Chapter 11:
The Ghost in the Mirror (Part 4):
The Great Ghost Within, Awakens
The ghost laughed, a grotesque sound not emanating from its throat. “Little practitioner, you have some skill. No wonder you dared lure me out.”
Its tone wasn’t complimentary. Its eyes turned a ghostly white. “Do you think you can capture me?”
Chen Henian’s hand held its neck, its weak point, keeping it firmly trapped. The ghost’s hair swayed like waves. A moment of silence hung between them.
Chen Henian opened his suitcase, revealing its contents: silver instruments, red string, a blood jar – tools that would make any ghost shudder.
The ghost remained unfazed, its lips curling into a smile. “Is that mirror beautiful?” It continued, “Are you a disciple of the Southern Daoist sect? That mirror belongs to your grandmaster.”
“You’re wrong,” Chen Henian finally replied. “I belong to no sect.”
“Southern Daoist…”
He murmured, the term familiar. If the mirror was a grandmaster’s artifact… He didn’t ponder for long. The mirror’s value had just increased significantly in his mind.
“Little Master, you’re quite strange.” The ghost smiled. “But if you’re just a folk practitioner, that’s even better.” Its smile widened, revealing a red tongue. “Then join me in the underworld, and be my companion!”
Its expression turned malevolent. A beam of light shot from the mirror, grazing Chen Henian’s eye, a searing pain. He loosened his grip. The ghost grabbed his shoulder, pulling him.
The bed collapsed like a sinkhole, plunging Chen Henian into darkness.
The ghost vanished into the void.
Chen Henian stood in inky blackness. He turned, sniffing the air, catching the ghost’s faint scent. He reached into his shirt pocket, his hand freezing.
The pocket was empty. The pouch of incense ash was gone. He hadn’t dropped it. This was an illusion, a nightmare crafted by the ghost.
He followed the scent, his feet soon landing on solid stone. He was in a narrow corridor, wooden benches lining the walls, a small stage at the end.
A thud.
A light flickered on the stage. A drumbeat. A figure appeared. Another drumbeat. The figure turned, its sleeves swirling. It was the ghost, wearing an opera costume, its face painted white, its eyes and lips bright red.
Its pale face and small, red lips formed a silent “iya,” its voice like a nightingale’s.
With each drumbeat, the ghost moved, the faint light focusing on its flowing robes, its eyes wide, its mouth slightly open.
It sang of love.
An opera singer fell in love with a young master returning from abroad. The singer performed for the young master’s family. The young master, understanding his art, befriended him. Their bond deepened, crossing the line of friendship, into love.
The singer was deeply in love, but the young master, like a heartless character in a play, married another, severing all ties.
The singer, heartbroken, crashed the wedding, intending to sing a mournful song, but was captured and sentenced to death.
The ghost shed its robes, dressed in white, its hair dishevelled, forced to kneel. The executioner raised his sword, and the ghost’s head rolled.
The white clothes turned crimson. The headless body stood there, the head rolling off the stage, landing at Chen Henian’s feet.
The head laughed, its laughter echoing through the theater.
Its eyes turned to Chen Henian, its handsome features transforming into a demonic mask.
Chen Henian’s ears were filled with its high-pitched laughter, its eyes two bottomless pits.
He inhaled, the air icy cold, the temperature plummeting.
Suddenly, he was on the stage, the cold spotlight on him. He found himself bound by black threads, his hands suspended, like a marionette.
The headless corpse picked up its head, holding it to its chest, its smiling face appearing beside him, its eyes wide, studying Chen Henian’s every feature, then raising a sword, enacting the execution.
Chen Henian remained calm, his finger hooking the black thread, his head tilted back, his eyes bright.
“If you want to compete in yin, I will win.”
His voice was steady. “You’ve misjudged me.”
The sword fell, but the black threads dissolved as he broke free, catching the sword with one hand, reaching for the ghost with the other.
The ghost turned to dust, scattering in his hand.
The drumbeat resumed. Chen Henian frowned, wiping his hand. This was the ghost’s illusion, it still held control.
