Chapter 63: Not a Single Soul in Sight

Wu Zhen said that he happened to be free tomorrow and could go with me. I laughed and asked, “Director Wu, not afraid this time?” Wu Zhen chuckled, “With Brother Xiao around, what’s there to fear?”

I grinned, “Director Wu’s got guts now. By the way, tell Ma Yan that Old Worm Five is dead.” Wu Zhen seemed to pause for a moment, “How did he die?”

Hearing my mother’s call, I quickly replied, “Same way as Bai Xuan.” When Wu Zhen hung up, his voice was noticeably trembling.

Mother was calling me because the firewood had run out, and she wanted me to fetch some from the pigpen. I muttered, “Don’t we have a gas stove? Why bother with firewood?”

Mother laughed, “The hare was hunted from the mountains. Cooking it with gas loses its original flavor. Firewood makes it taste better. There are a few peach logs under the pigpen—perfect for burning.”

The chopped hare went into the pot with a handful of red chilies, some broken cinnamon bark, and just a pinch of salt—no other seasonings. First, it boiled fiercely, then simmered slowly over the embers.

The aroma spread, and Little Rascal circled restlessly behind us, eyeing Mother pleadingly. She picked out a piece of meat with her chopsticks and tossed it to him. He must’ve eaten too fast, yelping from the heat.

The pig’s trotters were cooked differently. Chopped and placed in the pot with salt and cinnamon, then the key ingredient—a bottle of premium Tsingtao beer, with most of it poured in.

Cooked over high heat on the gas stove, the fat was rendered out, and the beer cut through the greasiness.

A table was set up in the yard, drinks laid out. While the meal was being prepared, Father invited a few uncles over. One uncle eyed the liquor I’d brought, complaining it was bland, then poured himself two cups of snake-infused medicinal wine from a large jar. Father laughed, “Too strong for me—I’ll stick to bottled liquor.” I opened two more crates of chilled beer.

Plates of pig’s trotters, braised hare, roasted chicken, and duck were spread out, along with two plates of peanuts and two packs of cigarettes on the table. The conversation flowed, with toasts and clinking glasses, the atmosphere lively. The hare had a subtle sweetness, lingering on the palate, while the trotters, slightly greasy, paired perfectly with the drinks.

I said, “Uncle, our dog likes strong liquor—pour him a sip.” The uncle hesitated but relented, “Just a taste for the little guy.”

Little Rascal took two sips, staggered, then ran inside to sleep.

After dinner, I handed out another round of cigarettes. As dusk fell, everyone dispersed. Mother cleaned up, then kicked Father awake, “Get up, wash, then sleep.” Feeling dizzy, I debated calling Xie Lingyu but decided against it.

Better to forget each other than cling in hardship.

Early the next morning, Wu Zhen called, saying he’d pick me up by car. I grabbed Little Rascal and told my parents.

Wu Zhen brought Ma Yan along. In the car, she kept apologizing, saying she was young and foolish, hoping for forgiveness. I asked, “Now you realize scheming against me was wrong?”

Ma Yan nodded nervously, “I was wrong, I shouldn’t have—”

I scoffed, “If only you’d known better sooner. But as the saying goes, three strikes and you’re out.” Realizing I’d forgiven her, Ma Yan smiled, promising never to do it again.

We drove to Baishui Village, taking the highway and winding mountain roads for over an hour.

Old Village Chief Bai Guangde had indeed planted sunflowers and transplanted gardenias. The flowers were in full bloom, their fragrance wafting from afar. The sunflowers were also starting to open, soon to yield seeds.

But today wasn’t about admiring flowers—business came first. I headed to Bai Jingren’s fresh grave. The stone that had been weighing it down was gone, and a wild boar had left its mark. Clearly, the coffin might be empty.

Wu Zhen went into the village to find Bai Guangde and a couple of helpers. I’d hoped to thank Uncle Dagan in person, but he was away buying pigs—a shame.

Bai Guangde greeted me warmly, “Long family’s grandson, what brings you back?” Little Rascal barked twice, nuzzling the old man’s feet playfully.

I pointed at the grave, “Did you move the stone?” Bai Guangde rubbed tobacco between his fingers, nodding, “You told me to remove the counterweight after 49 days, but when I came, it was gone—just a big stone left. So I moved it. Figured a stone was about the same.”

