The axe struck the coffin lid but failed to split it open. The long robe I wore fit well, but it hindered my movements. Shen Yihu said, “Let me do it.” He took the axe from me, spat on his hands, and was about to swing when I grabbed his arm, signaling him to wait.
Turning to the crowd behind me, I shouted, “Everyone, put some effort into cursing! Curse the Huang woman inside the coffin—say whatever you want. If anything goes wrong, I’ll take the blame.” Three butchers gripped their sharp knives, standing at three points around the grave, while fifteen women formed a semicircle behind them.
My worry was this: What if I was wrong, and there actually was someone inside the coffin? Cursing wasn’t some magical method to deal with ghosts, but the act of venting anger and showing ferocity would frighten Huang. The fifteen fierce women unleashed a torrent of insults, listing Huang’s misdeeds. Their voices were far more effective than a group of frail monks chanting sutras.
With the three butchers—who had slaughtered countless pigs and dogs—standing guard, even on this overcast day, there was no need to fear any vengeful female corpse.
“Go ahead, Officer Shen,” I said, steadying myself. This was another step forward in my cautious exploration.
Shen Yihu swung the axe, and the thick coffin lid cracked open with a fissure. A faint, black miasma seeped out—thin and weak, the mildest form of corpse qi. But inhaling even a little would be disastrous. I quickly pushed Shen Yihu aside and waited for the miasma to dissipate before prying the lid open. Inside, there was nothing but white lime, a few black larvae, some floral-patterned clothes, a copper basin, and a pair of fire tongs.
The coffin was empty.
Not just my face, but everyone’s face turned pale with shock. Some even turned green. Shen Yihu asked, “Could the body have been stolen for a ghost marriage? It happens in rural areas.” I shook my head. “Even if it were for a ghost marriage, they’d usually look for a young, unmarried girl who died early.” I hesitated before adding, “If they couldn’t find one, maybe they’d settle for a young married woman. But we can’t jump to conclusions yet. If we can’t find the body, we’ll have to investigate within a hundred-mile radius to see who’s recently held a ghost marriage.”
Who could have taken Huang’s corpse?
“Let’s lift the coffin and burn it,” I said. “This burial site can’t be used anymore.” The crowd stared at me, baffled by how a college student in a long robe could have known the grave was empty.
Could he really tell just by looking at the grass on the tomb?
Bai Guangde tapped his pipe against the sole of his shoe and shouted at the stunned butchers, “Get to work! You slaughter pigs without hesitation—why hesitate now?” Uncle Baodao tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and yelled, “Step aside, I’ll do it.”
I chuckled. “It’s fine. I’ll stand right here.”
The three butchers finally stepped forward, knives tucked into their belts. The coffin, weakened by moisture and insects, was already decayed. With a collective effort, they quickly lifted it out of the grave.
We set it on fire, then flattened the ground with shovels and toppled the tombstone.
Shen Yihu, covered in dirt, handed out cigarettes. After taking a few puffs, he asked, “What now?”
I was distracted, afraid things were spiraling out of control. “We need to check Bai Jingshui’s grave. Village Head Bai, gather some more people.”
Having witnessed my abilities, Bai Guangde didn’t question me. He hurried back to the village in his Liberation shoes to recruit more hands. Silently, I thought, *Grandfather, you left at the worst possible time, leaving this mess to me.* The walk from Huang’s empty grave to Bai Jingshui’s tomb took half an hour. Bai Jingshui had gone to gather more people, but the butchers and the fifteen women refused to join us in digging up another grave. No amount of money could persuade them—they’d rather risk jail than continue.
I didn’t want to drag innocent people into danger, so I said, “It’s alright. Keep your knives with me. You’ve done enough. You can go home now.”
The reason I wanted the butchers’ knives was simple: those blades had slaughtered countless pigs and dogs, carrying an intimidating aura that kept minor spirits at bay. In underground markets, a Japanese commander’s sword from the war could fetch a high price—just having it in the house would ward off ghosts.
Uncle Baodao, dressed in military-green camouflage and smoking a strong cigarette, said, “You all go back. I’ve got five pigs waiting at home, but I’ll finish what I started.”
Shen Yihu lit a cigarette and looked at me with newfound respect. “Didn’t expect you to be such a kind-hearted guy.” I rolled my eyes. “Save the flattery. I don’t fall for that.” Only after saying it did I realize Shen Yihu and I weren’t that close.
I tucked the three butcher knives into the back of my belt. Later, I’d learn that being too kind and pure made one unfit for the life of a feng shui master.
“Uncle, what should I call you?” I asked.