“I’ve seen many people,” the ghost’s voice echoed, faint and ethereal. “Most hearts are as ugly as their outward appearance. Little Master, let me see your heart.”
The stage vanished. Chen Henian was surrounded by mirrors, their reflections disorienting him. He stumbled through the mirrored maze, unable to find his way, lost in the ghost’s world, his own face staring back at him from every angle.
The ghost appeared in every mirror, its voice exaggeratedly sweet. “Little Master, are you cold?”
“Let me warm you.”
Chen Henian glared at it with disgust.
“Hee hee…” The ghost’s face doubled in size, its features distorted, omnipresent.
“Are you afraid of fire, Little Master?” Flames erupted in the mirrors, the maze closing in, the orange glow filling his vision.
Fire surrounded him, licking at his feet.
Chen Henian watched silently for a moment. “Is this all you can do? Create illusions to scare people?”
“You’re afraid,” the ghost said.
“Do you really think so?”
“You’re afraid,” the ghost repeated.
“Boring.”
Chen Henian’s face betrayed no fear. “Your story is boring too.”
The ghost’s aura darkened, its gaze intense, as if ready to devour him. “You’re afraid!”
“You’re clearly afraid, I can see it!”
“You’re wrong.” Chen Henian’s movements were fluid as he touched a mirror, walking in a specific direction. “Why would I be afraid? Haven’t you seen fire before?”
He showed no fear, a slight smile even playing on his lips.
“You’re truly pathetic.” Chen Henian’s fingers trembled slightly, not with fear, but with excitement, with anger.
“What are you?!” The ghost shrieked, frustrated. “Why, why can’t I see into your heart?!”
Chen Henian said, “Playing with you is truly boring.”
The ghost’s hair stood on end. “You bastard!”
“Alright.” Chen Henian stopped before a mirror, looking up at the enraged ghost, a faint smile on his lips. “I’ve caught you.”
He clenched his fist, his gaze sharp, and punched the mirror.
Smash—Crack!
The mirror shattered, shards flying, grazing his cheek. His decisive action shattered the ghost’s smug expression.
He exhaled, smelling the familiar scent of his room. The illusion was fading. The ghost floated up, glaring at him, roaring.
Chen Henian took out the small pouch from his pocket, throwing incense ash at the ghost. Ash from the altar of the guardian deity, like burning coals to a ghost.
The ghost sacrificed its hair to protect itself, the burnt strands falling to the ground. Chen Henian took out a red string, binding the ghost, pulling it towards him.
“Sit down.”
His voice was stern. “I told you, the mirror is mine. Did I give you permission to use it?”
He yanked the string, striking the ghost.
“You deserve this.”
The ghost cried out, but its chin remained raised defiantly. “You can’t destroy me, no matter how powerful you are. I’m one with this mirror, why would I fear you?”
Chen Henian scoffed, grabbing the ghost’s head and forcing it down. “Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?”
The ghost snarled angrily.
Chen Henian said, “Since you say I can’t destroy you, then you don’t have a choice. First, deep-fried, then steamed. I like resilient ones like you.”
“You—!” The ghost stared at Chen Henian’s impassive face, his words cruel.
Chen Henian, prepared, took out a special jar from his suitcase, about to capture the ghost. But then, black particles fell from the air, the ghost’s hair.
Have you seen black snow? Chen Henian had, at six years old, a blizzard of black snowflakes, colder than frozen blood.
His eyes darkened, a warmth spreading through his fingertips, making his heart skip a beat. He hadn’t felt this sensation in his finger for a long time. The red string began to move, alive, a sudden wind swirling through the room, throwing the ghost against the wall.
It cried out in pain, its face contorted in fear. It broke free from the red string, turning into a wisp of white smoke, retreating into the mirror.
Chen Henian ignored it, his gaze fixed on the red string.
The yin energy was overwhelming, filling his lungs.
He sat motionless on the bed, watching his shadow grow, hearing a tearing sound. A hand appeared on his shoulder.
The great ghost within him had awakened.
