Chapter One: A Tumultuous Wedding

My grandfather’s name was Lin Tianjian, and in our village, he was a man of considerable ability.

In his younger years, he was an opera performer, traveling with his troupe across the land, witnessing many strange people and curious happenings. Besides singing opera, he also knew the ways of the spirit mediums; during festivals, the village temple would always invite him to preside over rituals, addressing him respectfully as the Old Immortal. But later, during a certain turbulent era, he was paraded through the streets with a tall hat of shame, his troupe’s belongings were destroyed, and even the old almanacs he’d hidden in the cracks of the latrine were dug out and burned. After that, he became a farmer.

Yet, he did not farm for long before a black Santana car arrived to take him away.

He was gone for half a month, leaving me in the care of our neighbors. When he returned, he tore down our old house, hired a construction crew, and built the only two-story red brick house in the village at the time. He even bought the sole large color television in the entire village.

Such ostentation inevitably stirred jealousy; many villagers whispered that Lin Tianjian must have made his fortune through dirty dealings. How else could he have acquired wealth so quickly?

Grandfather was easygoing, always cheerful with others. Even when people gossiped about him, he never took offense.

On the second day of the second lunar month—the Dragon Raises Its Head festival, also known as the Earth God’s Birthday—while other places paid respects to ancestors during the Qingming Festival, in our village, the second day of the second month was the most important Ghost Festival of the year. Since childhood, every year on that day, if Grandfather went to the ancestral graves, he would always lock me inside the courtyard, forbidding me to go out. I’d ask him why, and he would just smile without answering, lock the big gate, and leave. I’d always depended on Grandfather; even my name, Lin Yi, was given by him. Whatever he said, I obeyed.

But as a child, I was mischievous and rebellious, and the more he forbade me from going out, the more I wanted to see what was happening. I even suspected that Grandfather must have been eating something delicious behind my back on that day.

This time, as luck would have it, Er Pang from next door came to call me, saying the adults had brought lots of good food to the old grave slope, and if we were late, not even a chicken’s tail would be left for us.

Back then, there weren’t many treats in the countryside; at the mere mention of roast chicken, my mouth watered, and without a moment’s hesitation, I climbed the wall and followed Er Pang to the old grave slope.

But when we got there, not a soul was in sight.

All we saw were colorful paper strips fluttering in the wind atop the graves. The grave paper was pinned down by clods of earth, trembling in the chilly spring breeze.

The old grave slope was regarded as the most auspicious burial ground in our Laojieling area; every family buried their dead there. The Lin family was the dominant clan in the village—over half the villagers bore the Lin surname. Atop the old grave slope stood an ancient, imposing mound, said to be the ancestral tomb of the Lin family.

But whose ancestor, exactly, it was, I couldn’t say.

I only knew that the tomb was enormous, like a small hill rising from the earth. Even more curious, a large, blank blue stone stele stood at its crest.

There was nothing else.

Er Pang pouted, “Forget it, we’re too late—the adults must’ve eaten all the roast chicken!”

Feeling let down, I was about to head home when I suddenly heard someone calling my name.

Beside the old grave slope was a ruined temple, half-destroyed decades ago when my grandfather was publicly denounced. Now, it was nothing but a ruin, incense long since burned out, wild grass growing in heaps, and unmarked graves scattered nearby. The voice came from there. I turned to look and saw a beautiful young woman in red standing at the temple entrance, as radiant as a new bride.

It was early spring, the grass just tinged with green; her bright red dress was striking against the scene. She was fair and lovely, yet unfamiliar to me. From afar, she beckoned me with a wave.

I don’t know why, but I walked over in a daze.

When I reached the temple entrance, however, the woman in red had vanished—but on the ground lay a piece of red paper.

As a child, I’d often heard Grandfather’s ghost stories: that ghosts would feed people yellow clay, that ghosts would call out to people in the wild to steal their souls, and that if you heard your name called, you must never answer or look back—or your soul would be lost. Frightened, I was about to run when Er Pang caught up. He’d heard the elders say that the grave paper was a quilt for the dead and asked why I’d dropped it on the ground. Too scared to reply, I heard him say we had to hurry and put it back, or we’d offend those below and suffer the consequences.

