Chapter 27:
School Specter (Part 1):
Ghost Festival Approaches, the Gates of Hell Open!
Dislike?
Indeed, dislike.
A great ghost resided within his body, rent-free, the terms of their pact unknown. He couldn’t predict when it would turn malevolent and claim his life. Anyone would dislike that.
The ghost’s voice was clearly displeased, its tone sullen and irritable.
Why?
A thousand-year-old ghost, the epitome of yin, capable of sending the entire Daoist community into a frenzy, violent and cruel, its very essence a chaotic darkness, killing not for revenge, but for the sake of killing.
Yet, it uttered such childish complaints. To Chen Henian, it was as bizarre as an old woman fighting a child for candy.
He decided to address it directly. “You dislike it, so what?”
The great ghost shifted. “No.”
Chen Henian frowned. “No what?”
The mist swirling around the ghost intensified. “Don’t want.”
“Don’t want,” the ghost repeated.
Chen Henian clicked his tongue. The ghost sounded like a mindless fool. He stared at it, his expression conveying his annoyance. “Irritating.”
Perhaps his gaze was too obvious, or perhaps the ghost could read his mind.
The table before him shattered with a loud crash.
The ghost’s form doubled in size, its growls echoing through the room, its shadowy limbs lashing out, shaking the floor.
It was throwing a tantrum.
That was his new table. “You’re quite impressive,” Chen Henian said, his voice cold, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the debris, grinding his teeth.
The ghost ignored him, the black mist spreading, reaching for his feet, trying to coil around him.
“You’re too arrogant,” Chen Henian said, his eyes cold, taking a talisman from inside his shirt, the yellow paper inscribed with runes written in a mixture of black dog blood and pine soil.
The ghost tilted its head, its gaze fixed on his hand, a flicker of confusion in its dark eyes. Chen Henian made up his mind, ending the verbal sparring.
He placed the talisman on his tongue, swallowing it.
“Spirits of heaven and earth, essence of yin—” he chanted, his hands forming the curves of the Bagua.
“Spirit fire, emerge—!”
He exhaled, blowing on the space between his palms, and a burst of flames erupted, engulfing the great ghost.
The ghost reacted slowly, standing motionless as the flames burned it, the black mist turning to ash, falling from the air. Only when it felt the pain did it react, the mist spreading like a giant maw, swallowing the flames.
“No,” the ghost said. “Don’t want…”
It clutched its body, its hand sinking into its flesh, drawing blood.
Chen Henian ignored its words, throwing two red strings, binding the ghost’s wrists.
A gust of wind pulled him closer. He twisted his body, his elbow striking the ghost’s chest. The ghost’s body wasn’t solid, his arm sinking into it like a swamp.
Annoyed, he pulled on the red strings, his eyes meeting the ghost’s.
Red, like fresh blood, or like…
He paused.
He remembered the crimson moon, at six years old.
The desolate landscape, the damp earth, the lake, and the shadow on its surface.
“No,” the ghost yelled, pushing Chen Henian away with a burst of force.
Chen Henian gasped, his body falling backward. He braced himself for impact, but something wrapped around his waist, a smooth, slippery tendril, catching him mid-air.
A part of the ghost’s body, like a black tentacle, held him, preventing him from falling, but not allowing him to stand either. The tentacle was wet, the ghostly water soaking his clothes.
In a flash, the great ghost appeared before him, the tentacle transforming into a large hand.
The sensation around his waist was unpleasant. He frowned, his right hand shooting out.
But his power wasn’t enough. His hand passed right through the ghost’s body. He wasn’t disappointed. A thousand-year-old ghost wasn’t easily defeated. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he could destroy it alone.
A cold mist, like snowflakes, blew past him, and the ghost’s form dissolved. His long hair swayed in the wind. He felt a sudden warmth on the back of his neck, an itch, then it was gone.
The ghost had retreated back into his body. He sometimes wondered if it resided in his spine, the strange sensations always centered there.
He raised his hand, addressing the ghost. “If you don’t want this to happen again, don’t interfere.” The red string on his finger tightened. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The string pulsed, then stilled.
