Recap
His movements were clumsy, forgetting steps, burning his fingers, salting the dish three times. The food came out scorched. Yet his knife work was swift and precise.
Shen Ji sat opposite him at the table. When he lifted his bowl, the actor paused, staring at him in confusion. Shen Ji thought he might speak—but he simply looked away and focused on devouring his food.
Immersed in his own world, he ignored Shen Ji completely. Perhaps he was the only person who exists in his world.
The hot food made Shen Ji’s stomach growl. He served himself rice, sitting face to face with the actor.
The rice was hard, the dish bitter and salty. As Shen Ji reached for a third bite, the actor slammed his bowl down.
Shen Ji looked at him, waiting for him to speak.
The actor suddenly stood, limping to rummage through a cabinet. When he returned, a cheap candy wrapped in colored paper lay on the table.
Grinning foolishly, he said: “Bitter, heh, so bitter. Good child, don’t frown. Good child doesn’t cry. Eat candy. Sweet, heh.”
Shen Ji set down his chopsticks, picking up the candy.
The actor cupped his hands to his mouth, mimicking the act of eating, urging Shen Ji to taste it.
Shen Ji didn’t eat, but he kept the candy.
After the meal, the actor carefully cleared the dishes. Shen Ji watched him wash, suddenly asking: “Was it you?”
The actor ignored him.
“The killer,” Shen Ji added.
The actor’s face remained vacant, washing dishes without a flicker of reaction.
Shen Ji observed him dry his hands, fetch a blanket, and lie down on the sofa. He folded the blanket neatly, spread it over himself, and prepared to nap.
Before closing his eyes, he glanced strangely at Shen Ji, as if wondering why he was there. But he paid no mind, gripping the blanket’s edge, slowly closing his eyes.
Shen Ji lingered until the actor seemed truly asleep. Then he left.
Halfway, he met the returning old woman next door. Seeing him emerge from the actor’s home, she dropped her basket in fright.
Fruit rolled to Shen Ji’s feet. He picked them up, returning them to her basket. Inside were not only fruit, but paper money for the dead.
The old woman thanked him, inviting him to her home.
Shen Ji did not refuse.
Stepping inside, he was startled.
Soul banners* hung from the beams, talisman papers plastered the walls, incense burned at a shrine. On the table, a white candle flickered beside a bowl of rice with chopsticks stuck upright.
(* MyGoNews)
The floor was strewn with red paper cutouts of little figures, marked with illegible symbols. The sight was eerie, steeped in Chinese horror.*
(*Facebook)
Seeing him hesitate, the old woman kindly took his wrist, guiding him forward. “Young man, don’t always think of dying. This is better—go out, walk more.”
She had mistaken him for the suicidal actor. Shen Ji bit the bullet and entered as her guest.
At the small round table, she set fruit from the basket into a plate. Some were rotten, shriveled, moldy—unfit even for offerings.
Shen Ji wondered what she wanted to do next. Then she pushed the plate toward him, warmly offering.
Watching a fat worm crawl through the fruit, Shen Ji lost his appetite. “I’m not hungry,” he said.
Fortunately, she didn’t insist. She went to the shrine, kneeling and bowing repeatedly, then returned to cut red paper.
Shen Ji asked: “Is there really a god in the shrine?”
She smiled. Her wrinkled face was like dried bark, frail and broken with age. White-haired, stooped, slow—yet her eyes remained clear.
“God is in the heart. If the heart holds God, then God is before you.” She looked at him, smiling with gentle devotion.
“When you pray, do they answer?”
“They answer all.”
“Even me?”
“What wish would you make, young man?”
“My parents went far away. I’ve searched for a long time, but failed.” Shen Ji recalled the boy’s pitiful face, speaking with sorrow. “I want them back, to stay with me forever.”
“Poor child,” the old woman sighed. “My only grandson vanished years ago. They couldn’t even find a body.”
“What did you wish for?”
“I wished for my grandson’s return. God answered—promised to summon his soul back.”
Summoning the soul! Shen Ji shuddered. A thing of ghost stories, yet here it was being performed right in front of him.
“But alas,” she lamented, “my grandson won’t enter the house. He wanders the building daily. He wears a white shirt, suspenders, shorts, leather shoes I burned for him—to keep him decent in the other world…”
Her description matched perfectly the boy Shen Ji had met at noon—the one who called him a good man.
No wonder he couldn’t enter the couple’s home. No wonder his only friend was the dying youth. No wonder he could enter the landlord’s house even after knowing someone had died inside. No wonder no one else invited him in. But if he was a ghost, why could he enter Shen Ji’s home?
Shen Ji’s scalp tingled. In the pale candlelight, the old woman’s face seemed to shift, merging with a ghostly visage. Laughter rang in the room, crisp as silver bells—not the sound that would be emitted by a decent god.
What god laughs like that? Shen Ji interrupted: “If you’re not lying, then I’ve seen your grandson.”
Her eyes sharpened. “What do you mean?”
Shen Ji spoke plainly: “A boy told me—the one you worship isn’t a wish-granting benevolent God, but a malevolent one.”
The scissors fell from her hand.
Shen Ji kindly helped her pick them up, casually pocketing a red paper figure.
“You’re not him? Who are you? Leave! Go now! Out! Out!” She panicked, shoving him outside the apartment and plastering talismans across the doorframe to seal it against wandering spirits.
After finishing this, she returned to kneel at the shrine, muttering indistinct prayers.
Shen Ji looked at the closed door, his face unreadable.
Can talismans truly bar certain beings? If prayers can truly bring one’s soul back, why prepare so many ghost repelling wards? Do the summoned souls wear the face of Gods? Is the God in the heart nothing more than the soul one longs for?
___
T/N: This is very creepy
Support the translator: here.
Update: Monday, Wednesday, Friday
Leave a Reply