Chapter Seventy-One: Another Death

Chapter Seventy-One

The more detailed, truthful, and specific the mention of a vengeful ghost’s existence, the more likely the curse will be triggered.

Zhao Fusheng was now bound by a ghostly curse. If she failed to resolve the case in Doghead Village, she might die here.

She held the incomplete paper figure between her fingers, turning it over and over, pondering what exactly it was. The figure was made of scabbed skin, pieced together from scraps she had clawed off her own body, and had taken shape automatically once she recorded the birth details of Wu Datong’s eldest son.

This transformation perplexed Zhao Fusheng, but she was certain that something strange was happening with the shed human skin. Earlier, the ghostly arm had helped her retrieve the dossier, then suddenly revived and wouldn’t let go—perhaps it wasn’t holding the dossier, but rather sought the paper figure.

She couldn’t yet piece together the cause and effect, but she was sure the skin-paper was intimately linked to the ghost case, and, tainted by the ghost’s aura, likely to become a dangerous object.

After some thought, she tucked the paper figure inside the dossier and folded the torn dossier, stuffing it into her other sleeve.

With her memory restored, her disrupted cognition returned as well.

An old brush rolled to the foot of the table; she bent to pick it up.

The vanished voices of the Wu family reappeared; the aroma of food mingled with the sounds of people busying themselves, flooding Zhao Fusheng’s ears.

She called out, “Wu Liyou, send someone in to tidy up.”

Wu Liyou answered from outside, then loudly called for a woman. Soon, two women entered, looking uneasy. Seeing the chaotic table, they were first startled, then their eyes fell on Zhao Fusheng, whose face was smeared with oil and blood. They jumped in fright. “Madam…”

“Suddenly started bleeding. Bring me some hot water to wash my face,” Zhao Fusheng said. She glanced at her sleeve and frowned, “Find me some clothes to change into. This set is due for replacement as well.”

The two women nodded repeatedly, and Zhao Fusheng added, “Take away that bedding too. I won’t need it anymore.”

Their eyes brightened at this, and they hurried to compete for the bedding. Wu Liyou, worried they might squabble before their honored guest, shot them a warning look. “Fetch water for Madam to wash first, then clean the table. The rest can be divided later.”

The women agreed. Zhao Fusheng washed her face and hands, changed clothes, and finally felt a bit more comfortable.

She had a grasp on the ghost case now, so she didn’t linger indoors, but stepped outside.

Wu Shaochun and the others were still there, helping the Wu family pluck chickens. When Zhao Fusheng appeared, they greeted her warmly.

Wu Liyou’s household had lit several large torches, illuminating the courtyard. Zhang Chuanxi was nowhere to be seen; likely he had gone into hiding after hearing that acting alone might ensure his safety.

Zhao Fusheng had no immediate use for him, nor did she look for him.

As soon as she came out, Wu Shaochun and the others greeted her enthusiastically. “Madam, finished with your business?”

She nodded and walked toward them.

“Uncle Liyou said you had a nosebleed?” Wu Shaochun held a chicken by the head and feet, turning it over the fire. The singed fluff gave off a scorched smell, making Zhao Fusheng genuinely hungry.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Please take care, Madam.” Wu Shaochun worked deftly, swallowing as he spoke. “Our village’s feng shui isn’t great. Many people have this bleeding problem—afterwards, their fate…” He nearly blurted out something inauspicious, caught himself, and paled, almost dropping the chicken. He bit his tongue hard and pivoted, “You lost some blood; even ten eggs won’t replenish it. I’ll have my aunt cook plenty for you, Madam, so you can eat your fill.”

Just then, the woman carrying the bedding overheard, glaring fiercely at him but dared not speak.

Zhao Fusheng smiled, dismissing the incident from her mind. As long as the ghost didn’t kill her in one strike, she had nothing to fear—a little blood was nothing.

She asked, “Since many in your village suffer from bleeding from the seven orifices, tell me: how long do people typically live after the symptoms appear?”

Wu Shaochun replied, “Madam, you’re asking the right person.” He smiled, but his mother shot him a sidelong glare. He grinned sheepishly and said quietly, “My father died of this very problem.”

The young man was shrewd and observant. He sensed Zhao Fusheng wasn’t superstitious about bleeding, so he dared to speak up.

