It is said that every year on the night of the fifteenth day of the eleventh lunar month, around midnight, if the weather is fine, the moon will hang bright and clear in the sky. Standing beneath it, a person will cast no shadow at all. This phenomenon occurs only on this single night of the year. At this moment, there is no shadow to be seen; however, after this hour, the shadow by your feet will gradually reappear.
Although this phenomenon happens only once a year, over the course of a lifetime spanning decades, one should witness dozens of full moons. So why does the folk saying go: “How often in life does one see the moon directly overhead?”
Since ancient times, the Chinese have built their society around agriculture, and thus for centuries, most people have lived by the rhythm of rising at sunrise and resting at sunset. In rural life, who doesn’t cook and go to bed when the sun sets? Waking up at midnight is almost impossible. Therefore, for the majority of Chinese people, although the full moon appears yearly, how often can one truly rise to witness it, especially within the brief span of a few decades in life? The Chinese people have an indescribable reverence for the moon. The Mid-Autumn Festival is connected to the moon, and the phenomenon of the moon directly overhead is also a tribute to it. Yet, aside from appreciating the moon’s beauty, there is also a sense of mystery, even eeriness.
In 1961, agricultural collectivization began, a time of rebuilding and renewal.
In Liaoyang County of Northeast China, there was a rural paradise untouched by modern life. Within it lay two neighboring villages: Xiushan Village on the left and Xiushui Village on the right. Together, the two villages had about two hundred people. As the saying goes, food is the first necessity of life, and for rural folks, it meant relying on the produce of their own fields. Normally, villagers lived self-sufficient lives, surviving off their small plots of land. Although this place was somewhat remote, it wasn’t boring. After finishing their daily work, villagers would happily bring small stools and gather under the large locust tree in the village, basking in the sun, cracking sunflower seeds, chatting about relatives, grandchildren, and neighbors’ affairs. The days passed leisurely, and the small, peaceful life felt quite pleasant.
But not everything could be said outright.
Alas! After all, this place was far from the provincial capital, isolated with no towns nearby. Except for the small store run by Wang Da Nao at the village entrance, there were almost no other facilities. The goods in the store were nothing like the dazzling variety found in today’s supermarkets—just salt, erguotou (a kind of liquor), and candies for children. In short, you could count all the items on your fingers. If you wanted to go out, you had to cross several small hills and walk a few kilometers before seeing the cobblestone road of the town. Therefore, unless there was an urgent matter, villagers would not take this unnecessary journey. However, precisely because of the inconvenient transportation, the villagers had lived in peace for decades. Even during the time when the Japanese invaders persecuted the people of Northeast China, they never imagined anyone would live in such a remote mountain area. Now it was already 1950; the Japanese had been driven away, and the Kuomintang had fled in disgrace to Taiwan. Across mainland China, class struggle was intensifying, and the country was in a period of rebuilding and renewal.
On the fifteenth day of the first lunar month, the weather turned strange. It rained off and on, clouds gathering and dispersing, even more unpredictable than Qingming Festival. Looking up, the dark night sky revealed no stars, no crescent moon, and no chirping insects or croaking frogs.
In Xiushan Village, the cobblestone street was smooth and delicate, reflecting patches of grayish-yellow light. Strangely, each household had hung a large white lantern outside their straw curtains. On each lantern was a neatly written character “mourning.” On this chilly night, the sight was rather unsettling.
Old Lady Hu had died, passing away the night before the fifteenth. Her death was both tragic and confusing—she even failed to see her grandson, who was studying elsewhere, for the last time. Her family was prominent, and these lanterns were lit in her honor. Naturally, this was also a village tradition: first, to give the departed neighbor a dignified send-off, and second, to light the way for the deceased souls. This way, even if they became wandering spirits, they could return home during festivals and avoid the loneliness worse than that of a widow…
On this night, the usually peaceful and serene village seemed excessively quiet.
The candlelight flickered weakly, the yellowish glow wavering with the cold wind and the lantern paper fluttering, sometimes bright, sometimes dim. Occasionally, the call of a wild dove pierced the silence, adding an eerie and sinister touch to the still night.
The ground was extremely damp from the recent rain, and fine droplets mixed with the cool night breeze continuously brushed against people’s faces, seeping into their bones with coldness.
“This damned weather is unusually cold,” a man’s angry voice suddenly broke the darkness of the rural road, followed by hurried, scattered footsteps echoing strangely through the mountains, reverberating endlessly.
“Shh! Speak softly!” The woman’s voice was urgent, perhaps realizing the man’s voice had been too loud. She spoke in a low tone. “I think we should hurry. Tonight feels too unusual.”
After she spoke, the sound of footsteps quickened noticeably. After a while, the man lowered his voice and asked, “Is it really true? Did Old Master Hu really…” His words trailed off, as if hesitant to say more.
“It’s absolutely true! I heard that Old Master Hu died in a very strange way—he just suddenly died in his room. Oh, the sight of his death was terrible,” the woman said, shaking her head.
“I’ve heard about it too. People say the old man was attacked by a ghost…” The man’s hushed voice carried an eerie tone, making the listener’s scalp tingle. The woman quickly interrupted, “Tsk tsk! May Buddha protect us, may Buddha protect us!”
The man scoffed disbelievingly. “What’s the big deal? It’s the truth. They say his tongue was sticking out a long way.”
“You…” The woman became flustered, unintentionally raising her voice. “If you keep talking nonsense, you can just go to your mother-in-law’s alone! I’m not going with you anymore, not in this pitch-black night…” With that, she shoved the few pounds of sticky rice cakes she had been carrying into the man’s arms.
“Hehe,” the man chuckled softly and said no more. Both quickened their pace.
Their figures gradually emerged from the darkness and walked onto the cobblestone path of Xiushan Village. Because of the recent death and the cold weather, even wearing padded jackets felt stiffening their limbs. As a result, the villagers had shut their doors tightly. Some of the white lanterns along the road had already been blown out by the wind, and others showed signs of being burned. The only soft light along the entire path came from the two lanterns hanging at the entrance of a large courtyard ahead.
Whether it was an illusion or not, the woman felt that the further they walked, the colder the wind became, as if it were seeping into her very bones and reaching her brain. She shivered involuntarily and rubbed her frozen arms. Glancing around at the tightly shut doors and windows on both sides, she felt as if there were eyes watching them from behind the dark window frames. And the two large red lanterns at the entrance of the courtyard ahead looked like the bloodshot eyes of a monster. The half-open gate revealed a pitch-black interior, like the gaping mouth of a beast.
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