My name is Zhou Shen. I run a wood carving workshop on the old west-side street. This craft has been passed down three generations. By my time, I'm the only one on the whole street still carving proper things.
That afternoon I was carving a monkey.
The material was old jujube wood. Old Li, the scrap collector at the street entrance, had pried it from the lintel of a demolished house. Heavy, hard, oily—when you knocked it, it rang like metal.
I sketched for three days. Rough blank took five days. Refining took another four. By the seventh afternoon, I'd reached the most critical part—opening the face.
There's an old saying in wood carving: For beasts, don't open the eyes; for people, don't dot the pupils. Whether carving animals or humans, the eyes must be left for last.
It's not some mystical superstition. It's purely a craftsman's rule. Once the eyes are opened, the spirit of the whole piece is set. Any flaws from earlier can't be fixed.
My grandpa taught my dad, my dad taught me. I've heard it my whole life.
That day, after carving the monkey's lips and nose, the sunlight outside had turned yellow. Holding my angled gouge, I pushed the tip into the shallow groove of the eye socket, cutting inward little by little.
Jujube wood is hard, but it takes the knife well. The shavings smelled sweet and faintly burnt. Left eye first, then right. When the tip picked out the last wood chip, the old wall clock struck five.
Finished.
I stepped back half a pace to look.
The monkey squatted on a palm-sized square base, arms hugging its knees, chin resting on its knees. Its eyes were just opened, not polished yet, the wood chips rough. The pupil positions were two shallow pits.
Light streamed in from the west window, pulling a shadow across its face. Those two eyes were like small black holes, staring at me emptily.
I shivered. Probably just sitting too long, legs numb.
Time to move it out. The rule says: on the day you finish carving the eyes, don't leave it overnight in the workshop. No one knows exactly why. My dad did it, my grandpa did it.
When I was learning, I asked once. My dad flicked a wood shaving at my head and said, "Stop asking questions. Move it."
When I was little, I remember seeing a metal box locked in grandpa's cabinet. Small, dark red lacquer peeling off, showing rust.
Once I secretly opened it. Inside were a few scraps of wood and a yellowed paper with writing on it.
I was about to look closer when grandpa caught me. His face turned livid. He snatched the box away, locked it back in the cabinet, and yelled, "Never touch this again." I never saw that box again.
Now I reached for the wooden monkey. My fingertips had just touched the cold jujube surface when my phone rang.
Mom called. Dad had fallen in the yard that afternoon, scraped his arm—blood everywhere. The village clinic doctor said he should go to the county hospital for stitches.
I hung up and rushed out. Fumbled with my car keys three times before finding them in the toolbox. The monkey squatted there on the workbench, its back to the west window, face toward the stool I'd just left.
I glanced back. The jujube wood grain glowed with an oily sheen in the sunset. Those newly opened eyes were pitch black, like two growing holes.
When I pulled down the rolling shutter, I heard something lightly tap the wood inside. Probably a rat. Old street rats are everywhere—leftovers from the noodle shop next door have fattened a whole colony.
But the sound was light and crisp, like someone had flicked the wood with their nail. I stood there for two seconds, pressed my ear to the shutter and listened again. Nothing. I drove off.
I opened up at seven the next morning. Dad's arm had five stitches. Nothing serious. My sister was at the hospital keeping watch, told me to come back and mind the shop.
The rolling shutter rattled up. Morning light flooded in. I saw immediately that the workbench was empty.
The wooden monkey wasn't where I'd left it.
My heart skipped a beat. Then I thought—probably some old customer saw it, liked it, moved it to examine.
This happens. Old street people come into my shop like browsing their own backyard. Old Zhou often picks up my half-carved Guanyin statues and turns them over and over.
But when I turned around, I saw it.
On the ebony armchair facing the door in the inner room, squatting. Same posture. Arms hugging knees, chin resting on knees, square base on the seat. Just squatting there quietly.
Who put it there?
I walked over to pick it up. When my fingers touched the back of its head, I froze.
Its eyes were closed.
The eyes I carved yesterday—those unpolished, pit-like eyes—were closed. The eyelids were two shallow arcs, knife marks smooth, like I'd carved them that way on purpose.
But I remember clearly. I carved open eyes. The pupil positions were two sunken circular pits. Those eyelid arcs weren't carved by me.
I stood there, grinding my back teeth. First reaction: disbelief. Second: self-doubt—did I remember wrong?
Was it too dark yesterday? Did I not see what I'd actually carved? I turned the monkey's head over and over, examining every detail.
