Chapter Two: Ballad

Day after day went by.

On the first day, the village children chanted rhymes, cursing Liu the Funeral Man for stealing years from the dead. Soon after, people began cursing the village chief too, saying that treating his own father this way was utterly heartless—he would die within three days, they said.

But nothing happened to the chief. Instead, a large box of old gold was discovered in the dry well of his courtyard. It was Liu the Funeral Man who told the chief about it.

He said this must have been the money the old man prepared for himself to take to the afterlife. Since the old man had died a violent death and could not enter his home, naturally he could not take the money with him. In a way, this gold was heaven’s way of compensating the chief’s family for their loss; it would make their lives much easier.

The village chief was clearly relieved, and from then on, he no longer cared about the gossip and slander.

More good news followed: the chief’s youngest son, while working in the fields, dug up half a jar of old copper coins. These antiques were worth a fortune.

Liu the Funeral Man explained to the chief that this was money his father had buried to bribe the underworld, in hopes of returning home. But, he said, under no circumstances should they let him come back.

In the coming days, the family would have strange dreams, perhaps even witness odd happenings—these were the signs of the old man turning into a ghost. All they needed to do was endure these few days, send him off properly on the seventh night, and the matter would be over.

At first, those who had spread gossip in the village were still restless, but seeing the chief’s family suddenly wealthy, their eyes turned green with envy. They rushed to the chief’s home to apologize, and then came to my house seeking Liu the Funeral Man, hoping for tips on how to get lucky themselves.

Why had they not encountered such fortune when their own families lost someone? Why had there been no gold or antiques for them?

Liu the Funeral Man had my father close the door to all visitors, seeing no one.

The village chief sent over a small piece of gold, but Liu the Funeral Man resolutely refused it, saying he couldn’t spend such money. This was heaven’s way of making it up to the chief’s family; if he took it, our own family would suffer misfortune.

The chief trusted and respected Liu the Funeral Man even more, promising that after his father was buried, he would make sure my father got two extra plots of village land.

My stepmother and father were overjoyed, beaming with laughter every day.

The chief’s family, too, seemed far less mournful—as though they were celebrating a great happiness rather than grieving a loss.

By all accounts, Liu the Funeral Man had done no wrong, and the chief’s promise to give us land was a stroke of good fortune. Yet I couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling, as though something was about to happen.

It was around the seventh day after the chief’s father’s death.

The seventh day—the soul’s return night—when the dead come back to take one last look at home.

Under Liu the Funeral Man’s direction, the chief found a few strong men, and at noon, when the sun was brightest, they dug a pit at the foot of the mountain on the burial mound and buried his father’s coffin there.

According to Liu the Funeral Man, “The mountain weighs down the ghost, and the ghost will not return. Let him go peacefully to reincarnate in the underworld.”

That evening, the chief hosted a funeral banquet.

Nearly the whole village attended, as well as relatives and friends from neighboring villages.

The dishes at the funeral banquet were bountiful, far more than at the birthday feast.

The chief showed no signs of sorrow; on the contrary, his face glowed. After a few drinks, he made a speech.

He said, more or less, that his father had lived to over a hundred, a full life. Everyone must die eventually. Now that he was gone, he had brought so much wealth to the family, allowing generations to enjoy prosperity. Even if he had become a ghost, he should be at peace.

As he spoke, the chief raised his cup, his tone growing impassioned: “Many wondered why I left my father’s coffin out in the sun, why I didn’t bring him into the house. If it weren’t for Liu the Funeral Man handling everything, my family would be ruined by now.”

The chief began looking for Liu the Funeral Man to offer him a drink, but by then, the seat where Liu should have been was empty.

My father and stepmother were at the same table, so naturally I was nearby.

“Xie Yuan, hurry home and fetch your grandfather,” my stepmother called.

She was a good ten years younger than my father; he was nearly fifty, she looked thirty-six or thirty-seven, still quite attractive by village standards, though always dressed in plain white or gray-black clothes, her face pale as paper, making her seem rather unapproachable.

My father, flushed from two cups of drink, urged me to run quickly.

I stuffed a few mouthfuls of rice into my mouth and set off for home.

The sky was just turning dark, pleasantly cool with a refreshing breeze.