Already terrified, I was on the verge of tears. I hastily picked up a clod of earth, pressed the red paper onto a nearby grave, and took off running.

When I got home, Grandfather scolded me harshly.

Of course, when he asked where I’d been, I didn’t dare tell the truth. I just said Er Pang and I had gone to the riverbank to look for crabs, and I’d cried because a crab pinched my hand.

He did not pursue the matter.

He only sighed deeply and said, “A grave with sons will have white paper, a grave with none will be fouled by dogs.” Today is the Ghost Festival. By tradition, you should be at the ancestral tomb, burning incense, bowing, placing paper and hanging green branches for the ancestors. But your birth date and fortune are too weak to visit the graves, so Grandfather has done it for you. You don’t need to kowtow indoors; just offer incense at the ancestral tablet. That is enough.

Grandfather also said that my great-grandfather was a high-ranking official in the late Qing dynasty, a man of great stature, and that the large tomb was his. The ancestral tablet in our house was also his. Offering incense to him would ensure my safe and healthy growth.

In truth, I cared little for these things.

What concerned me more was the truth about my parents, but whenever I asked, Grandfather would fall silent, refusing to explain. His gaze toward me would turn strange, and I could not fathom what lay behind it.

Whenever I thought of my parents, I remembered how the village boys would mock me, calling me a bastard, the reincarnation of the Stable Master. Did I truly have no parents? Was I born from a crack in a stone?

This was a thorn ever lodged in my heart; touching upon it brought piercing pain, and as a child, I often quarreled with the others because of it.

That night,

I lay awake for a long time before finally drifting off.

I pondered my parents—what kind of people were they, and why did Grandfather refuse to speak of them? I also thought about the woman in red I’d seen at the ruined temple that day; the more I thought of her, the more unsettled I felt. Surely, I’d seen a ghost in broad daylight.

That night, I had a dream.

I dreamt that the woman in red was sitting by my bed.

I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or awake, only that I was consumed by fear. I whimpered beneath the covers, not daring to cry out or call for Grandfather, unable even to move. I remained frozen like this until, sometime in the small hours, exhaustion overcame me and I fell asleep. When I awoke, my pillow was damp, and beside it lay a piece of red paper.

There were words written on it, but I couldn’t recognize them.

At the sight of the red paper, I immediately recalled the grave paper I’d found at the ruined temple. A cold sweat broke out all over my body, and I ran crying to Grandfather. He took the red paper, examined it, and his expression grew complex—his brow furrowed slightly as he said, “Lin Yi, this is a birth chart, but it’s not yours. Where did you get it?” Grandfather was always good to me, but he always addressed me by my full name, never with affectionate nicknames like other grandfathers.

By this point, I dared not lie any longer, so I confessed everything, saying I must have run into a ghost.

To my surprise, Grandfather did not become angry. He merely smiled faintly, as if the matter was of little import. Then, after stubbing out his cigarette, he said, “Nonsense! There are no such things as ghosts and demons in this world. It’s all superstition!”

Yet, he carefully folded the red paper, took it into the inner room, and put it away. I had no idea what he intended.

In the nineties, peddlers still roamed the countryside, hawking trinkets and household wares. You could hear their rattles from afar, a sound that delighted us children.

That very afternoon, as Grandfather was splitting firewood in the courtyard, a peddler arrived.

He set down his shoulder pole outside the gate and entered the yard—not to sell anything to Grandfather, but merely asking for a bowl of water. After drinking, he upended the bowl on the stone table without a word of thanks and left.

I whispered to Grandfather that the man was rude.

Grandfather said nothing but went over, lifted the bowl, and found a slip of yellow paper beneath it.

On the paper were several lines:

There is wood, it is a tree;
There are people, but not the master.
The King of Sacrifice must be an assassin;
Whoever wears mourning is surely a monster.