Jujube wood texture, clean carving with my characteristic knife marks. The closed eyelids even had that slight burr where I'd ended the cut. Every detail matched my work. Just these two eyes were wrong.
I put it back on the workbench and took a photo with my phone. Then I found fine sandpaper in the toolbox and ground open those eyelids again.
My palms were sweaty as the sandpaper passed over the wood. A voice in my head said: You're crazy. You're modifying something you can't even explain.
But another voice was louder: I don't believe wood can change shape on its own. I need to verify if I made a mistake.
After grinding the eyes open, I deepened the pupil pits again. The sanded wood was a slightly lighter color than the surrounding area, clearly showing it had been worked on.
I placed it on the windowsill again, eyes open, facing the sun.
I didn't do much work all day. A customer came in asking for a Guan Gong statue. I pointed at the shelf and said "pick one yourself." After he left, I realized I'd been pointing at a Maitreya Buddha.
That afternoon I sat at the workbench carving a sandalwood comb. As I carved, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the monkey on the windowsill.
It was still in its squatting pose. But maybe it was my imagination—the angle of its right front paw stretched out was exactly the same as my right hand holding the knife.
I deliberately raised my right hand higher, then glanced back secretly. That wooden paw seemed to have risen slightly too. No, I was seeing things. I was being too suspicious.
When I closed up that evening, I looked at the windowsill again. The monkey was still there, eyes open. The sun had set, the room darkening. Those pupil pits couldn't catch light anymore, just two black holes again.
I hesitated, then picked it up and placed it on the step under the eaves outside. That way it wouldn't be staying overnight in the workshop, right? Outside there's wind, sparrows on the power line chattering noisily.
That night I slept lightly. Around 2 AM I heard something outside the courtyard wall—like someone slowly scratching wood with their nails.
I threw on a coat and went out. Under the moonlight, the yard was empty. The pomegranate tree's shadow swayed on the ground. On the tree trunk, three new shallow scratch marks had appeared.
I touched them. The scratches were fresh, the wood chips still white. I stared at those three marks for a long time, then went back inside.
I opened up the third morning. The monkey was still on the step, squatting pose unchanged. I bent down to pick it up, but pulled my hand back halfway.
Its mouth had opened a crack.
The crack wasn't wide—maybe half a toothpick's width—at the position where the monkey's mouth had been closed. A dark slit.
I thought hard. I'm certain—absolutely certain—that yesterday the monkey I carved had its mouth closed, not even a line between the upper and lower lips.
But the crack was there now. Looking inside, it was pitch black. Jujube heartwood is dark, couldn't tell how deep it went.
I squatted on the step, staring at it for a full five minutes. My throat tightened, swallowing felt dry.
The noodle shop lady next door came out to splash water and asked what I was looking at. I said a carving. She glanced at it and said, "Isn't it nice? How much?" I said not for sale.
After bringing the monkey into the workshop, I took a second photo. Comparing with yesterday's, everything was the same—except the mouth.
I opened my computer, placed the two photos side by side, zoomed in to compare. The mouth indeed had an extra crack. The edges were smooth, like gently pried open with a round gouge.
I didn't modify it with the knife again. I wanted to see if it would change today.
That afternoon I carved a pixiu. While working, I deliberately placed it directly across from the workbench—where I could see it when I looked up.
The monkey squatted on the windowsill again, jujube shell glowing dark red in the light. As I carved, I noticed something wrong again. Out of the corner of my eye, its front paw resting on its knee seemed to be in exactly the same position as mine.
I rubbed my eyes, told myself this was fatigue-induced hallucination.
By evening, that mouth crack seemed to have widened another half millimeter. Or maybe I was just being too suspicious.
Before closing up, I moved it into the yard. The yard was small, about ten square meters. A pomegranate tree by the wall, a stone table under it.
I placed the monkey on the stone table, weighted down the edge of the square base with a brick to keep it from blowing away.
It was completely dark. Only a little light from the neighboring building seeped into the yard. The monkey squat on the stone table was a dark blob, mouth crack facing up, like waiting for something.
That night the wind blew. I lay in bed listening to sounds outside. Around midnight I vaguely heard the courtyard gate creak, then very light footsteps.
I perked up to listen again. The footsteps were gone, but there was a new smell in the air—that sweet-fishy burnt aroma of wet jujube wood, exactly the same as when I carved the eyes yesterday. I wrapped myself in the blanket and didn't dare go look.
Fourth morning I was woken by rain. A light rain fell overnight, barely wetting the ground, stopped by morning.
