Chapter Sixty-Eight: There Is a Ghost in My House

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Most importantly, Zhao Fusheng had only recently reincarnated into the Han Dynasty and was unfamiliar with the local roads. Zhang Chuanshi, who had previously run a coffin shop opposite the Demon Suppression Bureau, didn't seem the type to travel from village to village either.

With this in mind, she suddenly called out, “Old Zhang, how did you manage to drive the cart all the way to Doghead Village?”

“That’s how I got here,” Zhang Chuanshi replied without understanding, answering instinctively before asking, “Sir, is something wrong?”

Zhao Fusheng didn't answer, but pressed on, “Have you ever been to Doghead Village before?”

“Never,” he shook his head, his expression soured, “I used to do business in the city—”

He had relied on dealings with Paper Man Zhang and the Demon Suppression Bureau, living a carefree life in town. There was no reason for him to wander into such a remote backwater for no cause.

“Never, never,” he shook his head repeatedly.

“When we came, was there anyone else traveling with us?” Zhao Fusheng asked again.

“No,” Zhang Chuanshi looked puzzled, then frowned oddly, “It was just you and me the whole way, no one else…”

He trailed off, his face suddenly changing.

Damn!

Zhang Chuanshi was no fool. Without a bit of cunning, he’d never have managed dealings with Paper Man Zhang, let alone profited from it.

After answering Zhao Fusheng’s two questions, he finally realized something was very wrong.

He had never been to Doghead Village near Wu’an Town. On his own, there was no way he could have found his way here so smoothly—someone familiar with the local roads must have guided them.

And Wu Liyou’s father had set out three days earlier to report the case in town. By the timeline, he should have been escorted to the county seat. Zhao Fusheng resolved to handle the ghost case, which brought them on this journey.

But now, a living person had vanished without a trace, and he and Zhao Fusheng seemed to have lost all memory of that person.

Zhang Chuanshi’s hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

He remembered the flakes of skin scattered throughout the Wu family estate, and the dead skin Zhao Fusheng had peeled from his own face.

The vengeful ghost must have appeared long ago. Wu Dajing’s disappearance likely meant he’d already fallen victim to it, and yet, upon his death, everyone else seemed to have their memories of him wiped clean.

This… this ghost is terrifying!

“Sir…” Zhang Chuanshi’s face was drawn with fear, wanting to urge her to leave this place at once.

Zhao Fusheng replied calmly, “Save your tears. We’re already caught in its rules; running will do no good. The only way is to face it head-on.”

Wu Liyou was still unaware of his father’s death, and now was not the time to reveal it.

The most urgent matter was to uncover the origin of the vengeful ghost and its methods of killing, so she could be ready when it appeared again.

“Wu Shaochun, bring the bedding inside. Wu Liyou, find two women and have them carefully open the quilt—be cautious not to damage anything inside.”

Wu Shaochun, honest and bold, nodded at once. Wu Liyou had no idea what had just transpired between Zhao Fusheng and Zhang Chuanshi—the villagers were not stupid, but their daily labors and constant worries over taxes and harvests left them unwilling to waste energy on matters unrelated to themselves, so they missed the crucial hints.

He called his wife and two sisters-in-law to help.

A rare oil lamp was lit in the room, the floor had been swept, and there were traces of cleaning on the cabinets, with water stains not yet fully dried.

The three women subdued their steps, carefully spreading the quilt on the bed, then took scissors and began to cut the threads from three sides.

Zhang Chuanshi, uneasy, stayed close to Zhao Fusheng.

At first, he’d looked down on Zhao Fusheng, seeing her as ignorant and cowardly, clueless even as death loomed.

After suffering in her hands, he grew resentful; but after she burned down Paper Man Zhang’s house, his resentment became fear, which deepened when she single-handedly solved the ghost case in Beggar’s Alley.

Now, with a vengeful ghost targeting him and death likely imminent, Zhao Fusheng, who had dragged him into this mess, became his only hope, so he stuck close.

Zhao Fusheng ignored him, standing in a corner after entering the room.

She turned to call for someone, but Zhang Chuanshi was already bringing her a stool, ingratiatingly saying, “Sir, please sit here.”

Zhao Fusheng sat down, and Zhang Chuanshi, ever tactful, said, “I’ll see if the Wu family has a small table and light another lamp for you.”

