Chapter Sixty-Four: The Murder Case

The tale of the ghostly opera grew ever more widespread, stirring fear among the people; no one dared send their children to school anymore. The construction of the schoolhouse had to be suspended. The principal was at a loss. Upon learning of this, Mr. Meng contacted Gu Yangyu, who informed Old Ma, and thus we made this journey.

“Old Ma, what do you think is happening?” Mr. Meng asked.

“I haven’t seen the situation myself, so I can’t say for certain. But since the trouble started when construction began, perhaps something was unearthed. Let’s take a look first,” Old Ma replied.

The elementary school was in a distant county, and it took several hours to drive from the city. No wonder Mr. Meng was so anxious to come.

The school wasn’t particularly remote, but it was hard to find. As we approached, a middle-aged man in a camouflage jacket stood on the roadside, his face clouded with worry. Seeing our car, he waved hurriedly.

The driver stopped. Mr. Meng slid down the window and leaned out: “Old Ding, what are you doing here?”

Old Ding answered anxiously, “Boss Meng, something happened—something terrible!”

“What happened?”

“There’s been a death!”

I shuddered, instantly alert.

Old Ma and Gu Yangyu both turned to Old Ding. Mr. Meng’s expression changed: “What’s going on? Who died?”

“Right at the construction site—a student! They found him early this morning. The police are here, the whole site is cordoned off, Principal Wu is being questioned, and I was told to wait for you and tell you not to go in!”

“A student died! How?”

“It was gruesome, I don’t know who could be so heartless. You’d best head back for now,” Old Ding said, still shaken, the memory of the scene clearly unsettling him.

“No! If something happened to a student, I must go!” Mr. Meng insisted.

Old Ding tried to persuade him further, but Mr. Meng signaled the driver to continue.

I hadn’t expected such a thing to happen upon our arrival. It seemed the ghostly opera would not proceed. Old Ding was terrified—just how did the child die?

We drove to the school gate, got out, and walked in. The campus was small; the excavated construction site was clearly visible, cordoned off and surrounded by police. The coroner was examining the body, his figure blocking our view; I could only make out a red, blood-soaked patch.

“Who are you? There’s been a homicide here, you need to leave,” a policeman came over to shoo us away.

“I’m the donor who funded this school’s construction, Meng Chengde. What happened here?” Mr. Meng replied.

The policeman paused, sizing him up, then asked uncertainly, “Are you the Meng Boss who’s been on TV?”

Before Meng Chengde could respond, a middle-aged woman hurried over. “Boss Meng, why have you come? I told Old Ding to wait for you and tell you not to come.”

She must be Principal Wu. Her clothes were plain, her face drawn, eyes red—she had clearly just been crying.

“Principal Wu, what happened?” Meng Chengde asked.

Principal Wu choked back tears. “I don’t know. I came early this morning and saw... saw what happened…”

The coroner stood up, and I caught sight of the corpse. My heart jolted, and I involuntarily drew in a sharp breath.

The child’s body was mangled, flesh and bone torn apart, the ribcage exposed and sinister. The abdomen was ripped open, empty, the organs gone. Blood soaked the ground, seeping into the yellow earth, a scene so horrifying it chilled the soul.

It was truly dreadful! Who could have done such a thing?

A plainclothes officer approached, and the previous policeman stepped aside. The newcomer seemed to recognize Meng Chengde. “Boss Meng, what brings you here?”

“I’m the donor for this school. I came to check on things. What’s the situation?”

“We can’t disclose details. The police are investigating. Please head back for today.”

Meng Chengde glanced at the corpse, sighed, and said, “Then I’ll leave it to you to solve the case quickly.”

He turned and walked toward the gate. We followed.

I glanced back at the body and saw those bloodied, wide-open eyes staring right at me! I startled, then realized it was just the angle—the child’s twisted face was turned toward us, his eyes fixed on the gate.

I quickly averted my gaze and hurried out.

Outside the gate, Old Ma frowned, lost in thought. I asked quietly, “Is there something wrong here?”

He didn’t answer, just shook his head, leaving his meaning unclear.

Old Ma looked to Meng Chengde. “Given the situation, the ghostly opera is unlikely to proceed. What are your plans?”

Meng Chengde hesitated, glancing at Gu Yangyu. Gu seemed to understand, shaking his head gently. “Sorry, our tradition only divines matters of spirits, omens, fortune and misfortune—not human affairs.”

Meng Chengde sighed. “If that’s the case, so be it. Still, the ghostly opera must go on. I’ll leave it to you. But since we can’t investigate inside, is it possible?”

Old Ma waved his hand. “No problem. It’ll be a bit harder, but nothing serious. Xiao Gu, I’ll leave it to you.”

Gu Yangyu nodded. I wasn’t sure what they meant.

We could no longer inspect the site, but the ghostly opera would proceed. Originally, Principal Wu had arranged lodging for us at the school, but with a homicide, staying there was out of the question.

There were no hotels or inns nearby, so we had to rely on Old Ding. He was strongly opposed to us staying, fearing for our safety after the incident, but Meng Chengde was determined, and Old Ding had no choice.

Old Ding was the school’s security guard. His home was near the campus, small and with few spare rooms—at most, he could offer two. Our group, including the driver, numbered five, so it wouldn’t be enough. Old Ding spoke to his neighbor, and I went with Old Ma to stay next door.

The neighbors were a couple in their thirties, with a son who attended the elementary school, now staying home since classes had been suspended.

We ate dinner with the family. Their son was unusually silent, his lips tightly pressed, looking anxious and uneasy—his behavior quite strange.

“He’s been like this since coming home this morning. This kind of thing would frighten anyone,” the mother said, stroking her son’s head with concern.

I watched the boy; his anxiety was palpable. His mother’s touch didn’t calm him, but made him even more tense, his hands clenched beneath the table. I grew suspicious—was he really just scared?