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“Decades ago, many villagers died from bleeding.” Seeing Zhao Fusheng didn’t rebuke him, he continued, “At first, everyone thought it was some illness. The village doctor prescribed cooling remedies—nothing worked. Later, when more died, they sought the shaman’s divinations, but that was useless too.”

Wu Liyou brought out a bench for Zhao Fusheng, who stepped back and sat down.

With the bonfire lit and Wu Shaochun chatting with Zhao Fusheng, the others gathered, curious and slightly fearful.

“After that, there was nothing to be done,” Wu Shaochun said, roasting another chicken. “Once you start bleeding, it means your days are numbered.”

His mother glared at him, he ducked his head, then looked at Zhao Fusheng—she wasn’t angry, so he relaxed.

“How long does it take from the first bleeding to death?” Zhao Fusheng inquired.

Wu Shaochun glanced at his mother, who clutched the chicken, unsure. But Zhao Fusheng’s earlier tax reduction had emboldened her. She thought for a moment, “It was better years ago; lately, it seems faster.”

She hurried to clarify, “Years ago, my aunt got sick—when I was newly married. First, nosebleeds; then, coughing up blood. From onset to death, it lasted just over a month.”

“Right,” Wu Liyou chimed in, carrying a cleaver and cutting board. “When my grandmother died, it was about the same. I remember it was July or August. One night, she couldn’t sleep from the heat, and suddenly started bleeding from her nose, scaring my father.”

With her memory restored, Zhao Fusheng perked up at the mention of Wu Dajing’s mother. “What date in August did the symptoms start?”

Wu Shaochun gave Zhao Fusheng a slightly odd look. Wu Liyou wasn’t as quick, unaware of Zhao Fusheng’s precise grasp of his grandmother’s illness timing—almost clearer than his own.

He handed the cutting board to Wu Shaochun’s mother, who set it down and began chopping meat.

Amid the thudding cleaver, Wu Liyou recalled, “Now that you mention it, it was probably August first.”

Decades-old memories resurfaced as Zhao Fusheng prompted him.

“That night, the moon was full. My brother Ligong wanted to look at it, said there was a figure inside. My grandmother scolded him, saying you shouldn’t point at the moon—it’ll cost you your ear.”

He reminisced, smiling, “Father joked Ligong was mistaken—how could there be a person in the moon?”

“My grandmother’s face darkened; she said children’s eyes are pure, able to see what adults cannot.” Once the floodgates opened, the events came rushing back. “She also said legend has it there’s someone in the moon—a woman named Chang’e.” He scratched his waist as he spoke. “Before she finished, I saw two streams of nosebleed running down.”

The family thought little of it; Wu Dajing assumed his mother’s dryness was from internal heat, and the next day went up the mountain to gather herbs for her.

The first two days, nothing helped. Later, more nosebleeds; then coughing blood, and blood from ears and eyes.

“She also developed sores—itching at first,” Wu Liyou said. “By September sixteenth, my grandmother said she couldn’t make it, and told us to prepare her funeral.”

Coffin and burial clothes were ready.

In this era, a woman’s dowry included a coffin from youth to old age.

So even in bereavement, families were unhurried.

Zhao Fusheng nodded and asked, “Did your grandmother say anything before dying?” She recalled Wu Liyou mentioning his younger brother Ligong had seen a figure in the moon—perhaps he saw a ghost.

“Now that you ask, I remember.” Wu Liyou’s eyes brightened. “Before she passed, my grandmother cried out that a ghost had come to claim her life.”

As he finished, his scalp itched unbearably, and he scratched hard. A clump of hair came away, along with a patch of scalp.

“A ghost claiming her life?” Zhao Fusheng, who had already deduced the truth, felt her scalp prickle.

Somehow, the crackling fire quieted; thick black smoke rose from the flames.

Clouds parted, revealing the full moon.

Moonlight poured down like water.

It was August, still hot, and though the night was cooler, the bonfire made the surroundings swelter.

But suddenly, a mysterious chill enveloped everyone, prompting them to edge closer to the fire.

The moment the clouds cleared, Zhao Fusheng instinctively looked up.

It wasn’t yet mid-August, but tonight’s moon was exceptionally bright and round. She remembered Wu Liyou’s words: on August first, during the Han year 205, his grandmother watched the moon, and young Ligong saw a shadow within.

Affected by this, she gazed at the moon—and indeed, glimpsed two blood-red eyes flickering within.

