Chapter One: The Old Blind Woman

My name is Wang Luo, from Guangxi, born in a small county town.

Old villages in small towns are always filled with tales of ghosts and spirits, passed from mouth to mouth—stories of water ghosts seeking substitutes, the wailing of ghosts in wild mountains, or spirits returning home on the fourteenth of the seventh lunar month.

When I was a child, living in the old house, I’d often hear voices and coughs during summer nights. I could never tell if I truly heard them, or if, after hearing so many of those ghostly tales, I simply frightened myself.

With so many legends, all sorts of taboos and customs followed. In our village, there were two great taboos: the deep mountains to the north, and the old blind crone who dwelled there.

What kind of place was that northern mountain? We had an unwritten rule: any child who died young was not to be lavishly buried. A thin coffin and a simple stone were enough. In the old days, everyone was poor and couldn’t afford coffins. If a child died young, people would dig a pit in the northern mountains and bury them there. For those even younger, the body would be wrapped in a mat and tossed into the hills. That place became a gathering ground for all the village’s darkest tales, full of lonely, wandering souls.

As for the old blind crone—she wasn’t from the village and no one knew when she’d arrived. It hadn’t been long. Her appearance was frightful, almost monstrous: her face covered in deep wrinkles and age spots, her blind eyes swollen like eggs, a mouth full of rotten yellow teeth. She was hunched, emaciated, with bumpy skin that oozed pus whenever it was hot, giving off a foul, fishy stench that could be sensed from afar.

People once thought she had leprosy and avoided her with utmost caution. The old crone was aware of their fear and, upon her arrival, made her home in the northern mountains, rarely coming out.

Even so, people were uneasy, always thinking about when they could drive her away.

From the day she appeared, my grandfather warned me to stay far away from her and never to go near the northern mountains.

I always listened to my grandfather. I had no parents and lived with him. People said I was adopted by him.

Adopting children was common in our village; there were always reasons why someone couldn’t raise their own. Usually, it was girls who were adopted, owing to old beliefs favoring sons over daughters. Boys, no matter how poor the family, were raised if at all possible.

In my memory, my grandfather was a cultured man. It’s almost unbelievable, but the first English sentence I ever learned was taught to me by him. He’d only gone to elementary school and never left the county in his life, so I could never figure out where he had learned his English.

Sometimes I wondered if he’d learned things in his dreams—after all, he wasn’t just educated, he was also quite capable.

In the village, everyone—young or old, even his peers—called him “Agong,” a title of great respect, usually reserved for the village’s Taoist priest.

Grandfather wasn’t a priest and didn’t conduct rituals or funerals. People only sought him out for matters the Taoist priest couldn’t handle.

I often accompanied him to visit homes in different villages. The phrase I heard most from him was: “This is an illness, go to the hospital.”

So people went for medical treatment, and the ailments that had tormented them for ages, that no amount of rituals or talismans could cure, were healed at the hospital—for less money, too.

Even so, people preferred to have my grandfather take a look first.

But once, my grandfather changed his usual advice. It was inevitable, for that time, a young man from the neighboring village had died suddenly.

I knew the deceased—he was whom I called Sixth Brother, and my grandfather called him Sixie. He was the sixth child in his family, with five older sisters. In our villages, families had sons to carry on the family line, so his parents had all those daughters just to have a son. He was their hope for posterity and support in old age. Suddenly, he was gone.

His parents cried for a day and a night, heartbroken, convinced their son had died unjustly and mysteriously, so they sought out my grandfather.

As usual, I went along with my grandfather. Because those who died young were not lavishly buried, few attended the wake. The body hadn’t yet been placed in the coffin, lying on the bed just as it was found.

Grandfather approached and, at the sight of the body, his face changed abruptly.

The corpse was very pale, as if soaked in water, yet not wrinkled like one might expect. Both eyes were sunken and dark—highly unusual.

Unfastening the clothes, grandfather revealed a sunken black mark on the left side of the chest.

That was also when his parents noticed it and were shocked. Sixth Brother’s mother cried out, “Was his heart stolen by an old ghost?”

Grandfather told me to leave.

I didn’t understand, but dared not disobey, so I slipped outside. Still, curiosity gnawed at me—how did Sixth Brother die? I crept to the window to peep through a crack.

Grandfather suddenly looked right at the window, his gaze cold and angry. He scolded me harshly. Terrified, I ran away.

He had never scolded me before; this was the first time.

