Chapter 72: Strange Occurrences in the Mountains, Part 5

Chapter 72: Strange Occurrences in the Mountains, Part Five

Because Master Zhang was forbidden to spend the night in the host’s house after performing the ritual, he left the Li family’s home early. That very night, Old Li's wife, wanting to provide her husband and son with something nourishing, instructed her son Sun Qian to bring home the offerings used for the mountain god sacrifice—the head, hooves, brisket, and skin of the animal. She cooked these for Old Li and their son.

But soon after, not only Old Li, but also his son Qian began to behave abnormally. Their actions became deranged; they were often driven by an unseen force in the dead of night to run deep into the mountains. It was as if they could not resist this compulsion, powerless to do anything but let themselves be led into the darkness of the forest.

Some villagers claimed to have glimpsed Qian’s shadow racing through the darkness, his face contorted in terror and despair. People whispered that the mountain god, through the blood of the offerings, had driven Old Li and his son mad, for the sacrificial animal was meant to be hung in the mountains, left for the mountain god’s incarnations—the wild birds and beasts—to devour. By eating what was meant for the mountain god, they had once again incurred his wrath.

From then on, Old Li and his son fell ill together, but never at the same time—when Old Li’s condition improved, Qian’s madness intensified, and when Qian was lucid, Old Li would descend into frenzy.

Despite being a diligent and hardworking man, Old Li was the pillar of his impoverished household. The recurring illness drove the family deeper into poverty, and they could not afford more rituals. Worse yet, because Old Li was strong and prone to violent fits, even four or five young men could not subdue him when his madness struck. The clan had no choice but to lock Old Li in a wooden cell, and confine Qian at home. They tried to hire various shamans to perform rituals, but none had any effect.

It continued until the day Qian’s son took his own life—a white-haired man mourning a child lost far too soon, a true tragedy of the living world.

While everyone lamented the Li family’s fate and the misfortune that befell young Qian, a sudden hush fell.

“Hush—” Li Guangli gestured for the men who were talking to be silent. He pressed his ear to the ground and listened closely.

Zhang Sanlu looked at him, puzzled, but soon he too seemed to catch a sound, and quickly mimicked Li Guangli, lying flat and listening intently.

At first, Zhang Sanlu heard nothing. The midnight forest was deathly quiet—no birds, no beasts, not even the hum of insects. Not even the wind stirred. All he could hear was his own breath and the heavy thrum of his heartbeat.

But after a while, he felt a strange vibration rising from deep within the mountain, approaching, then fading, as if the whole mountain was trembling slightly.

“What’s going on? Is it an earth groan?” one of the men whispered from the ground. He sat up, but saw that everyone else remained calm, still pressed to the earth.

“It’s nothing, not an earth groan,” Li Guangli stood, dusted himself off, and exhaled in relief. “I’m not sure if our Daoist friend knows about this, but every year around August and September we get a few episodes like this. Usually, it’s just a noise, and the season’s already passed, so it shouldn’t be happening now.”

“But if there really is an earth groan, the forest becomes dangerous at night. Sometimes the earth dragon turns over and buries people alive.”

Zhang Sanlu was curious, so Li Guangli explained this so-called earth groan: sometimes people found deep, unnatural hollows in the mountain, as if they led into the very earth. And every year around August or September, people would be woken from sleep by strange rumblings below, as if a colossal being were stirring within the mountain. The locals believed it was the legendary earth dragon turning, thus they called it an “earth groan.”

Accompanying these groans, a chilling white fog would often rise from underground. On nights when the earth groaned, the fog would seep upward, blanketing the forest. Any person or animal caught within it would lose their way within two hours, and freeze to death in the woods. The villagers were so wary that during the months when earth groans were frequent, no one lingered in the mountains after dark.

Zhang Sanlu gazed into the forest. The light from their campfire barely pierced the thick trees before being swallowed by the dense darkness, as if something unseen was watching them.

“Why has the fog started to rise?” some of the men murmured anxiously.

“Add more wood to the fire!”

In the distance, a thick layer of fog had crept in, shrouding everything in a veil of white. The cold moonlight fell upon the mountain forest, but did nothing to improve visibility—it only managed to cast the twisted, withered shadows of tree trunks in the fog, making them seem like they were dancing a strange, eldritch dance.

Everywhere they looked, beyond the shifting, rolling white mist, there was nothing to see.

But Li Guangli seemed to have noticed something unusual. He stared into the distance for a moment, then turned to the wiry man beside him.

“Did you just see something over there?”

“See what?” the wiry man replied, startled. “See what? All I see is the fog.”

“No, not that,” Old Wang said, turning his head and pointing. “Just now, I thought I saw someone over there.”

“Someone?” Zhang Sanlu was surprised and peered into the thick fog, but saw nothing.

The white mist was growing denser, swelling and contracting among the trees like some giant, mindless creature, devouring everything in its path.

“Found you!” Suddenly, a rough, booming voice sounded behind them.

In the darkness of the mountain forest, everyone was already on edge after hearing such chilling tales and now, enveloped in thick fog, their nerves were frayed. The sudden cry from behind sent a shiver through them all.

Turning, they saw a disheveled man standing in the mist. His hair grew wild as mountain grass, uncombed and tossed about by the wind, with seeds from the highland weeds tangled in the strands. His beard was just as unruly, as if it had grown unchecked with the passage of the seasons. He wore a robe like that of a Daoist, faded and threadbare, yet on him it seemed comfortable and natural, as if the garment and his body had become one, inseparable from each other.