Chapter Sixty-Six: The Little Imp

I took the flashlight and made my way to the elementary school. The main gate was already locked, so I circled around and climbed over the side wall. During the day, the police had already collected evidence and left, but the crime scene remained cordoned off, the large pool of blood still visible. I shone my flashlight over it, took a brief look, and the memory of those wide, staring eyes made me shudder. Quickly, I moved the beam away, unable to look any longer.

I found an inconspicuous corner, crouched down, and switched off the flashlight. In an environment like this, I was even less willing to give away my position with a light. The campus was shrouded in darkness; everything was deathly silent, so quiet that I could hear the pounding of my own heart. I kept my attention on the construction site, my nerves stretched tight. That was both the source of the haunting rumors and the scene of the recent murder—anyone with less courage would never dare come here alone.

Hidden in the shadows, I listened intently for any movement, not daring to make a sound. The murder had only happened here earlier today—if I were discovered now, I’d have a hard time explaining myself, and might even be mistaken for the killer.

Time ticked by, the night deepening, and my nerves wound tighter with each passing minute. I checked the time on my phone: ten minutes to midnight. The critical moment was almost upon me. I swallowed nervously and peeked out from my hiding spot, eyes on the pitch-black construction site, one hand pressed to the pocket where I kept the talisman paper, waiting for the arrival of the Child Performer’s Ghostly Opera.

The so-called child performers were a system from old Teochew opera troupes. In the late Qing dynasty, the art form was at its peak and troupes fully adopted the child performer system. Impoverished parents often sold their children to troupe leaders at around the age of ten for an average term of eight years. When their time was up, the children had just reached adulthood and their voices were changing, making them unsuitable for opera—at which point, the troupe would dismiss them.

Life for the child performers was harsh, filled with punishments, and carelessness could bring severe beatings. Many died unnatural deaths. The system was only abolished in the early 1950s with the introduction of reform policies.

Why would a child performer’s ghostly opera appear here? Was the construction site once a burial ground for these children, disturbed during excavation, their spirits emerging to wreak havoc?

The construction site remained still and silent, with no sign of any performance. I waited a long time, but nothing happened. Could it be that nothing would appear tonight?

Suddenly—thud!—the sound of someone landing. Someone had just climbed over the wall!

I instantly tensed, holding my breath, focusing on the direction of the sound. The footsteps were light, heading toward the construction site. The first thought that flashed through my mind was the murderer returning—the thought made my nerves snap taut, and I hardly dared to breathe.

The footsteps grew more distant, confirming my guess—they were indeed moving toward the construction site.

“Oh!” A soft exclamation. I jolted—was that a woman?

A beam of light flicked on ahead, and sure enough, a tall, striking young woman appeared. Her figure was curvy and elegant, with long wine-red curls cascading down her back. She wore a short black leather jacket and black shorts, her long white legs accentuated by a pair of knee-high black heeled boots.

She had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but even so, I was surprised—since when did murderers look so tall and stunning?

It seemed she’d tripped on the police tape, which was why she’d turned on her light to check. She muttered something, then easily stepped over the tape with her long legs and crouched by the pool of blood, murmuring to herself.

I was too far away to hear clearly, but caught fragments: “pity,” “strange,” “damn.”

She stood up, walked a few steps away, and slipped her phone—flashlight still on—into her jacket pocket, letting it stick out to illuminate her path. She started moving her hands, chanting under her breath, though I couldn’t tell what she was doing. After a moment, she intoned a command and abruptly squatted down, slapping her hand against the ground.

I watched, bewildered by her actions.

Suddenly, a small, pale hand reached up out of the earth. My heart jolted and my eyes widened. The woman looked at the hand, still chanting.

A second pale little hand appeared, left and right—a pair of human hands. They began to squirm, slowly struggling to pull themselves out of the ground. Bit by bit, wrists emerged, then arms, gradually revealed.

I swallowed hard, my heart thundering in my chest. The ground looked undisturbed—how could anyone be beneath it? And no ordinary person would crawl out so slowly, inch by inch. The hands were deathly white, their movements unnaturally stiff.

Soon, a head emerged, tangled hair obscuring the face. Using its hands, the figure dragged itself out—clearly a child.

My heart was in my throat, but the woman didn’t seem afraid at all—in fact, I could sense her excitement.

The figure crawled faster, more of its body slipping free. It was a small child.

The woman stopped chanting and stood, studying the eerie child climbing out from underground. She took something from her pocket—a slip of paper, a talisman! But it was much smaller than the ones Old Ma had given me.

She approached the child and slapped the talisman onto its body.

I was completely bewildered—what on earth was happening? What was this woman doing?

Once the talisman touched the child, it suddenly looked up at her. The woman exclaimed, “Not good!” In an instant, the child sprang from the earth, leaping at her!

She stumbled back in panic, flicking both hands—dark powder scattered from her sleeves. The child dodged the powder, landing lightly. It was thin and frail, perhaps seven or eight years old, dressed in ragged clothes, hair wild and disheveled—a bizarre and terrifying sight.

The woman fled, vaulting over the police tape and running for the wall. The child lifted its stiff arms and, toes barely touching the ground, darted after her with uncanny speed.

I was stunned—if that was a human child, I’d eat my own name backwards!

The child ghost was gaining ground. The woman swung her arms again, scattering more dark powder, but this time, the child merely paused for an instant before charging through—it wasn’t afraid of the powder at all! It must have dodged earlier only out of caution.

Its rigid little hands reached for the woman’s arm. She twisted aside, narrowly dodging, and swiftly drew another talisman, slapping it onto the child. In that moment, I finally saw her face—strikingly beautiful, matching her figure.

The child ghost froze. The woman, clutching her chest, looked at it with lingering fear, barely able to catch her breath. But before she could relax, the talisman suddenly burst into flames, turning to ash in an instant, and the child ghost lunged at her again.

She gasped in horror and fled blindly—directly toward me. The child ghost pursued relentlessly, moving with unnatural speed. The campus wasn’t large; soon they were right in front of me, but hidden in my corner, they couldn’t see me. The ghost child closed in on her, and in desperation, she flung out another handful of powder—I saw it clearly this time, bright vermilion.

But the powder had no effect. The child ghost lunged at her.

“Aaah!” the woman screamed.

To save or not to save—this question flashed through my mind for a split second before I made my decision.

I sprang out, rushed forward, grabbed her arm and yanked her back, while with my other hand I slapped my ghost-repelling talisman at the ghost child!