“Mm.” Zhao Fusheng nodded in approval. “Go on.”

Grateful for her consent, Zhang Chuanshi hurried off.

Soon, the items were brought in. The women worked while casting glances their way. When they saw the oil lamp on the small table, their eyes filled with pain, but none dared complain.

Zhang Chuanshi stayed by Zhao Fusheng’s side, watching as she reached into her sleeve and produced a scroll.

“Sir, you don’t neglect your case files even while out—truly diligent in your duties, our Wan’an County—”

Zhao Fusheng ignored his flattery, took a deep breath, and slowly unrolled the scroll.

Her pupils contracted.

Inside, three fragments of human skin were affixed, differing in size. Two pieces fit together seamlessly, while one was stuck on hastily and unevenly.

As the scroll was unfurled, the memories disrupted by the vengeful ghost surged back into her mind!

County Magistrate Pang had brought Wu Dajing to the Demon Suppression Bureau, mentioned Wu Datong, and when speaking of his “son,” she’d felt an itch behind her ear, peeled off the first skin fragment, and realized something was wrong, deciding on the spot to bring the casefile with her.

At the time, she'd feared further interference from the ghost and the loss of her memory, and now this cautious gesture had proved invaluable!

After that, she insisted on coming to Doghead Village despite opposition. Along the way, Wu Dajing spoke of the village’s past; then came the ghostly aura on Wu Dajing, and the near-fatal encounter with the ghost, from which she only escaped by using the ghost arm to temporarily repel it.

… Memories flooded back.

Upon arrival in Doghead Village, the villagers, lured by the promise of tax relief, eagerly offered clues, including that Wu Liren was born on July 31st, 206 AD.

These statements contradicted Wu Dajing’s earlier narrative. In a panic, he publicly mentioned the birth of Wu Liren’s “eldest son”—most crucially, that this child’s birth was highly unusual.

He’d described the baby as neither crying nor smiling, with a cold body like a corpse, yet still writhing.

Recalling this, Zhao Fusheng felt he might have been describing a “vengeful ghost”—a ghost born alive from a dead woman’s womb.

After Wu Dajing revealed this, it was as if he’d broken a deadly taboo, and was instantly killed.

His body exploded in a shower of skin fragments, some of which landed on Zhao Fusheng herself, infecting her with a trace of the ghostly substance.

At that moment, she’d grabbed the largest skin fragment and affixed it to the file.

Having recovered her memories, Zhao Fusheng let out a long sigh—she now had even more clues.

Her gaze fell on the fragment of human skin affixed in the file, her eyes growing darker still.

It was now clear: Wu Datong’s “eldest son,” whose mother had been abducted, was destined to be hidden from the world.

If this child, cut from a corpse’s belly, was born a ghost by nature, Zhao Fusheng could almost map out the ghost’s rules for killing:

Shadows, invisibility, shunning the light; its very existence was a taboo, and mentioning it meant falling into the ghost’s perception.

Unlike the vengeful ghost Zhao Fusheng controlled, which marked people for death with “blessings,” this ghost would cause whoever mentioned it to scratch at their skin, shedding great amounts of flesh.

—In the end, the ghost would claim their life, the person would explode, and the memory of them would be twisted, confused, or even completely erased from others’ minds.

This ghost’s rules were terribly powerful—it could alter perception and memory.

If not for Zhao Fusheng’s suspicious and meticulous nature, just a bit of carelessness and she’d have died without even knowing how.

She recalled the oddities she’d observed that night in the Wu household.

The villagers claimed that Wu Liren’s family was wealthy and influential, with many sons.

But upon entering the Wu residence, Zhao Fusheng noticed that many rooms seemed long-unused, and in each she found skin fragments, some clearly from different times.

Though the villagers insisted Wu Liren’s sons were often out and about, Zhao Fusheng was not distracted by these inconsequential details.

She held fast to one truth: this vengeful ghost possessed the ability to alter cognition and memory to an extraordinary degree.

Thus, the truth emerged—Wu Liren had long ago fallen victim to the ghost, and his twenty-seven sons had died one after another over the years.

But the ghost’s supernatural power had concealed its existence from the villagers, who remained oblivious.

Even Wu Liren himself was likely unaware, kept in the dark.

The thought of Wu Liren cohabiting with a ghost for years, only to die by its hand in the end, sent a chill through Zhao Fusheng.