I grabbed an umbrella and went into the yard. From afar I saw the brick on the stone table had tilted to one side. Half a circle of water stains on the base. The monkey was gone.
My heart lurched. I dropped the umbrella and ran to the workshop. Pulling up the shutter, morning light flooded in. Something was sitting on the ebony armchair in the inner room.
It was sitting in my usual work chair. Actually "sitting"—knees together, two front paws on its knees, back against the chair back, face outward, right at the door.
That pose was so human-like, for a moment I thought a child was sitting there.
I took a step forward, legs feeling weak. The crack on its mouth had widened again since yesterday, like smiling. The arched crack corners slightly upturned, paired with those closed eyes, the whole face wore a mysterious smile.
I swore out loud. Not sure who at, but swore.
I dumped everything out of the toolbox—hammer, chisel, plane scattered across the table. Finally found a tape measure, measured the distance from the workshop door frame to the armchair: 3.2 meters.
Then from the armchair to the windowsill where it had been yesterday: 2.4 meters. This path was paved with old blue bricks, years of wood shavings and dust packed into the cracks.
I squatted on the ground, examining every crack one by one. Didn't see any dragging or scraping marks. Even a rat carrying it—jujube is heavy—would leave drag marks in the dust.
Nothing. It was like it had floated there out of thin air.
I stood up. The monkey on the chair was smiling at me with closed eyes.
I decided to bury it.
This was too wrong. Craftsmen aren't superstitious, but craftsmen trust rules. Rules that get passed down have their reasons.
Dad never explained why you can't leave carved eyes overnight. Now I figured he didn't know either—he just followed it. And I didn't, and now I'm in trouble.
At first I thought about just chopping it up with an axe. But when I raised my hand and looked at that monkey head—from rough blank to refining to opening the face, nearly a week of my time.
Every knife stroke, where it started and ended, I remember clearly.
This wood came from an old house lintel. Jujube heartwood is rare enough. If I ruined this piece, who knows when I'd find such good jujube again.
Besides, would burning it finish it? I wasn't sure. I didn't have confidence. So I chose burying.
I dug a hole under the pomegranate tree. About two hand-spans deep, lined with a layer of lime powder. Then I placed the monkey inside.
When putting it down, I checked the bottom of the square base. The day I finished carving, I'd planed the base flat and left a "Shen Ji" (Deep Memory) mark.
The mark was still there. But next to it were three shallow scratch marks, like claw prints.
I filled the hole back, tamped it down firmly, placed a stone slab on top, then watered the pomegranate tree with a bucket.
When the water seeped down, I lay on the slab and listened for a while. Nothing but water sounds.
Turning to go back inside, I'd barely taken two steps, my back foot not yet on the ground, when I heard a laugh from below.
Very light. Like someone couldn't hold it in, leaking out through their fingers. A *heh*, a little breathy, tail slightly raised.
My feet nailed to the ground. My heel was hanging, my whole body tilted, and I stood motionless for about ten seconds. My brain was buzzing, no thoughts at all—just blank white.
When I finally put my foot down and turned around, the slab was still the slab, the soil was still the soil, pomegranate leaves rustled in the wind.
Some neighbor's radio was playing Beijing opera, an old dan role stretching out a long aria.
I squatted down, lifted the slab, dug the soil back up.
The monkey was still there, pose unchanged. The crack on its mouth had widened further. Between the two lips, teeth were visible.
Two rows of thin, individual, neat little teeth, flashing the dark oily luster unique to jujube heartwood.
When I put it in the pit yesterday, its mouth had had nothing in it.
Now I squatted in front of it. Morning wind threaded through the pomegranate leaves, cool.
Those two rows of teeth were exposed, like smiling at me. I extended a finger, wanting to touch if those teeth were truly carved. When my fingertip was still two inches away, its eyes opened.
Just two pits, same as the first day. But the sun was now shining from the east, light slanted into those pits. The shadow shape at the bottom looked exactly like two pupils, fixed on me.
I stood up. Stood up too fast, went dizzy. Leaned against the pomegranate tree for a long time to steady myself. Then I looked in the pit again—the monkey was still the monkey, eyes were two pits, mouth crack was closed.
I didn't bury it again. Brought it back to the workshop, placed it on the highest shelf, facing the wall. Didn't have the heart to work all morning. A customer came for tea trays, I said sold out, come back next month.
Noon I called dad. First asked about his arm, chatted a bit, then said, "Dad, that rule we have—don't leave carved eyes overnight—why exactly?"