A faint shadow poked out of the moon, its cold, numb eyes staring at the Wu family.

“Coo—coo-coo—”

The distant cry of a night owl echoed through the valley, lasting long. The back of Zhao Fusheng’s neck and arms broke out in goosebumps; she snapped back to attention and looked again, but saw only mist around the moon—no shadow.

Just a false alarm!

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Wu Liyou, unaware of her distraction, continued, “…my grandmother said the vengeful ghost was claiming her, that retribution had come.”

That momentary sense of being watched was overwhelming, not merely an illusion.

She recalled the case in Beggar’s Alley, when she’d spied from the temple gate, only to be watched by the ghost herself—

A chill crept over Zhao Fusheng’s heart: the vengeful ghost was nearby!

Whether it was invisible or everyone’s perception was affected, the ghost was hidden from sight.

She scanned Wu Shaochun, Wu Liyou, Wu Shaochun’s mother, and the other villagers—all familiar faces from earlier.

Where was the ghost?

Suppressing her unease, Zhao Fusheng asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“Madam Zhao, you reduced the taxes from the Demon Suppression Bureau; you’re our benefactor. To be honest, back then, Wu Datong acted poorly.”

Wu Shaochun’s mother, knife in hand, spoke up as she butchered the chicken.

“He lost his father young, the family poor. No one would marry their daughter to him, so he developed a vicious heart—”

She chopped the chicken deftly, splitting it in two, then into strips, then chunks, placing them in a sieve.

“His wife’s origins were dubious. My mother-in-law used to say she was snatched after a murder.”

As she talked, a bead of sweat slid from her nose to the tip, tickling her. She scratched it forcefully.

Her nails—stained with either chicken or human blood—smeared her nose.

A layer of scabbed skin flaked from her nose; she ripped it off carelessly.

“I heard the county had a place called Beggar’s Alley—”

Zhao Fusheng’s heart stirred; she interrupted, “Beggar’s Alley?”

“I’m not sure,” Wu Shaochun’s mother shook her head. “I’ve never been to the county, just heard it said. They say the street is full of vagrants and kidnappers, who roam, abducting children to sell.”

As she spoke, Zhao Fusheng sensed a strange intuition—Wu Shaochun’s mother, though quiet, might reveal useful information.

This forgetful ghost was formidable, manipulating perception; she needed to prepare.

Zhao Fusheng quickly withdrew the dossier from her sleeve, signaling her to continue.

“Many kidnapped people are hidden there for trading. My mother-in-law said Wu Datong’s wife came from there.”

“I’m not sure if her surname was Meng or Shen, but she cried terribly at first—everyone in the village heard.”

“People figured a woman would eventually accept her fate after bearing a child, but she didn’t survive it,” Wu Shaochun’s mother shook her head. “She died in childbirth. My aunt Rong said Wu Datong cut her open to get the baby out, but it was probably too late—the child stayed in the womb too long and was stillborn.”

At this, the atmosphere shifted.

The wind stopped.

The night owl’s cry vanished.

The roaring fire was subdued; an eerie chill returned.

Wu Shaochun’s mother, oblivious to impending doom, continued butchering, while Zhao Fusheng’s hair stood on end, sensing the ghost’s presence.

She fought her fear and looked around.

Beneath Wu Shaochun’s mother’s feet, the shadow writhed.

In the darkness, a pitch-black head slowly emerged from the shadow, its dead-fish eyes staring coldly at Zhao Fusheng.

“One would have thought Wu Datong lost both wife and child, but Aunt Rong said the child didn’t die.”

No warmth, no breath, no pulse, no cries—yet it moved.

Wu Shaochun’s mother mechanically chopped the chicken.

Two streams of bright red nosebleed flowed from her nostrils, into her mouth, down her chin, staining her clothes.

Blood poured like twin springs, dripping onto the cutting board.

She seemed not to notice, continuing, “My husband said Wu Datong named the child Wu Liren—”

“Wu Liren!”

Zhao Fusheng was shaken to her core.

As Wu Shaochun’s mother uttered the name, horror struck again.

Her eyes and ears spurted blood; a ghost less than a meter tall climbed onto her back, merging with her shadow.

Her body exploded with a bang.

Wu Shaochun’s mother didn’t even have time to scratch or scream—she died instantly at the hands of the vengeful ghost.

(End of chapter)