Chapter Fourteen: The Host

The thing Hongye handed me was an ultrasound image.

I must have looked at that ultrasound at least ten times. Though I couldn’t make out anything in it, I could certainly recognize the four characters the doctor had written beside it: “All is normal.”

“No problem, right? Don’t be too sensitive,” I reassured her.

But Hongye kept pointing at the photo, her tone dreadful as she insisted, “You—turn the picture upside down and look again!”

I did as she asked, slowly turning the image over…

And then, I saw the ghostly face of an infant.

That face seemed to be smiling in satisfaction; in its grin, you could see pitch-dark pupils and sharp canine teeth. It was hidden right there, among Hongye’s stomach and intestines.

Clearly, this was a hungry ghost!

At last, the source of the problem was found. I knew that this small ghostly face was the root of all the misfortune. As long as we dealt with it, everything would return to peace.

The three of us hurriedly went back to the doctor who had performed the ultrasound.

But the doctor’s answer left us in utter disappointment!

The bald old man had glanced at the image and told us it was nothing more than ordinary shadows and folds in the abdomen. Such coincidental patterns were rare, he said, but not without precedent. We needn’t worry, he insisted…

That bucket of cold water plunged us back into confusion.

There was no one to turn to! We knew that thing was the culprit, yet there was no scientific explanation?

“Go back and take your medicine,” I said, patting Hongye’s shoulder. “Let’s observe for a while before deciding anything.”

She nodded, and we returned to the county.

Yet on the way back, I couldn’t stop thinking. I tried to piece together everything that had happened and find the cause behind it all.

First, what was in Hongye’s belly couldn’t be explained by science—or at least, not by current science.

Second, this morning’s incident was caused by my method being inadequate. Although I kept comforting Hongye, deep down I knew my medicine might not cure her completely. If she had another relapse, I wouldn’t know what to do.

Everything was becoming more complicated.

As I put all these clues together, I suddenly realized I’d overlooked the most important question.

How on earth had Hongye come to be haunted by such an “unclean” thing?

I thought of Batulu, years ago. He’d become infested with worms after eating wild boar meat. But what had Hongye eaten to end up with an illness like this?

It struck me, to my dismay, that I’d ignored this most crucial question—I hadn’t even asked it.

How careless I’d been!

In the jolting car, I nudged the exhausted Hongye. “Hongye, can you remember if you’ve eaten any wild game lately? Like wild boar, pheasant, bass—anything unusual, anything less than clean.”

Her answer stunned me.

Holding her head, she shook it with difficulty.

She told me she was always careful with hygiene at meals, never ate wild game, and since she hadn’t worked in the county for long, she often ate at restaurants. But she’d never ordered anything extravagant; usually just a home-style dish, an egg soup—nothing out of the ordinary.

Her words left me with a sense of disappointment, but I urged her to think again, just in case nothing had been overlooked.

After offering a few more words of comfort, I turned my head to gaze out at the encroaching dusk.

Watching the sun sink behind the mountains, I suddenly remembered my old squad leader.

I recalled how, years ago, he’d entered the dense bamboo forests of Guizhou at sunset, carrying a bottle of yellow wine, searching for the wild boar carcass and a cure for Batulu’s worms.

I remembered, too, that when the squad leader returned from the mountain, he was holding a piece of black, shriveled “jerky.”

What was that blackened meat? I didn’t know. All I knew was that the first thing the squad leader and Batulu did upon returning to camp was burn that chunk of “black meat” they’d brought down from the mountain. Only after that did Batulu fully recover.

So I thought, if I could find a similar piece of black meat, perhaps I could truly cure Hongye as well…

My path was becoming clearer. I realized there were two things I must do!

First, I had to help Hongye recall whether she’d eaten anything unclean before falling ill—especially raw or wild foods.

Second, I needed to contact my old squad leader and ask for his help. Even if he couldn’t come all the way from Shandong, he at least needed to know what was happening here!

I recognized that my crude, imitative method of treatment was nowhere near enough to resolve the crisis before us.