Dad was silent for a moment on the phone. Mom was yelling at him to take his medicine. He said "wait a moment." Then he told me: when his master passed down this rule, he only said one sentence: "There's something in the eyes."
He asked if something had happened.
I said no, just asking.
After hanging up, I took the monkey down from the shelf, wrapped it in a cotton cloth, stuffed it in my trunk, and drove to Yong'an Temple in the suburbs.
The old lady selling incense at the door knew me, asked why I was here today. I said I'm leaving an offering.
I placed the monkey on the altar table in the Main Buddha Hall. No one was inside, sandalwood was thick enough to choke.
I stood there for a moment, looking at the three-meter-tall Sakyamuni statue. The Buddha's face was lowered, eyes half-open half-closed, no one could tell what he was thinking.
On the drive home, all I could think about was those two rows of teeth. Jujube wood is so hard—what tiny knife, what steady hand would it take to carve such fine teeth?
That person—or rather that thing—it's learning from me. It's using my craft to grow itself out, bit by bit.
That night I couldn't sleep.
Around 2 AM I heard that sound again. This time not outside the courtyard, but inside the house. Very light footsteps coming from the living room. Like something barefoot walking on the floor.
I gripped the desk lamp on my nightstand and sat up. The footsteps stopped. That sweet-fishy jujube smell drifted through the air, faint, mixed with a hint of earth.
I turned on the light. The living room was empty. But on the coffee table lay a dried pomegranate leaf.
Fifth day, I went to the temple early. The altar table was empty.
I asked the old lady at the door about the wood carving I left yesterday. She said a man in gray took it early this morning, said he was from the temple to clear the altar.
I said there are no monks at the temple, only an old nun.
The old lady froze. She said when the man left, he smiled at her, making her feel creeped out.
I asked what he looked like. She said thin, not tall, wearing a gray cloth robe. His walking posture was a bit awkward, like he'd been squatting too long and couldn't stand properly—limping.
I drove around the city searching. First to the scrap yard, then to the antique market, asking every stall if anyone had bought a jujube monkey carving.
A lame vendor said he saw a man carrying a cloth bundle pass by that morning, heading east.
East was the demolition zone. A whole area of bungalows had been bulldozed, rubble piled like small mountains.
I stepped over broken bricks, walking carefully. It was hot, sweat dripped down my neck, my back soaked through.
That sweet-fishy smell came again, faint and elusive. I followed the scent around two broken walls, and finally saw it under a collapsed wall base.
Just squatting on a broken wall, face to the sun, eyes closed, mouth grinning, two rows of teeth neat and aligned. Sunlight hit the jujube surface, those teeth glowed with oily luster, like sunbathing.
I walked over. It turned its head.
Literally turned its head. The base didn't move, the body didn't move—just the head rotated on the neck, face changed from south to east, facing me.
I clearly heard the faint *creak* of jujube fibers twisting.
Its eyes were open. The pupil positions were no longer two pits. They were two round, glossy protrusions—the darkest layer of jujube heartwood, red-black, like two drops of congealed blood.
I looked at it. It looked at me.
Then it smiled again. The mouth crack upturned, showing all its teeth. This time I heard the sound—that suppressed *heh*, exactly the same as the one that came from underground yesterday.
I didn't run.
I took off my jacket, walked over, and wrapped it up.
When my hand touched it, goosebumps broke out all over my body. Its temperature was colder than the brick wall, but not the cold of wood—like touching ice.
I tightened the jacket, held it to my chest, and walked toward the car.
It moved under the jacket. Very light, like a real monkey curling its paws, nails scratching my chest.
I glanced down. The jacket bulged out in a small area, slowly, rhythmically rising and falling—like breathing.
I drove to dad's place. Under the old locust tree at the village entrance, mom was hanging quilts. When she saw my car stop, she came over and asked what was wrong. I said nothing, just need dad to look at something.
Dad sat in a bamboo chair in the main hall, injured arm in gauze sling. I placed the jacket on the Eight Immortals table in front of him, and unfolded it layer by layer.
The monkey squatted inside, eyes closed, mouth closed, curled up—exactly the same as when I'd just finished carving it.
Dad stared at it for a long time. Then he picked it up with his uninjured hand, flipped it over to check the "Shen Ji" mark on the bottom, then looked at those three claw marks.
He asked me: "You carved this?"
I said yes.
He asked: "When did you carve the eyes?"
I said the day before yesterday afternoon.
He put the monkey down, leaned against the table leg, face turned inward. Then he stood up and reached for a metal box from the top of the cabinet.