Chen Henian looked at the mess on the floor and went upstairs, hearing a crash.
The mirror had been thrown to the floor again. Fortunately, it was a durable artifact.
“Da Huang!” he called out, entering his bedroom. “Clean up downstairs.”
With the mirror ghost handling the mess, Chen Henian washed up and went to bed, enjoying a peaceful night’s sleep. The following days were quiet.
Ghost Festival was three days away.
His shop was probably the strangest funeral home in existence. No white wreaths adorned the entrance. It didn’t handle funerals, no coffins or wreaths, only incense and joss paper for the dead.
A concealment spell hid the shop from ordinary eyes, only visible to ghosts or those with heavy yin energy.
Zhou Xianzhi was still missing. Every year, on Ghost Festival, a protective array was required to conceal his presence from wandering spirits.
How did that array work again?
As he pondered, the bell at the entrance jingled.
A customer, a rare occurrence.
“Can I help you?” Chen Henian asked.
“Hello.” It was a teenager, a girl, several inches shorter than him, her face youthful and innocent, her hair neatly tied in a ponytail. She was still a student, wearing a sleeveless shirt with the slogan “No Money, No Life,” a popular style among young people these days. She approached the counter. “Do you sell joss paper, and those envelopes for burning offerings, anything for the dead?”
Chen Henian glanced at her, his gaze lingering for a moment, but not entirely focused on her.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Nothing for sale, try another street,” he replied.
“Isn’t this a funeral home?” she asked, puzzled. “Why don’t you have any? And what’s in that drawer?”
She had seen it, but he denied it. “That’s not for sale.”
“I only catch ghosts,” he said. “Burning joss paper doesn’t appease their resentment. If you have other problems, you can hire me. If not, please leave.”
“Are there really ghosts in this world?” she asked.
Chen Henian looked up. “You’ve encountered an unclean thing.”
She fell silent, as if holding her breath.
He changed the subject. “What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m not asking you,” he said. “I’m asking the person beside you.”
“The one in the black dress, the dead one. What’s your name?”
The girl was startled. “Who are you talking to?”
“I don’t know who she is,” Chen Henian replied. “She’s right beside you.”
“You’re trying to scare me.” She lowered her head. “I just need some joss paper. If you don’t have any, I’ll leave.”
“Suit yourself,” he gestured towards the door.
She hesitated, then left.
He hadn’t had a job in five days. He didn’t try to stop her, only chuckling softly. The moment she entered, he had seen the ghost beside her, a faint, indistinct figure, also a teenager, wearing a black dress.
A recent death. He had read the newspapers. A high school girl had jumped to her death a week ago. Suicidal ghosts were often restless. Perhaps it was her.
He just had to wait. Those who pretended bravery always returned, driven by fear.
She returned the next day, during the day, the bell jingling. She looked even more frightened, her movements hurried.
“Can you really see her?”
“I can’t see her now,” Chen Henian replied truthfully. “Because she’s not with you right now.”
“She’s at school, you were right,” the girl said excitedly. “You can see her, can you help me?”
“You have to pay,” Chen Henian extended his hand.
“I don’t have much money.” She took out a ten-yuan bill from her pocket.
“No money, then use the lock around your neck as collateral,” Chen Henian pointed at the longevity lock she wore.
She clutched the lock protectively. “I can’t. My parents told me never to take it off, or I’ll have bad luck.” She pleaded, “Take something else.”
“Then let me see it,” Chen Henian said. “Just look.”
“I won’t take it from you.” He extended his hand.
“Alright,” she nodded, reluctantly taking off the lock and handing it to him.
He was intrigued by the lock. He held it up, examining it closely. It was made of silver, with three golden lotus flowers, and unusual engravings – python scales, and two characters in the center.
He Nian.
Longevity locks didn’t usually have those characters. Holding it, he felt a strange sense of familiarity, of foreboding.
He returned the lock. “What’s your name?”
“Wang Min,” she replied.
“This lock offers some protection against evil, but not much,” he said.
He extended his hand again. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Money. Give it to me.”
He took the ten-yuan bill, then asked, “Tell me, what’s the problem?”