The man grinned. “Back in the day, I’d be Fan Kuai, following Emperor Gaozu to greatness. Call me Bold Uncle.”
I laughed. “Bold Uncle, you’re truly a hero.”
“Hero? Nah, I’m just a butcher who likes a drink and some pig kidneys.” His full name was Zhang Bold—fitting for a man like him. I teased, “Bold Uncle, aren’t you afraid you’ll be reincarnated as a pig?”
He chuckled. “Honestly, being a pig sounds nice—just eat and sleep. Life’s too damn hard.”
He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, life was bitter—more bitter than any medicine.
Bold Uncle and I spoke in dialect, leaving Shen Yihu out of the conversation. After finishing his cigarette, Shen Yihu called Wu Zhen and his task force colleagues, arranging to meet at the back of the mountain.
Half an hour later, at high noon—the peak of yang energy—the group assembled. Despite the gloomy sky, I felt a glimmer of hope.
The large hill, the boulders, the “White Tiger Bearing a Corpse” formation—it all pointed to trouble. I pulled out a hard, blackened object from my cloth bag, broke it into pieces, and handed them out. The task force members eyed the chunks suspiciously. “What is this?” The experts, already frustrated by my delays and eccentricities, muttered under their breaths. Here I was, a young man dressed like an old sage, carrying a tattered bag, wasting their time.
Shen Yihu asked, “Do we keep it in our pockets? Xiao Qi, this smell… it’s strong. What is it? It’s not—”
“Dried cow dung,” I admitted. “But you don’t keep it in your pocket. You hold it in your mouth.” I explained as clearly as I could: the grave we were about to open might be dangerous, and the dung would protect them. Shen Yihu nodded and ordered, “Everyone, remember—put it in your mouths.”
Reluctantly, those who had been about to toss the dung stuffed it into their pockets instead. The looks they gave me told me they’d cursed me a thousand times in their heads.
*What kind of charlatan is this guy?*
By the time we reached Bai Jingren’s grave, it was 12:55. I borrowed a Huanghelou cigarette from Shen Yihu—my first since recovering from lung disease—and stood ten meters away, taking a couple of puffs. “Old Bai, was Bai Jingren originally buried here?” Bai Guangde, clutching his piece of dung, had tucked his pipe into a red belt—one I hadn’t seen earlier. He must’ve changed into it for protection while fetching people. I almost warned him that some corpses were drawn to red, especially lustful female ones, but held back.
“Grandson,” Bai Guangde said, “just tell me when to swallow this dung. But no, the grave was fine before. Then they blasted the mountainside for quarrying.”
I thought to myself, *Any feng shui master who’d read Yang Yunsong’s books wouldn’t have made such a mistake.* The terrain must have shifted, turning the burial site into a cursed one.
I flicked the cigarette butt away and glanced at the dozen or so people around me. Touching the three knives at my back, I said, “Let’s go.”
The task force experts, long impatient, followed. Bold Uncle lit another cheap cigarette, and I took one, coughing violently as the harsh smoke burned my lungs. Shen Yihu, in the middle of the group, pulled out an old Nokia and made another call. Behind him were the villagers Bai Guangde had recruited—men in their fifties and sixties, all wearing identical Liberation shoes.
Wu Zhen, weighed down by guilt, trailed at the back with his lackeys from the police station. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the chill running down his spine, as if he’d fallen into ice on this scorching noon.
At Bai Jingren’s grave, I instructed everyone to hold the dung in their mouths. Though it smelled unpleasant, it would prevent them from fainting. The dried dung had lost its stench, tasting more like wood shavings—but the psychological effect made it seem worse.
I took two bundles of red thread from my bag and stuck chopsticks into the ground at the four corners of the grave, winding the thread around them to symbolically bind Bai Jingren’s limbs.
Shen Yihu asked quietly, “Xiao Qi, do we need someone to curse again?”
I was puzzled—was Shen Yihu secretly a master of insults? I nodded. “Sure. Best to scold Bai Jingren for not resting peacefully after death.”
A faint smile crossed Shen Yihu’s lips as he spoke into his Nokia. “Wife, I need to tell you something. Yesterday, while on duty, a guy named Bai Jingren got me to play cards. I lost thirty bucks.”
Then he put the phone on speaker.
“Shen Yihu, you good-for-nothing! I swear—you’re supposed to be working, not gambling! Bai Jingren, huh? Fancy name—‘Jingren,’ my foot! Dragging you into card games…”
For the next half-hour, the phone blasted with the voice of a furious woman. Shen Yihu had done me a huge favor.
I got to work, and the task force experts, wearing white gloves, joined in. Shovels and hoes moved in unison.
Soon, the second coffin of the day was unearthed.
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