Chapter Two: The Night Road

The moment I saw that corpse, my face turned pale with fright. My grandmother had warned me never to enter the river when encountering a floating body, no matter what. And when faced with a corpse that seemed to be walking into the river as if surrendering, the only option was to immediately move away from the riverbank and flee for your life!

Zhang Yidan followed my gaze and saw the eerie corpse that had suddenly appeared beside Huang Dong. He immediately shouted loudly, “You idiot, Huang Dong! Get out of there! Don’t you see the dead body next to you?”

All the kids were terrified. Huang Dong’s face was pale as well, but since his family lived near the river, he had seen floating corpses before. Relying on his status as the leader of our class, Huang Dong stiffened his face and boldly said, “Coward Zhang Yidan, you always brag about your courage, why are you so scared? Haven’t you ever seen a dead body? This river has one or two floating corpses every month.”

No sooner had he spoken than his friend beside him was suddenly dragged beneath the water as if disappearing, with bubbles immediately rising to the surface!

Huang Dong’s face turned green with terror. Zhang opened his mouth to call for help, but suddenly something grabbed his foot, pulling him violently into the water. Living by the river, he was a strong swimmer and initially thought it was just some underwater plants snagging him. But when he tried to swim away, he was swiftly pulled under.

“Huang Dong!” Zhang Yidan, full of loyalty, instinctively ignored all else and immediately jumped in to save his friend.

I stood on the riverbank, helplessly watching Huang Dong and his friend being dragged under by that strange corpse. Apart from being powerless, a chilling sensation rose behind me, almost like an alarm.

“Yidan, don’t get yourself killed! Run! Go find an adult!” I grabbed Zhang Yidan and ran. I had seen that eerie corpse’s hollow eyes seemingly staring right at me. If I stayed any longer, something unimaginable was bound to happen.

Zhang Yidan was dragged along. The other kids, too terrified to try rescuing anyone, cried as they ran with us. Eventually, we found some adults by the riverbank and reported the incident to the police.

I didn’t dare follow. From a distance, I pointed to the spot where the boys had fallen in and held Zhang Yidan back.

The next day, the principal informed us with a heavy heart that Huang Dong and his friend had drowned. I later heard from the adults that when they were pulled from the water, both boys’ eyes were wide open. Tragically, one of the rescuers also died. It wasn’t until the police arrived that the matter was settled.

Zhang Yidan and some other kids were grateful to have survived. After that, they obeyed me completely and never dared swim in the river again.

At that time, I wondered if the watery reflection pulling at my clothes was the child bride my grandmother had arranged for me.

Could she be not human, but a ghost?

To understand the invisible bride, I, still very young, grew curious about my grandmother’s magic. Over the years, I studied all her old books, learning many novel methods of exorcism, summoning spirits, and even raising ghosts.

Though my grandmother knew I was delving into her secrets, she never stopped me for reasons unknown.

Unfortunately, even though I knew these mystical arts, I never had the chance to practice or verify them until university and work came along.

Perhaps it was because my life had once been guarded by my all-powerful grandmother and now by the constant “warnings” of my unseen bride, that life remained calm and uneventful, leaving me no opportunity to wield these arts.

However, the knowledge I should have forgotten over time resurfaced after my grandmother passed away, forcing me to use these arts—and ultimately brought great calamity, dragging me into the eerie profession known as “ghost-rearing.”

It was July 16th that year, and I was in my twenties.

I received a letter from my grandmother, saying she would not survive past July 14th. She urged me not to attend the funeral, never to return to the village, to forget everyone and everything there, and to never come back—only then could I live safely and peacefully.

The letter had been forwarded by my mother. Judging by the date and today’s time, if I believed the letter, my grandmother had been dead for two days.

Except for those whose death date is fixed—by some curse or suicide—no one can predict their own death. My impression of grandmother was that she was almost omnipotent. How could she have fixed her own death date?

Her home was remote and without phone service. My mother, who lived in the county seat, visited often and knew grandmother’s condition best.

So I didn’t believe the letter. I called my mother and told her what it said.

I asked about grandmother’s recent health—whether she had shown signs of illness or dementia—and about the village’s situation, whether neighbors were well or if there were conflicts.

My mother was surprised but not worried. She said she had just visited grandmother recently, who was in good health, and brought back some eggs and sticky rice. The neighbors were friendly, and the farewell was warm.

I frowned, recalling a dream I had two nights before, where grandmother appeared pale with a little girl in red sitting on her shoulder. The girl smiled and waved but said nothing.