I had to admit, my abilities and knowledge were far inferior to my old squad leader’s. I didn’t even know what the creature in Hongye’s and Batulu’s bellies was called—was it a ghost, or some unknown parasite?

So I took out my phone, ready to call my squad leader.

But just as I was about to dial, Hongye suddenly grabbed my hand, eyes wide.

“I remember! I remember! It must have been that meal—I must have swallowed the hungry ghost then!”

As she spoke, Hongye seemed to recall something that filled her with deep regret or fear. She shrank back, curling up on the car seat, shaking her head slightly.

Both Wang Hou and I stared at her in astonishment.

Then, in the dimly lit car, Hongye told us about that fateful meal.

It happened last month, just after she was transferred to our county.

Hongye had come from Beijing to serve as a manager for a state-owned enterprise in our county. She was a very capable young woman, not yet twenty-four, already managing a department on her own. But because of this, some people were dissatisfied.

When she first arrived, her work and workplace relationships were fraught with difficulty. She was so young that people doubted her abilities. Many whispered behind her back, speculating about how she’d risen so quickly, and the rumors—full of innuendo about backdoor dealings and connections—made this inexperienced young woman feel as if she were walking on pins and needles.

Later, to smooth over these personnel conflicts, Hongye decided to take the initiative. She invited three mid-level managers and several key staff members in the county to dinner, hoping to break the ice and win goodwill. She genuinely wished to make a few friends or confidantes as well.

But where to host the meal? That stumped her.

Being new to the area, she didn’t know the local tastes or which restaurants were considered good or classy.

Eventually, a female colleague with whom she got along suggested a newly opened private kitchen in the county. The place was nicely decorated, and rumor had it a top chef from Beijing was in charge. The name, she said, was “True Flavor Private Kitchen,” and she encouraged Hongye to give it a try.

Hongye, being a city girl, was intrigued. She’d seen the wonders of private kitchens in Beijing—the mysterious allure of those hidden restaurants tucked away in alleyways, with their unique ambiance. In her experience, such places were always full of surprises.

She reasoned that even though private kitchens were rare in the county, this one couldn’t be too bad. More importantly, any place bold enough to call itself a private kitchen must have some signature skill up its sleeve. In such a competitive world, without something special, no restaurant could survive—especially one that relied on quality over quantity.

With her colleague’s introduction, Hongye became a member at True Flavor Private Kitchen and began arranging the dinner.

The restaurant did not disappoint. According to Hongye, it was elegantly decorated, specializing in Huaiyang cuisine, with a distinctive water-town atmosphere and a high-end feel. Most importantly, the food was delicious—light but not bland, and even the simplest “spring noodles” were made with unique flair. All six of her guests raved about the meal.

In short, it was a successful dinner, even though they only ate home-style Huaiyang dishes.

But just as they were finishing up and preparing to leave, the owner walked into their private room, smiling, with a dish in hand.

He was carrying an exquisite bowl of sweet soup, something called “Goji Blood Bird’s Nest Soup.”

The owner explained that since Hongye was among the first members of the restaurant, every guest that evening would receive a complimentary bowl of bird’s nest soup as a welcome gesture.

He emphasized that this “blood bird’s nest” was a secret recipe from their master chef from Beijing, not listed on the menu and reserved as a limited treat for select VIP guests.

Hongye and her guests were immediately intrigued, excited for such a rare experience. After all, not everyone had the chance to taste a chef’s signature dish.

They watched eagerly as the owner divided the soup into small bowls and served each guest.

Everyone marveled at the tiny bowl of bird’s nest. According to Hongye, the blood-red bird’s nest, set off by goji berries and the crystal bowl, glowed with an amber halo. The more you looked, the more mesmerizing it became, as if it hypnotized you—you couldn’t bear to look away from this exquisite delicacy.

Drawn in by its subtle fragrance, their appetites, once sated, were stirred again. They sipped carefully, not wanting to spoil the precious treat or miss its flavor.

But just as Hongye took her first small sip, she had to stop.

Her phone rang.

And that call saved her life.