I kept telling myself not to overthink things. Liu the Funeral Man and my stepmother made their living from funerals, but my stepmother had always been good to my father. I couldn’t expect him to remain alone forever—no man could.

Besides, Liu the Funeral Man had only one daughter, my stepmother, and my father only one son, me. They hadn’t had more children, so everything would one day be mine.

Lost in thought, I realized I had reached our gate.

The courtyard door, dark and shiny, was tightly shut.

I pushed it open and called out, “Grandpa! The feast has started! Dad and Stepmother said to hurry!”

The yard was empty, with only a few leftover bamboo chairs.

Liu the Funeral Man was nowhere to be seen.

Puzzled, I knocked on his door. Silence. No answer.

I called twice more—still nothing. I pushed gently at the door.

It creaked open just a crack before being stopped by something.

A wrinkled face, mottled with age spots, suddenly appeared in the gap.

“Stop shouting. I’ll go with you now,” Liu the Funeral Man croaked, his voice raspy as if his throat were torn.

He was always cold to me, and I rarely called him “Grandpa.”

A scent drifted into my nose—not the aroma of food, but the smell of incense and burning paper money.

I instinctively glanced into his room.

On the bedside table sat a bowl, streaked red and white, as though smeared with blood and rice.

Several sticks of incense were stuck into the rice—two short, one long…

My heart skipped a beat. That bowl, though blackened by soot, looked exactly like the silver bowl the chief’s father had before he died.

Liu the Funeral Man squeezed past me and grabbed my arm, leading me out to the yard.

I shuddered, sobering up, not daring to speak or ask questions, just keeping my head down as we walked back to the funeral.

Back at the banquet, the chief gave a long speech, repeatedly expressing his gratitude toward Liu the Funeral Man.

Liu the Funeral Man drank steadily, his face glowing with vigor.

The villagers who had once insulted him now came up to apologize and toast him, claiming their children knew no better.

They hoped Liu would offer them advice—perhaps move their ancestral graves, repair their old houses, and so turn their fortunes around.

My father seemed in high spirits, my stepmother all smiles.

I kept my head down, uneasy. Liu the Funeral Man’s face might look kindly, but I felt as though he were secretly watching me.

Whenever I sneaked a glance at him, our eyes would meet.

That image of the soot-stained silver bowl kept rising in my mind.

I remembered seeing the chief’s father use it, thinking if I could only steal it, I could eat out of it every day.

But soon after, the chief’s father died, and the silver bowl was swapped for an iron one.

Everyone had seen it, even the chief knew—someone had stolen the silver bowl, and with it, his father’s remaining years, causing his death.

Had they found the bowl during the funeral?

Did Liu the Funeral Man take it?

Or…was he the one who switched it in the first place? Was he the one who stole the chief’s father’s years?

The rumors and slanders about Liu the Funeral Man filled my head, and the more I thought about it, the more uneasy and frightened I became.

He’d killed the chief’s father, stolen his lifespan.

He’d taught the chief not to let the body into the house.

Now the chief looked radiant, the family joyful, but his father’s body lay at the foot of the mountain, exposed to sun and rain, restless even in burial.

After the banquet, most people left satisfied.

Liu the Funeral Man gave a few villagers some casual advice, and they thanked him profusely, promising that if their fortunes improved, they would never forget him.

Some even offered to marry their daughters to me, hoping to become in-laws.

I mumbled polite replies, keeping out of the conversation.

By the time the banquet ended, it was already after nine at night.

Everyone returned to their homes.

My stepmother helped my father inside, then went to bed.

Liu the Funeral Man squatted in the courtyard, making paper offerings out of yellow paper.

I curled up in my room, uneasy.

During the feast, I’d been forced to drink two cups of strong spirits, and now my head was spinning. I lay on my bed, eyes half-closed.

Somewhere between waking and sleeping, I drifted off.

I don’t know how long I slept, but a cold wind blew over me, making me shiver awake.

The room was pitch black, a sliver of moonlight at the window.

I badly needed to relieve myself. Hunching over, I got out of bed to head to the outhouse.

As I cracked the door open, my body suddenly froze, unable to move.

There, in the courtyard, someone was moving…

Liu the Funeral Man was bent over, creeping toward his room.

His movements were strange, the deathly spots on his face stark in the moonlight.

But it wasn’t him that terrified me.

It was what he was carrying on his back…