Chapter 3: Idle Conversation

“Could it be that I’ve seen a ghost?” Fang Yue muttered, quickening his pace.

He hadn’t gone far when several figures appeared ahead of him on the road—this time, it was a group of night patrol constables. They each wore long knives at their waists, donned uniforms of dark red and black, and their heads were capped with deep black hats.

Fang Yue relaxed a little.

The constables approached and, noticing Fang Yue’s scholar’s robe, treated him with a measure of respect. The head constable addressed him, “Good scholar, the night curfew is about to begin. Please return home promptly and don’t wander the streets.”

“Oh, very well.” Fang Yue nodded and stepped aside to let them pass.

As they drew level, Fang Yue suddenly recalled that they’d come from the same direction as the old man he’d seen earlier. He couldn’t help but ask, “Sirs, as you came from that way, did you happen to see an elderly man ahead of you, carrying a white lantern, searching everywhere as if looking for someone?”

“An old man carrying a white lantern, searching everywhere? No, we saw no such person,” the head constable replied, pausing to answer.

“I see. Thank you for telling me.” Fang Yue noticed that, besides the head constable, the others had also stopped, turning to look at him. Their faces, half-lit by the hazy moonlight, appeared oddly inscrutable.

A chill crept into Fang Yue’s heart—had he said something wrong? But it was hardly the time to press further. He said nothing more and hurried on his way, head lowered.

...

Reaching the inn’s entrance, Fang Yue let out a breath.

Traveling at night always felt a little off, though he couldn’t put his finger on why.

“Perhaps I’m overthinking it—seeing ghosts where there are none. If the nightmare doesn’t come tonight, and I end up scaring myself to death, I’d make a laughingstock of myself.”

He frowned, troubled. His mind was not right these days—too anxious and jumpy, like a startled bird.

“Ah, sir, you’re back!” the inn’s servant greeted him cheerfully as Fang Yue stepped inside.

The main hall was dimly lit. Aside from the oil lamp burning on the counter, where the servant stood, there was no other light.

Lighting lamps at night was a luxury in these times; some poor families could hardly afford a single candle.

Besides, with the few guests all in their rooms, there was no need for more light in the lobby.

“Boy, bring me some—” Fang Yue began, intending to order wine and food. He’d drunk plenty at the Drunken Blossom Pavilion, but eaten little; that wasn’t the sort of place one went for a real meal. Now, after wandering about, hunger gnawed at him. But he remembered he was but a poor scholar with little money to spare for such extravagance.

So he changed his request. “Bring me a pot of hot water, will you? My throat is parched.” He fished out a copper coin.

The servant happily took the coin—small as it was, it was an unexpected bonus—and soon returned from the kitchen with a steaming pot and a teacup.

“Would you like me to bring the hot water up to your room, sir?”

“Just leave it here. I’ll have a little now, so you can clean up afterwards.”

“Very well.” The servant placed the pot and cup on the table before Fang Yue.

He poured himself half a cup. The water was scalding; under the yellow lamp, he could still see the faint coils of steam rising.

Covering the cup, he waited for the water to cool enough to drink.

“Boy, have there been any funerals in the town lately?”

“Ah, sir, births and deaths are part of life. With so many in the county town, there’s always someone celebrating or mourning. If you ask who exactly has held funerals recently, I couldn’t say, but if you ask whether there have been any, of course there have.”

“I see.” Fang Yue fell silent. He’d wanted to check whether the old man he’d met with the white lantern was man or ghost—perhaps his nerves had gotten the better of him, mistaking a living person for something else.

But investigating would not be easy; he lacked the time, energy, or money. Every extra day spent in town meant more expenses he could scarcely afford. Tomorrow he would recover his jade pendant from the pawnshop and hurry home.

Besides, he was a schoolteacher in the countryside—his students awaited him. He’d already given them three days’ leave to take the county exam; he couldn’t delay longer.

“Why do you ask about funerals, sir?” the servant inquired, curious, as he had little to do at the counter and welcomed the chance for conversation.

Fang Yue shook himself from his thoughts and replied, “Nothing in particular, just curious.”

He took up the teacup, sipped, found the water bearably hot, and drank slowly. The warmth spread through his body, reviving him.

“Boy, you see all kinds of people here—have you ever heard any stories of ghosts or the supernatural?”

“Ghost stories, sir?”

“Yes, hauntings.” Fang Yue set the cup down.

“I’ve heard a few. For instance, just recently, there was a strange affair at Master Wang’s house in town. They say someone saw a woman in red, hair unbound, wandering the back garden night after night.”

Fang Yue’s interest was piqued. “And how was it resolved?”

“Well, Master Wang invited monks from Guangyuan Temple to perform rites at his home, and threw a grand feast for the neighbors—two days of eating and drinking. After that, the woman in red was never seen again.”

The servant smacked his lips, remembering the feast—such bounty was rare for folk like him.

Fang Yue mused to himself. He knew Guangyuan Temple—an old and well-known monastery in Ping’an County, with a history of two or three centuries.

But he was no Master Wang, flush with wealth, able to hire monks to drive away evil spirits.

It all came down to money. If he had enough, he could have hired help to investigate the old man with the white lantern and determine if he was man or ghost. As things stood, even the simplest task was a struggle.

“Perhaps I should find a way to earn more silver. After all, I’ve crossed worlds—there must be some way. I only hope the events from my nightmare will hold off a little longer, give me some time.”

He rubbed his eyes, stood, and prepared to retire to his room.

He had barely climbed two steps of the staircase when a thought struck him. Turning, he asked, “It should be curfew now. There won’t be any guests coming in. Why don’t you go rest?”

“Curfew?” The servant looked up, puzzled. “There’s no curfew here—never has been. Well, I heard the innkeeper mention that we had curfew for a while, but that was years ago.”

“There was a county magistrate—surname Wen, I think—who imposed a curfew, forbidding folks from walking the streets after nine at night. But I heard he was found to be a rebel and got beheaded, along with several clerks and constables from the yamen. Quite a few died.”