Volume One, Chapter Four: Dumbfounded

As soon as I entered the girl’s room, a peculiar fragrance wafted toward me. It was unlike any perfume—unique and intoxicating in a subtle way.

Glancing at the girl, I could sense her expression at that moment—utter shock.

She lay sprawled on the kang, limbs extended in a star shape, completely uncovered. Her eyes were vacant and dull, but her expression was intriguing—it was the kind of look you only see in certain films about everyday life, one that spoke of unfulfilled desire.

After just one look, I hurried back to Master Ma.

“So, what did you see?”

“Nothing unusual, just the scent in the room felt off.”

“What kind of scent?”

“That room had a fragrance, but once you stepped out, it disappeared.”

Master Ma nodded slightly and asked, “Anything else?”

I tentatively said, “The scent reminded me somewhat of the fresh aroma of herbs.”

Master Ma’s body trembled slightly; he narrowed his eyes to examine me carefully before slowly saying, “Not bad, not bad. You have a keen perception.”

Then his body shook violently, as if struck by electricity, but within seconds he regained his composure, twisted his neck, and his voice returned to normal.

“Nothing to worry about. There’s hope.”

The couple who owned the house sighed in relief, their faces showing obvious release from tension. The woman hurriedly asked, “What are your instructions, Immortal? We will follow them.”

Master Ma relaxed his expression. “This is a tricky matter, but not impossible. Your daughter stepped on someone’s remains when she went up the mountain. The spirit wants to drag her to the underworld as a bride.”

“What? What do we do then?” the woman asked anxiously.

The man, sensing the gravity, pulled out five hundred yuan from beneath the kang mat and handed it to Master Ma.

I was shocked—that was a substantial sum. For a migrant worker, it might take over two weeks to earn that much; a farming family’s annual income rarely exceeded four thousand yuan. To me, five hundred yuan was astronomical.

Unexpectedly, Master Ma waved it away. The man tried to place the money at the Taoist’s feet, but Master Ma firmly refused. The woman rushed forward to hand it to me, urging me to keep it.

Master Ma snapped sharply, “Don’t bother with that nonsense. No money. First, let’s handle the main issue.”

I was taken aback, unsure how to gauge Master Ma’s character.

Was he a fraud? Yet he refused money. Was he genuine? One moment a monk, the next a Taoist—he was enigmatic.

The woman insisted on giving money, but I certainly could not accept it.

Master Ma gestured toward the table. “Let’s eat first, and talk while we eat.”

“Yes, yes, eat first. Wife, warm up the dishes. I and Immortal Ma will have a drink.”

During the meal, I didn’t even look up; my chopsticks moved almost artistically. I clearly remembered every dish that night: chicken stewed with mushrooms, pork belly with green beans, pork and cabbage with vermicelli stew, spicy green peppers with dried tofu, radish soup with meatballs...

In my understanding then, even the Jade Emperor himself wouldn’t disdain such fare—especially those meatballs, which could almost melt in the mouth.

After a cup of wine, Master Ma began to explain the entire situation in detail.

It turned out the girl had stepped not on ordinary remains, but on the bones of a ginseng harvester from the late Qing dynasty.

If they were ordinary bones, a Taoist’s scare tactics and a little offering could have exorcised the attached foul spirit.

But a late Qing ginseng harvester was different—a formidable ghost, known in the trade as a “faceless one.”

“Faceless one” had a dual meaning: a vengeful spirit who spared no one’s dignity and would not rest until tormenting someone to death. Such spirits were notoriously difficult for ordinary exorcists to dispel.

Ginseng harvesters of that era were a hardy breed. They ventured into the mountains as early as March or April and stayed until the first heavy snow, often not returning until October.

That meant living deep in the wilderness for nearly half a year.

Transportation was poor, and there were few settlements—just primeval forest.

Stepping into those mountains was akin to stepping into the gates of hell.

Beyond threats of bandits and tigers, one wrong step—or simply getting lost—could doom a person. Endless sea of trees, indistinguishable surroundings, no paths; a single wrong turn was a sentence to freeze or starve to death.

The harvesters usually traveled in groups of several to a dozen, watching out for each other.

Upon entering the mountain, their leader would dig a cellar covered with dry branches and leaves, called the “Old Master’s Mansion” within the trade.

This “mansion” served as a mountain shrine; the harvesters knelt before it, spoke kind words, and some even brought pig heads as offerings, hoping for protection and a bountiful harvest of the prized “big ginseng roots.”

The “mansion” also provided shelter—essentially a dugout hut that shielded them from the wind and rain and concealed their whereabouts. Whether bandits or tigers, either was a deadly threat.

Think about it—anyone who could live months in such a cellar deep in the mountains was no ordinary mortal.

These were men who drank with the King of Hell and slept with mischievous spirits.

In the local dialect, these men were called “tough nuts” who, alive, risked their lives recklessly, and dead, became even more impenetrable vengeful ghosts.

Moreover, having died far from home, their bodies left to rot in the wilderness, the spirits of these harvesters bore even deeper grudges.

The chance of attracting a faceless one formed from a ginseng harvester was less than one in ten.

As Master Ma spoke, the couple’s faces turned pale. The woman knelt down in desperation.

Master Ma helped her up. “If I encounter this, I won’t ignore it. Your daughter’s symptoms have only lasted half a year—there’s no immediate danger. I will handle the rest. If I don’t return in ten days, seek help elsewhere.”

“What? What do we do then? Immortal Ma, you must help us. Why wait ten days?”

Master Ma took a long sip of wine and said gruffly, “I’m going out to find medicinal herbs. There’s a ninety-percent chance I’ll return. If I haven’t come back by this time in ten days, it means I died out there. Then you must find someone else.”

“Is it really that difficult? Can’t we just burn paper money or use a substitute? Can’t we buy the herbs?” the woman asked incredulously.

“No. This is no easy task. Trust me—wait ten days. That’s all. Let’s go.”

After leaving, I asked Master Ma what herbs he needed. He rattled off a long list, but I couldn’t catch a single word.

Slightly intoxicated, Master Ma rode his bike with a staggering gait on the winding mountain roads. The path twisted in continuous S-curves. Perhaps due to the alcohol, the old Taoist displayed surprising vigor. In places without light, he even stood up, pedaling fiercely, making me ready to jump off at any moment.

Master Ma’s home was tucked in a mountain hollow, with fewer than fifty households in the entire village. His house was quaint and old-fashioned: three tiled rooms, a kitchen in the middle, bedrooms on either side, and one western room used as a storage space.

How dilapidated was the house? Look up from the kitchen, and you could see countless stars twinkling in the night sky.

Had I read “Ghost Blows Out the Light” back then, I would have insisted on lighting a candle in the southeast corner before entering, suspecting the place to be haunted.

Master Ma staggered indoors, walked to the water jar, gulped down half a dipper of water, then collapsed on the kang, falling soundly asleep.

I looked around Master Ma’s home, feeling a tightness in my chest. It was utterly bare—no possessions, not even a feather. The only furniture was a battered rectangular cabinet that looked older than my great-grandfather.

If I were trapped in the same pot with Master Ma, we’d be lucky to eat or drink anything. Poverty had nearly drained him dry.

No, I couldn’t go along with him—how else would I ever earn money and marry?