I knew the chief had tried his best. Someone must’ve taken the counterweight deliberately. “No matter. Let’s hope whoever’s inside is still there.”

Without another word, I dug trenches on either side with a hoe. Wu Zhen asked, “Need help?”

“Stay back for now,” I said.

The heat was oppressive. Sweat soaked my clothes as the sun blazed overhead, making the work even harder.

Two skeletal insects crawled out of the trench, pushing aside the dirt. My mind flashed to the ghost story I’d heard in the taxi—a hand reaching out from the coffin, a *yaoi* hand…

Cicadas droned incessantly. The others watched from a distance, sweating profusely. Wu Zhen took a drag from his cigarette and called out, “Brother Xiao, any weirdness?”

I paused to drink water, “Wait a bit longer.”

Another strike of the hoe revealed a termite nest. Shocked, I washed it away hastily. The coffin lid came into view. Pushing it open, I found the nails gone—the lid merely resting loosely, the grave rebuilt to look undisturbed.

I took a sharp breath, “Director Wu, got a smoke?” Wu Zhen sent Ma Yan over with a cigarette. She approached cautiously, avoiding the grave, “Is… is he still in there?”

I lit up, joking, “Probably visiting relatives. Who knows if he’ll return? Let me finish this, then we’ll check.” Ma Yan fled after handing me the cigarette.

Squatting, I smoked, reflecting on recent troubles. Since eating those five worms, my health had improved—smoking no longer affected me, so I indulged.

Little Rascal sighed beside me, and I gave him some water.

Stubbing out the cigarette, I flipped open the coffin lid. Inside: lime, tattered black clothes, two pairs of crocodile leather shoes, and two belts—no trace of Bai Jingren. Sunlight streamed in, evaporating any lingering corpse energy.

“Come over,” I called. “No one’s home.”

They edged forward, peering in. Bai Guangde cursed, “Not a hair left! Stolen for a ghost marriage? Or dug up for a meal?”

Ma Yan piped up, “Grandpa, that’s a sick joke. Who eats human flesh?”

Bai Guangde sneered, “Girl, you’re naive. When starving, people eat mud and bugs. Why not human meat?”

Ma Yan shrank back in horror. Wu Zhen, with his police experience, scanned the area. “Grass hasn’t been trampled in ages. Doesn’t look like grave robbers. Brother Xiao, thoughts?”

I stroked my chin, “Shoes and belts are still here. Maybe he’s visiting relatives and will return tonight.”

Wu Zhen gulped, eyeing me skeptically, “You’re joking, right?”

I resealed the coffin, patting down the dirt with dried soil to mask any disturbance. “We’ll see if he comes back tonight.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances but went along with it. Back in the village, some still eyed me coldly. Bai Guangde hosted lunch. Afterward, I borrowed a hoe, bought snacks, incense, and firecrackers from the village store, plus a bottle of floral water. Passing the madman’s house, I noticed the gloom had lifted entirely.

I cleared weeds from my grandfather’s grave, lit the firecrackers—pop! pop! pop!—and sighed, “Grandpa, you shouldn’t have dragged me into this. Life’s hard enough. But you’re gone, so no point complaining. Here’s some snacks—melon seeds, bubblegum. You probably can’t chew gum, so I’ll take that. And instant noodles—make do!”

Night fell quickly. We ate a simple meal.

Wu Zhen asked, “Brother Xiao, want us with you tonight?”

I grinned, “Come enjoy the night view. Don’t miss the fun.”

Wiping sweat, Wu Zhen said, “Too hot. My stench might scare him off.” Ma Yan trembled, “Master, my stomach hurts.” I glanced at Bai Guangde, who groaned, “Rheumatism’s killing me tonight—ow! Ow!”

Little Rascal barked twice.

I sighed, “Fine, I’ll go alone. Wouldn’t want to scare you to death.” They visibly relaxed.

Little Rascal and I sprinted up the hill. I doused us both in floral water. By midnight, Bai Jingren still hadn’t returned. On a rock two meters from the grave, faint chicken-scratch-like symbols glowed—likely written with firefly powder, barely visible from afar…