Worried her memory might be affected again, she was about to call Zhang Chuanshi to fetch her a pen when a woman’s scream rang out nearby:

“Ah!”

Then the scissors clattered to the wooden stool. The other two sisters-in-law leaned over to speak, but the woman trembled and cried out, “There’s… something…”

As she shouted, she mustered the courage to lift a corner of the quilt. The other two, seeing what lay within, gasped in shock.

“Sir.”

Zhao Fusheng nodded, rolled up the file, slipped it back into her sleeve, and strode over to the bedside.

The three women of Wu Liyou’s family, pale as ghosts from what they’d found in the quilt, shuddered as Zhao Fusheng extended her arm and brushed them aside.

“Move aside.”

She stepped forward. Most of the stitching on the quilt had already been undone.

The other two women had kept their heads down, working quietly, not daring to reach into the quilt.

The third woman, a little sharper, had recalled that the quilt came from the wealthy Wu family and guessed there might be something valuable hidden inside. Greed stirred in her heart, and while the others worked, she reached inside—only to touch a cold, slick piece of skin.

The instant she touched it, some primal instinct screamed danger, and she let out a shriek.

As Zhao Fusheng approached, she cast the woman a sharp look and barked, “Quiet!”

Her piercing gaze seemed to see through all the woman’s petty designs. Terrified, the woman covered her face and wept.

The other two, at a loss, clustered around her.

“Out,” Zhao Fusheng said, not bothering to comfort them.

The human skin inside the quilt was crucial evidence in the ghost case, which in turn was vital to her own survival. She only hoped the woman hadn’t damaged the stitched skin.

She ordered Zhang Chuanshi, “Bring the lamp closer.”

Zhang Chuanshi, having seen through the woman’s greed, would have slapped her if not for Zhao Fusheng’s instructions.

He brought the lamp forward, while the other two women comforted their sobbing companion as they left.

Wu Liyou, waiting outside, hurried over to ask what had happened. The women whispered, and soon angry shouts, the sound of things being thrown, and the woman’s crying drifted back into the room.

“They’re putting on a show for you,” Zhang Chuanshi muttered bitterly.

Zhao Fusheng shook her head and carefully picked out the remaining threads.

Most of the work had already been done; removing the last few threads was easy.

She lifted the top sheet, then the wrapping cloth, revealing two layers of thin linen padding inside.

Carefully, she pulled back the top layer, and there it was—a thin, soft sheet of human skin!

Because the woman had randomly felt around inside, one corner was slightly wrinkled, but her fear had kept her movements small, so the skin was undamaged.

The patchworked skin was as wide and long as the bedding—by rough estimate, at least one and a half meters wide, nearly two meters long.

Unlike the other skin fragments, this one was smooth, almost delicate, far finer than ordinary skin scratched off.

What astonished Zhao Fusheng and Zhang Chuanshi most was that, in one corner, someone had hastily scrawled a few large characters.

The writing was small and oddly placed, crooked and twisted, as if done in haste.

At first glance, neither of them could make out what it said.

Zhao Fusheng didn’t try to read it immediately; instead, she sized it up and said, “This quilt belonged to Wu Liren. If he lay in bed with the quilt pulled up to his neck, he’d only need to nudge the seam with a finger to reveal these words.”

Lying there, the writing would be right before his eyes—he could see it.

In other words, “These words were likely written by Wu Liren himself.”

With that, Zhao Fusheng bent down for a closer look.

The writing appeared to have been pricked with a needle, the ink seeping faintly into the skin.

And the words were reversed, as if Wu Liren had written them while prying open the quilt.

Realizing this, she reached out and lifted the human skin quilt.

The sight made Zhang Chuanshi’s scalp prickle with dread, a deep unease crawling down his back. He felt an instinctive aversion, his skin itching horribly.

He hadn’t yet recalled the crucial memory of Wu Dajing’s death, but he knew there was a ghost in the village, and that its method was linked to “skin.”

Shivering, he remembered Zhao Fusheng’s vengeful and unforgiving nature. If he backed away now, he’d suffer a fate worse than death in the future.

With this in mind, his fear of her outweighed even his terror of the ghost. He stepped forward with the lamp, illuminating the human skin.

Once the skin was lifted, the writing was clear.

It read:

“There is a ghost in my house.”

“THERE IS A GHOST IN MY HOUSE!!!”