I tried to approach, but my bride’s hand held me back. I wanted to look at her face, but I couldn’t turn my head.

I woke drenched in sweat and inexplicably sad.

Over twenty years, whenever danger came, my bride had helped me escape harm. But what did this dream mean? What had happened to grandmother?

After much thought, I decided to return to grandmother’s home. I hadn’t been back for nearly a year. Even if it was dangerous, I couldn’t ignore it.

The letter’s handwriting was messy but distinctly grandmother’s. Inside was an old yellow talisman with brownish characters.

I recognized this kind of talisman—it was written in human blood and darkened with age.

As a child, I often played with grandmother’s books on talismans, so I was sensitive to such things.

Studying it carefully, I realized this talisman was a “Spirit Communication Talisman,” used to ward off demons and connect with spirits.

Crucially, it was written with the essence of the middle finger, reducing lifespan. Such talismans were powerful and rarely used unless absolutely necessary.

Perhaps grandmother meant for me to avoid demons, to not rush headlong into danger, or maybe it was to protect the letter itself.

Regardless, this unusual act worried me deeply.

Besides, my job at a struggling shopping mall gallery was unstable. The boss often threatened to fire me for my silence.

This gave me a reason to leave. Without explanation, I didn’t collect my last paycheck. After work, I packed and caught the express bus back to grandmother’s village.

My mother lived in a different direction, so I didn’t tell her. I feared she would worry, especially since my intuition felt uneasy.

Intuition, or the sixth sense, is hard to explain but often means foresight.

Grandmother’s village, Xiaoyitun, had only about twenty households and was nestled deep in the mountains, inaccessible by normal transport.

To reach the village, you had to travel several kilometers of dirt road from Kanglong Village, which became impassable in rain.

When I arrived at Kanglong Village by minivan, the weather was clear, just a thick fog reducing visibility.

I checked my digital watch: 6 p.m. The southern sky darkened late, so it wouldn’t be fully night until after 8. If I reached Xiaoyitun before then, I could still have a hot meal.

With that thought, I hoisted my small pack and set off along the narrow path.

“Young man, it’s late. Are you heading to Xiaoyitun?” an elderly man called out kindly as I walked down the village’s remote lane.

“I’m visiting family.”

“It’s late. You should stay here tonight. This road is dangerous after dark,” he warned, hesitation flickering on his face.

I knew what he meant: Xiaoyitun was the last settlement on this land, barely a village at all. Outsiders rarely came unless visiting relatives. Over time, stories spread that the place was eerie, haunted by unclean spirits. So no one dared walk the night road to Xiaoyitun, no matter the urgency.

But they didn’t know Xiaoyitun like I did. I had spent most of my life there. No strangers lived inside. When I studied in town, it was common to return to Xiaoyitun at eight or nine o’clock at night.

As a child, naïve and fearless, and with grandmother’s tacit approval, I was used to walking alone at night.

Seeing my resolve, the old man didn’t press further. No one liked to control others, especially those going to Xiaoyitun.

What was Xiaoyitun? According to stories told by old neighbor Zhang, before the founding of the country, further beyond Xiaoyitun was a small town wiped out by plague, leaving no survivors. Xiaoyitun itself was once just a corpse storage yard outside that town, abandoned for countless years until grandmother arrived and revived the place into a small hamlet of less than twenty households.

Of course, I never took the story seriously.

The night was cool and still. The narrow path was difficult, bordered by dense bushes and trees. The wind rustled the leaves, and occasional night birds cried out, lending an eerie atmosphere.

The fog was thick enough that beyond six or seven meters, nothing was clear. Even if a familiar figure approached silently, one would see only a shadow.

Step, step, step.

I heard footsteps—or perhaps the sound of an animal moving through the brush—nearby. I didn’t know when it began, but the sound followed me.

Not particularly superstitious, I stopped, worried a snake or wild creature might be nearby. I broke off a branch to hold as a makeshift weapon.

When I paused, the sound also stopped, surprising me. I thought of old friends who used to prank me on my night walks and smiled to myself before moving on.

The footsteps resumed, and I wondered if it was Zhang Yidan, who as a kid often caught field mice at night and liked to play tricks. But now I heard he was married—maybe he was out hunting for his wife’s supper.

As I moved through the fog, a black figure blocked the path ahead. From behind, I recognized the silhouette and my expression darkened. It was Zhang Yidan, a friend from childhood with whom I had once been close.