Bored out of my mind, I waited. Soon grandfather came out, his face ashen and silent, and took me home.

On the way, he patted my head and said, “From now on, stay home as much as possible. Never go into the northern mountains, and stay away from that old woman.”

He sighed gently, “You’ve grown so much…”

I’d heard him say that many times, ever since I could remember. He’d stroke my head, sigh, and say it in a soft voice. Perhaps because I was strong and grew fast.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sixth Brother’s face. Maybe I was just scared, but there was an uncomfortable lump in my chest. How did he die?

A rustling of footsteps came from outside, as if someone was walking in the mountains. Our house was at the edge of the village, far from others, surrounded by hills on three sides.

I got out of bed, went to the window, and peered out. A ghostly blue light moved through the woods.

Startled, I looked closer—it was someone carrying a blue oil lantern, walking in the mountains.

It was the old blind crone! And behind her, a vague figure followed, most of his body illuminated by the lantern, but only as a hazy shadow. Yet the stout, short silhouette was immediately recognizable to me.

It was Sixth Brother!

But wasn’t he dead? How could he be alive and following the old blind woman into the mountains?

Sixth Brother walked lightly, obediently, not at all his usual self.

Normally, grandfather forbade me from approaching the old crone. If Sixth Brother was following her into the mountains, that was terrible!

I mustered my courage, clung to the window, and shouted, “Sixth Brother! Don’t go! Come back!”

His figure paused. The old crone turned, her terrifying face even more grotesque and sinister in the blue light. I shuddered in fear.

Seeing Sixth Brother didn’t return, I shouted again, “Come back! Don’t go with her! Grandfather said you mustn’t go near her!”

Suddenly, the window slammed shut with a bang, yanked by a powerful hand. I was pulled away from the window.

Grandfather, face dark, glared at me and snapped, “What are you shouting for?”

“Sixth Brother is following that old woman into the mountains!” I blurted.

“Your Sixth Brother is already dead! That’s not him. Go to sleep! And never open the window again!”

“But I really saw him!”

“Sleep! If you don’t listen, I’ll spank you!”

Hearing that, I fell silent. Though he’d never hit me, I was still afraid. If he did, it meant he was truly angry.

I obediently lay down. Grandfather didn’t leave; he stayed in my room.

From the mountains came the intermittent sounds of footsteps, sometimes clear, sometimes faint, drawing near and drifting away, as if someone was circling our house, never leaving for long.

From the next night on, grandfather made me sleep in his room.

A few days later, I was playing with friends in the village and heard distant funeral music—the sound of flutes and drums meant someone had died.

It was far away, not from our village. Curious, we ran to the village entrance and saw the sound came from a neighboring village.

Only adults’ funerals had such music. The sound lasted most of the day and faded by afternoon, meaning it was a simple burial; the deceased must have been under sixty.

That night, I heard the rustling footsteps again. I snuck out of bed, pressed to the window, and saw the ghostly blue lantern wandering the mountains. The old blind woman walked slowly into the deep forest, with a tall, sturdy figure following her. I couldn’t tell who it was.

Smack! My forehead was struck. Grandfather dragged me from the window: “Still peeking? If I catch you again, I’ll spank you raw!”

He pulled me back to bed. “Sleep!”

It was the first time he’d ever hit me. I didn’t dare even breathe loudly and hurried to sleep.

But my mind wouldn’t quiet. Who had followed the old crone into the mountains this time? What happened to Sixth Brother?

Later, I overheard the adults talking and learned that the deceased in the neighboring village was a robust man in his forties, healthy and strong, who had suddenly died. His body was pale all over, eyes sunken and black, with a dark impression on his chest.

People whispered about ghosts, saying his heart was stolen by an old spirit.

That family had apparently asked my grandfather to come, but he refused, and the matter ended there.

Not long after, word spread that another person had died, this time a swaddled infant.

Again, the same symptoms: body pale, eyes sunken and black, a dark mark on the chest.

The infant’s parents were educated and called the police.

The adults whispered that the police said it was sudden death, nothing unusual, the heart was still there.

That night, I once again heard footsteps, but this time, there was also the intermittent crying of a baby.

The old blind woman had taken the baby! I thought.

I wanted to look, but feared my grandfather, so I resisted.

The footsteps and the baby’s thin cries drifted near and far, circling endlessly, never leaving. Sometimes, I felt as if they were just outside the window, and could faintly hear a hoarse, rasping cough.