Dark red lacquer mostly peeled off, showing rusty brown. I recognized it instantly—the box grandpa had locked up when I was little.
Dad took out a key, opened the lock, lifted the lid. Inside were a few scraps of wood and a yellowed paper. Two lines of brush writing, the handwriting I recognized—grandpa's.
First line: "Beast eyes shall not stay overnight."
Second line: "Once the mouth opens, do not keep it."
Dad said he didn't know what the second line meant. His master only passed down the first one. The second was probably added by grandpa himself. But now he understood.
"It's growing," dad said. "Starting from the eyes, then the mouth, then the whole body. Each day, one more thing."
I said then what do we do.
Dad was silent for a long time. Outside, mom was hanging clothes, bamboo pole clattering. A tabby cat jumped down from the windowsill, meowing softly when it landed.
The monkey leaned against the table leg, face turned inward, not moving.
Dad flipped the paper over. On the back was another line, written in pencil, very faint.
Dad squinted for a long time and said: "Bury at a crossroads, head facing north, cover with iron. Don't open or look at it for three days."
He handed me the paper, added: "Grandpa only wrote the method. He didn't say if it can be completely contained. Many old methods can only buy time."
I gripped the paper, the corners brittle.
It was almost dark when I drove back to the city.
The monkey was on the back seat, wrapped in my jacket.
It moved twice along the way. First time, paws stretched out to scratch the jacket lining. Second time, I saw through the rearview mirror that the bulging area under the jacket slowly rolled over.
Fifth day evening, I parked at an abandoned crossroads in the east of the city.
Four roads were all dirt, flanked by houses awaiting demolition. No one lived there. It was completely dark, only one street lamp lit, its dim light illuminating piles of broken bricks on the road.
I got out, grabbed a shovel from the trunk, and started digging in the exact center of the crossroads. When the shovel entered the soil, digging to about forearm depth, I smelled something.
Something seeping up from underground—faint rotten wood smell, mixed with earthy fishiness. Exactly the same scent as when I'd opened grandpa's metal box.
I paused. This smell felt familiar, but I couldn't place where I'd smelled it before. Kept digging, another half foot deeper. Didn't find anything.
But I vaguely understood: under this piece of ground, someone had buried the same kind of object long ago.
The hole was ready. I placed the jacket with the monkey inside. The instant I let it down, I heard that *creak creak* of wood twisting from under the jacket.
I didn't look at it, and started filling the hole with soil. When the soil was almost filled, I saw a hand reach out from under the jacket.
It was the monkey's paw—five slender fingers, nails all carved out, nail tips red—the darkest jujube red. That hand slowly stretched out, five fingertips facing upward, like grasping at something.
I flipped the shovel over, used the back to press it back down. Filled the soil tight, covered with a precast slab from the demolished wall, and placed four bricks on each corner.
Head facing north. Covered with iron. Did everything exactly as instructed.
After finishing, I squatted by the road and lit a cigarette. The crossroads wind was strong, blowing ash everywhere. I stared at that precast slab for a long time. Everything was quiet underneath.
After finishing the cigarette, I stood up to get in the car. Just as I turned around, I heard a laugh behind me.
Exactly the same as the one I'd heard in the yard. Light, suppressed, that *heh*, tail slightly raised.
I glanced back. Under the precast slab, in the brick cracks, something was moving. Like something very small digging, soil granules trickling out through the cracks.
I didn't go over. Got in the car, started the engine, drove three kilometers before pulling over, and lay on the steering wheel gasping for a long time.
My face in the rearview mirror was deathly pale. The car was so quiet I could hear the dashboard pointer ticking.
Three days without opening or looking.
Today is the first day.
I'm sitting in the car writing this. My phone is almost dead. The street lamp is flashing—flash, dim, flash, dim. Every time it dims, my reflection appears on the car window.
But the last time it dimmed, the face reflected on the glass seemed to have an extra layer. On the right side of my face, at the ear root, there was a small, fuzzy shadow squatting on my shoulder.
I turned my head to look. Nothing.
But the touch on my shoulder was clear. Very light, very cold. Like a wooden monkey, resting its chin in my shoulder hollow.
A sweet-fishy smell drifted through the air, mixed with earthy fishiness.
Phone battery at two percent.
The lamp flashed again.
The weight on my shoulder increased.
It turned its head. In my peripheral vision, I saw a pair of dark red, round pupils pressed against my ear, staring at me unblinking.
*Heh.*
Phone went black.