lin Mo rushed forward and pressed a talisman against it.
The moment the talisman touched it, it burst into blinding golden flame. The thing screamed and retreated, its body twisting, its tentacles thrashing wildly against the ground.
"It works!" Lin Mo yelled. "Keep going!"
She pulled out the copper bell and rang it hard.
Ding——
The thing's scream pitched higher; its whole body convulsed like it was electrocuted. It began retreating toward the river, inch by inch, but its eyes—if it had eyes—never stopped staring behind them.
No, not at them.
At someone behind them.
Mike spun around.
Fifth Grandpa had come—standing twenty meters behind them, back bent, hands clutching a red wooden spirit tablet. Characters carved on the tablet, illegible in the moonlight.
"Father," Fifth Grandpa called toward the river, his voice old and trembling, "your son has come to take you home."
That thing in the river suddenly stopped.
It stood at the water's edge, half in, half out. That round mouth opened and closed, producing a sound—not an infant's cry, but human voices, many voices layered together:
"Dezhu... Dezhu... Dezhu..."
Tears streamed down Fifth Grandpa's face.
"That's my father," he said. "They're calling my father."
Holding the tablet, he walked step by step toward the river.
"Fifth Grandpa, don't go over there!" Lin Mo shouted.
Fifth Grandpa didn't stop. He reached the river, stood before that thing, and raised the tablet high.
"Father, you've waited long, haven't you?" he said, his voice calm as if chatting. "Your son's come to take you home."
The river suddenly erupted.
Not bubbling—truly erupting. The whole river boiled, water splashing, steam rising. From the riverbed, figures surfaced one after another.
Thirty-seven.
Wearing Republic-era work clothes, faces deathly pale, eyes closed, hands linked, rising slowly from the depths.
They rose to the surface and opened their eyes.
Thirty-seven pairs of eyes, all looking at Fifth Grandpa.
The one in front, delicate features, wearing a long gown—identical to the photo.
He opened his mouth and made a sound:
"Dog Egg."
Fifth Grandpa's childhood name.
Fifth Grandpa's legs gave way; he knelt by the river.
"Father..."
That man named Wang Dezhu—if it could still be called a man—looked at him, his lips moving again:
"Dog Egg, Father can't come back."
Fifth Grandpa's tears fell on the tablet, pattering softly.
"Father..."
"You live for Father." Wang Dezhu's voice grew more distant, fainter. "Live for those thirty-seven. Live for those one hundred and seventeen. Live for everyone this river has swallowed."
He released his grip and began sinking.
The thirty-seven began sinking too.
"Father!" Fifth Grandpa lunged forward, nearly falling into the river—Zhao grabbed him.
He struggled, shouted, but the thirty-seven had already sunk back to the riverbed.
The water returned to calm. The moon emerged from behind clouds, painting the surface a ghastly white.
Fifth Grandpa lay by the river, clutching that tablet, crying like a child.
Mike walked over and stood beside him, looking at the river.
"Are they gone?" he asked.
Fifth Grandpa didn't answer.
Lin Mo walked over, crouched, and looked into Fifth Grandpa's eyes.
"Fifth Grandpa, where did they go?"
Fifth Grandpa raised his head, looking at the river, his lips trembling:
"They... didn't go anywhere."
He pointed at the surface.
"Still down there. Still there."
Mike followed his finger.
Under moonlight, the river was calm as a mirror.
But looking closely, thirty-seven reflections shimmered on the surface.
They stood at the riverbed, heads raised, looking at the shore.
The one in front, the delicate-featured young man, was smiling at Fifth Grandpa.
That smile—identical to the photo.
Three days later.
Mike sat in Bureau 749's archives, repeatedly examining that photo.
Thirty-seven people, standing by the river, smiling at the camera.
He didn't know what they were smiling about back then. Finally building the dam? Getting paid? Or just the novelty of having their picture taken?
He only knew that those thirty-seven still hadn't left.
Still at the riverbed.
Still waiting.
Lin Mo pushed open the door, holding a new report.
"Fifth Grandpa's gone," she said.
Mike blinked: "What?"
"Last night. Heart attack. The doctors say natural causes."
Mike was silent for a long time.
"He saw his father."
Lin Mo nodded, placing a photo before him.
Found among Fifth Grandpa's belongings. A yellowed photo, identical to the engineering team group shot.
But this one had one more person.
Fifth Grandpa.
Six-year-old Fifth Grandpa, standing in the riverside group shot, beside his father, looking up at him, smiling.
On the back, a line of handwriting, the ink fresh—recently written:
Dog Egg, Father's taking you home.
Mike looked at those words, his fingers tightening slightly.
Outside the window came the sound of the Qinghe River flowing.
Very soft, very slow—like someone whispering.
He suddenly thought of a question.
Fifth Grandpa was dead.
Those thirty-seven were still waiting at the riverbed.
Waiting for whom?