At these words, Grandfather’s brow furrowed; he hurried to the gate, shouting, “I gave you water, and now you presume upon it? Get lost! Whatever you want, wait until the time comes!”

Puzzled, I followed Grandfather to the door, but he held me back, not letting me cross the threshold. Peering outside, I saw the peddler was already gone.

I asked what the note meant. Grandfather replied that peddlers were all uneducated and spoke nonsense, forbidding me to concern myself further. He burned the note.

Only later, once I was literate, did I understand the meaning of those words.

But the day after the peddler left, I fell ill.

The illness was grave; I lost consciousness and hovered at death’s door. Grandfather did all he could, taking me to the provincial hospital, but the doctors declared there was nothing to be done. They said, with more than ten thousand yuan, they might keep me alive, but at best I’d be a vegetable, and advised us to prepare for the worst. Yet, somehow, I recovered. When I asked Grandfather, he said he had invited a Taoist priest—an old friend from his opera days, a man of great skill. The priest had prepared a bowl of talisman water, and after I drank it, I was cured.

It sounds fantastical, but I was unconscious at the time and never saw the priest.

In my childhood memories, this Taoist priest my grandfather spoke of seemed almost a celestial being, and in my innocence, I harbored a deep admiration for him.

In a flash, ten years passed. That year, I turned eighteen, and something strange occurred once more in Laojieling Village.

This time, it involved my cousin.

He was born with a mental handicap—a simpleton. Already over twenty, my uncle and aunt were deeply troubled, for he was their only son. To have no heir was a grave violation of filial piety. But what girl in the neighboring villages would marry a simpleton? Even for money, my uncle’s family was not well-off.

But one morning, Grandfather came back in a rush from outside and told me that my uncle’s family was holding a wedding and that I should go help.

My uncle had only one son—did this mean my cousin was getting married?

Indeed, he was, but the news had come so suddenly.

There was much gossip in the village. Some said that fools have their own fortunes, for the bride was especially pretty—fair and lovely, enough to make others envious. But more people whispered that her origins were suspicious, perhaps bought with money from elsewhere. Some even claimed the bride had been carried back by my cousin from the old grave slope.

That rumor sent chills through me and revived memories of nightmares from childhood.

I asked Er Pang to help me inquire, but no one knew which village the bride’s family came from. My aunt kept silent, and on the wedding day, not a single member of the bride’s family attended.

When I saw my cousin carrying his bride, drooling, others found it amusing, but I felt only an inexplicable chill.

It seemed to me that beneath that blood-red bridal veil was a familiar face, smiling at me.

There was an old custom in the village called “throwing the bride”—a ritual for good fortune.

Usually, it was just a formality, a symbolic gesture. But my aunt was very superstitious, insisting it was crucial: if the groom ended up in front, the bride would be obedient, and the man would rule the household; if the bride landed in front, it meant a shrewish wife, and the family would suffer her temper and become a laughingstock.

The first time, my cousin failed—the bride fell in front, and the villagers burst into laughter. My aunt’s face turned green with anger.

Her temper flared. “No, that one doesn’t count! Do it again, quickly!”

No one expected her to be so insistent. My cousin was afraid of her; my uncle dared not object. He helped his son lift the bride onto his back again.

A few steps more, they reached the bamboo grove, and my aunt signaled with a cough.

My cousin, mustering his strength, gritted his teeth and threw the bride toward the edge of the grove, where dry bamboo leaves made a soft landing. He was not entirely without sense.

This time, the bride landed to one side, while my cousin himself stumbled two or three meters away.

Sitting on the ground, drooling, my cousin grinned at my aunt, even rolling on the ground in delight, making everyone laugh.

My aunt was pleased, satisfied that her new daughter-in-law would be manageable.

But then someone spoke—the production team leader, Ma Weiguo. His face was pale as he asked, “Auntie, why hasn’t your new daughter-in-law gotten up yet?”

His words brought the laughter to an abrupt halt.

Indeed, everyone saw it—the bride lay motionless where she had fallen.