Chapter Twenty-Six: Desperate Struggle

I stared intently at Erjun Wang, my fists clenched tight. In my heart, I knew perfectly well why he had broken down after what had happened to him—his despair was justified. But his collapse had dragged my own family to the very brink of ruin. I stood at the threshold of our courtyard, making no move to approach him. He kept waving me over, yet after a dozen seconds, I shook my head and stepped inside. I had no right to blame him, but at this moment, I simply could not stand beside him and talk.

After entering the house, I carefully secured the enamel bowl I’d brought, then left home. Not even two minutes had passed before I realized that Erjun Wang was no longer waiting in the middle of the road. By now, night had fully fallen. The sky was shrouded in mist, the moon half veiled and casting an eerie, sinister glow. Days of rain had chilled the air, and the village path was so sodden that each step squeezed water from the earth.

I kept pressing a hand to my chest, afraid my courage would fail me. In our village, nearly every household kept cats. Their numbers multiplied rapidly, and when the females were in heat, they hardly returned home. If they did, it was often with swollen bellies. No family could care for so many cats—some were given away, but the ugly, unwanted ones were simply abandoned in the hills to fend for themselves.

The place with the most cats was the dump behind the village. In the past, every household threw garbage by the riverbank, but after new policies came, a waste station was built. Where refuse gathered, rats multiplied, and cats lurked nearby, waiting to pounce. In a few minutes, I reached the village dump. The stench drifted in and out with the breeze, making me hold my nose for fear I might vomit. In the heap, rats scurried in search of food, their gray fur and bare tails gleaming in the dim moonlight, their sneaky, beady eyes making the scene all the more unsettling.

On the brick fence nearby, several calico cats paced leisurely, their sharp eyes trained at every movement within the trash. My heart skipped—why were there so few cats tonight? Normally, at least a dozen prowled the area after dark. Where would Liu of the White Funeral and the malignant spirit be hiding?

I glanced around; the dump was unusually quiet. The mist had begun to thin, allowing a stream of moonlight to fall. Suddenly, I sensed something sinister behind me, as if unseen eyes were fixed on my back. I whipped around—and saw a pitch-black cat. Every hair on its body was jet black, except for its eyes, which glowed with slitted pupils and a hint of yellow.

Goosebumps prickled my skin. Black dogs ward off evil; black cats invite spirits. In the countryside, people keep black dogs but never black cats. The black cat stared at me coldly, devoid of any warmth. It rose slowly, leapt onto a branch, and vanished toward the back hill.

My heart pounded faster; this cat unnerved me, filling me with a nameless dread and oppression. At that moment, I felt a distinct shove at my back. My heart skipped again—no one could possibly be behind me, not at this hour, not at the dump. I was certain I’d heard no footsteps.

The feeling was eerily familiar—just like when I’d stood beneath the old peach tree at the village entrance and been pushed. Without a pause, I dashed after the black cat’s retreating figure.

Within two or three minutes, I arrived at the foot of the back hill, before an abandoned earth god’s shrine. The shrine was small, barely reaching my shoulders and just over two meters long, the inside pitch-black and unreadable. An adult would have to stoop to enter. As children, I’d often come here with Erjun Wang to pilfer offerings. The shrine was the main source of treats for most of the village children.

A dozen or so feral cats eyed me warily from the roof of the shrine, their fur bristling. The black cat slipped inside. Offerings were neatly arranged at the entrance, incense burning. Strangely, though the incense was burning in the open and there was no wind, all the white smoke curled straight into the shrine.

My heart beat faster. This had to be the place with the most strays—was the malignant spirit inside? The black cat, with its chilling aura, had gone in; it had to be here. But where was Liu of the White Funeral? My heart thudded in my throat; perhaps it was best if Liu wasn’t here. Then I could act.

Fear and anxiety spread through me, sweat beading on my forehead. I held my breath to keep it steady and crept closer, stooping to peer inside. At that moment, a shrill yowl split the air and all the cats scattered. I braced myself for the spirit, silently praying for protection, for safety.

The closer I drew, the fouler the smell. From a distance, it was incense and candles, but up close, it was overpowering—the buildup of years’ worth of soot and grime. Beyond the stench, a chilling, sinister air pervaded the shrine.

Just as I poked my head inside, screwing up my courage to look around, I found myself staring straight into a hideous, contorted face. Sunken eye sockets, shrunken eyeballs, skin the color of a long-dead pig’s hide—this was the face of a corpse! A foul odor wafted over me.

It was Old Man Zhou! Not his spirit, but his body—the corpse itself!

How had Old Man Zhou’s remains ended up in the shrine? And then, suddenly, his hand shot up, clamping around my neck. I’d half-crawled into the shrine and had no time to react. As he grasped me, he lunged, dragging us both tumbling out of the shrine.

Old Man Zhou’s hands locked around my throat, rigid and unmoving, not squeezing tighter but frozen in place.

Terror nearly snatched the soul from my body. I struggled with all my strength and, to my surprise, broke free. The corpse rocked for a moment, then collapsed motionless to the earth.

A black, shadowy form slowly seeped from his body. My scalp prickled. This was Old Man Zhou’s ghost—he’d simply hidden in the corpse until now. His form was even more wretched, nothing but skin and bone, eyes bulging, his face twisted in a ghastly snarl as he drifted toward me.

My instincts screamed at me to run, but I remembered Old Lady Li’s words and forced myself to stay. I pulled out the enamel bowl I’d prepared and fumbled for a knife, but found none. Shards of pottery littered the ground; I could only grab one and ready myself to slice my own arm. Just half a bowl of blood—that was all Old Man Zhou needed to leave me in peace. The thought blotted out everything else.

I brought the shard down, but at that very moment, an uncanny force stopped me, holding my hand fast and keeping the pottery from cutting my skin.

“Courting death,” came a cold, clear voice at my ear. A pale, graceful figure appeared beside me without a sound, drifting toward Old Man Zhou.

A flash of malice and fear twisted Old Man Zhou’s face. In an instant, he lunged at the figure. My heart nearly leapt out of my throat. Yet the apparition only spoke coolly, “You have no sense of your own peril.”

To me, that voice was not only salvation—it was celestial music.

From Old Man Zhou’s body came a venomous moan: “If I must die… I’ll drag you with me!” He flung himself at her, and at that moment, several other black shadows materialized, rushing at her as well.

My face drained of color and I shouted, “Watch out!” For these were the ghosts of the village chief’s family, all but the youngest son, whose body had been left behind after killing Carpenter Wang.

The woman’s shadow drifted back, Old Man Zhou in pursuit, the other ghosts close behind. My heart pounded with dread, especially as she glanced back at me before vanishing into the night.

The ghosts of Old Man Zhou and the chief’s family followed, and before the shrine, silence descended once more—an eerie, dreadful stillness, with Old Man Zhou’s corpse lying nearby.

Now I understood—she had drawn them all away for my sake.