The motorcycle driver Liu Ming asked, “Young man, do you know that someone was hacked to death in Baishui Village? And have you heard of Long Youshui from that village? My brother Huo Qian told me that old man is something else.”
I chuckled, “Yes, I’ve heard of him. Long Youshui is my grandfather.” The previously talkative motorcycle driver immediately fell silent. As soon as I got off the bike, he sped away. I shouted after him, “You didn’t even take the fare!”
The town was small, and news spread quickly, especially with the surrounding villages. Everyone soon knew that Bai Xuan’s unexplained disappearance was somehow connected to Long Youshui’s grandson.
When I got home, my father was pulling weeds in the yard, muttering to himself, “These weeds are so stubborn—they grow back within two days after I pull them out.” I called out, “Dad.” My father, squatting on the ground, looked up and said, “You’re back.”
Hearing the commotion, my mother rushed out and scanned me up and down. “Are you okay?” Not wanting her to worry, I said, “Everything’s fine now. It’s all over.” I glanced around the house but didn’t see any bottled water and snapped at her.
My mother replied somewhat defensively, “I asked at the town’s supermarket—one bottle costs 1.5 yuan. Buying two crates would be over a hundred. I just couldn’t bring myself to spend that much.” I knew she was trying to save money for me, as I didn’t have a stable job or a proper partner.
My nose stung with emotion. After sitting at home for a while and checking around, I found nothing unusual. I warned my parents not to drink unboiled water and suggested they have a few raw eggs for dinner. Following the methods in *The Compendium*, I set up a few simple protective wards around the house.
Still, I wasn’t sure if the wards would work. I called Shen Yihu, but he must have been drunk and asleep—no one answered. So I sent him a text: *I’m heading to Baishui Village first.*
I borrowed a Qianjiang motorcycle from a neighbor, reassured my mother not to worry, and called out to my father, still pulling weeds in the yard, “Dad, I’m heading out.” My father, with his back to me, simply replied, “Be careful.”
The roaring Qianjiang motorcycle left the village and hit the highway. After about ten minutes, I reached the winding mountain road at the foot of the hills. Revving the engine, I sped toward Baishui Village. Along the way, I passed many other motorcycles, some carrying five or six people, speeding fearlessly up and down the mountain.
But I wasn’t as skilled. Though I’d ridden a motorcycle before, this was my first time navigating such treacherous mountain roads. My heart was in my throat—a journey that should have taken an hour ended up taking two. By the time I reached Baishui Village, dusk had fallen, and the sky was ablaze with the most magnificent sunset.
*The air at dusk is sweet; mountain birds return together.* Could Tao Yuanming have visited Baishui Village? Otherwise, how could his poetic lines so perfectly match the scene before me?
Under the old jujube tree at the village entrance, I didn’t see the madman, Bai Jingshui. I parked the motorcycle beneath the tree and spotted a seventy-something-year-old man puffing on a long bamboo pipe, coughing intermittently. He sat in the same spot where the madman usually did, wearing a pair of tattered canvas shoes.
I asked, “Uncle, where’s Bai Jingshui? Doesn’t he sit here every day?” The old man replied, “He’s probably at home.” I pressed, “Does Bai Jingshui have any stories? Can you tell me?”
The old man tapped his long bamboo pipe and said, “What stories could he have? His wife died, and he went mad. He farms a bit on the mountain, grows his own food, and digs for herbs every day. Though last year, he bought a big refrigerator.”
Curious, I asked, “Grandpa, why does the refrigerator stick out in your memory?” The old man chuckled, “How could it not? That fridge was painted red—looked just like a coffin.”
After relighting his pipe, he continued, “You’re Long Youshui’s grandson, aren’t you? Did he pass his legacy to you? Let me tell you—there’s a strange coffin in the back mountain. You should check it out. If anything seems off, I’ll have someone move the grave.”
I nodded in agreement, but as I took two steps, the old man called out again, “Wait, there’s one more thing.”
Annoyed, I asked, “Uncle, can’t you just say everything at once? What is it?”
He said, “Bai Jingshui and Widow Wang had a history. They were once lovers. Later, Widow Wang married Bai Jingshui’s cousin, Bai Jingren. Bai Jingshui married another woman, Huang.”
I said, “Oh? What happened after that?”
The old man continued, “Then something strange happened—both Bai Jingren and Huang died one after another. People in the village started whispering that Bai Jingshui and Widow Wang conspired to kill their spouses.”
I asked, “Have you told anyone else about this? Aren’t there investigators staying in the village?”
The old man replied, “Everyone talks about it, but the officials never asked us. Without proof, we kept quiet. They don’t know anything.” He then added, “You must be hungry. Come eat at my place.”
From our conversation, I learned the old man was Bai Guangde, the former village chief. On the way to his house, I walked through the village and spotted plainclothes detectives gathering evidence. Widow Wang’s house was cordoned off, and Bai Jingshui’s family was already under surveillance.
From a distance, I glanced at Bai Jingshui’s house and felt an overwhelming sense of dread—an icy chill ran down my spine.
At Bai Guangde’s house, a small black dog barely reacted when I entered. Instead, it paced nervously, its eyes darting around. I recalled *The Compendium* mentioning that some black dogs, innately pure and hostile to evil, could sense dark forces.
Was the dog’s agitation a bad omen?
Inside, a dim 10-watt bulb cast a yellowish glow. A faded poster of China’s ten marshals hung in the living room—clearly old. The house was tidy, suggesting a diligent homemaker. Bai Guangde’s three sons had all left for work, building unfinished houses nearby, waiting to renovate them at year’s end.
Bai Guangde told his wife to cook some meat dishes, but I quickly interjected, “My stomach’s upset—no meat, please.” Suspicious, he asked, “A young man who can’t eat meat?” Reluctantly, I admitted, “I saw someone get eaten alive.” Bai Guangde froze before shouting, “Fry some eggs and add cabbage!”
The rice from Baishui Village’s terraced fields was exceptionally fragrant. After some cabbage, I devoured three bowls plain.
Standing up, I asked, “Grandpa, can I borrow your little black dog?” Bai Guangde said, “Be careful.” He kicked the dog lightly and scolded, “Behave, you little beast.” The dog nodded knowingly. Taking the leash, I left for my grandfather’s house.
After days away, most of the free-roaming poultry had been stolen. Two dogs in the yard wagged their tails submissively when they saw the little black dog, even offering it a bone they’d found. The little black dog barked twice—*Woof, woof!*—as if unimpressed.
I retrieved the jade ruler and *The Compendium* from the stove, along with a bronze jar. Remembering my grandfather’s attic, I grabbed a hammer and broke the lock.
A fragrant breeze greeted me. The attic was filled with iron jars labeled with names like *Century-Old Turtle*, *Ten-Year-Old Black Dog Blood*, *Seven-Year Resurrection Herb*, and even *Meng Po’s Soup*—tools my grandfather must have used to subdue spirits.
The handwriting on the labels was neat—almost feminine. But my grandfather had always been a bachelor. How?
No time to dwell. Following *The Compendium*, I gathered what I needed. Before, I’d struggled to collect ingredients—once, while hunting a water monkey, I nearly got beaten as a pervert for searching for menstrual cloth.
But here, my grandfather’s attic was a treasure trove. Armed with these tools, I felt a surge of confidence, as if I could command a hundred ghosts.
I crushed a dried gecko, mixed it with black dog blood and “five-year night fragrance,” added cooked glutinous rice and ash from firewood.
Leashing the little black dog, I stepped outside, humming. Then—a shiver. The eerie feeling of being watched. But when I turned, there was nothing.
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