Seeing my worry, as if I was about to end up in jail again, Xie Lingyu patted her chest and said, “Don’t worry. Even though I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, there’s no way they can trace the post back to me.”
I asked, “Why?” Xie Lingyu replied gloomily, “If they trace anything, they’ll only find you.”
Oh, goodness.
Our founding master was absolutely right when he said women were tricky. The kick Chen Tutu gave me still hurts to this day. If Xie Lingyu, with her “not-so-sharp” mind, had used my ID to register that account, I’d be the one getting dragged in for a late-night chat about religious development.
Just as I was stewing in anxiety, Little Rascal started barking again, tugging at my pants to go back…
I crouched down and patted his head. “What’s up? Feeling wronged on my behalf too?” Little Rascal barked a few times, probably telling me I was overthinking it. Yu Yuwei chimed in, “Maybe there’s a thief at home, and the dog’s just anxious and barking randomly.”
I checked the time—almost past ten. Logically, the chances of a break-in were slim. Could it be because tonight was Ma Shuangxi’s ghost-returning night, and Little Rascal was restless? Back in Baishui Village, the first time I visited Village Chief Bai Guangde’s house, Little Rascal had gone wild because the graves in the mountains and the female corpse in the madman’s house were about to act up.
I hurried back to the neighborhood. The closer we got, the more agitated Little Rascal became. The uphill entrance, which had been closed after the incident, had reopened. The hotel’s smashed wall had been repaired and redecorated, now back in use.
The bloodstained road had been scrubbed clean with brushes and disinfectant, spotless to the point where, if you were walking up that slope for the first time, you’d never guess someone had died there not long ago. There’s a Stephen Chow movie called *The Ghost Returning Night*—quirky, but genuinely unsettling.
The security booth at the entrance now had three guards inside, all visibly tense, speaking loudly enough to be heard from a distance. Probably guilt-ridden—maybe they’d scammed Ma Shuangxi out of cigarettes or borrowed his DVDs.
I walked up and asked, “Uh, is Brother Xu Guangsheng around?” A new guard snapped, “Who are you? What do you want with him?” The other two guards quickly apologized, saying, “He’s in the dorm. He’s got some snacks prepped—probably planning to relax and watch a movie tonight.”
I nodded and turned to leave when the guard added hesitantly, “Master, there’s something I’m not sure I should mention…”
I said, “Just say it.” The guard’s expression darkened. “A kid in the neighborhood just said he saw two people… without feet.” The new guard burst out laughing, “No feet? I don’t have a chest either!”
The joke fell flat, and no one else laughed.
I nodded. “Got it,” then took off with Little Rascal to gather my tools. The new guard popped a pimple and sneered, “Who does this guy think he is, walking around with some mutt like it’s cool?”
I grabbed my gear—a jade ruler, a bundle of red rope, and two packets of Little Rascal’s dried waste. Plus a small bottle of virgin boy’s urine, procured at the cost of five Alpine lollipops from two neighborhood kids. Those little brats peed all over my hand—infuriating.
The security dorm was a cramped room opposite the property office, packed with a dozen bunk beds.
The streetlights were dim as I approached the dorm. Spotting someone hiding in the grass, I moved closer—it was Xu Guangsheng, clutching a telescope, peering intently through the window like a war movie commander.
Strange sounds drifted from the dorm—Sichuanese dialect. “Dammit, hurry up!” I frowned. Wasn’t this supposed to be an American flick, *80-Year-Old Granny vs. Black Dude*? Why the Sichuan accent? Moans of passion soon followed.
“Granny Annie, is the pressure good?”
“Little Stephen, a bit more…”
The names were definitely Western. Maybe they dubbed it in Sichuanese for those who couldn’t follow English.
Xu Guangsheng watched with bated breath. I approached and asked, “How long have you been waiting?”
He rolled two meters back in shock, then kowtowed frantically. “I confess! I smoked the half-pack of cigarettes you hid under your pillow! And drank your liquor! Shuangxi, Shuangxi, don’t haunt me!”
I laughed. “It’s me. Hand over the telescope.”
Xu Guangsheng squinted. “Really you? Not Shuangxi in disguise?” Then he spotted Little Rascal. “Ah! I know that dog—can’t fake that. It *is* you, Master! You nearly scared the piss out of me!”
He handed me the telescope. I adjusted the focus and peered inside. A table stood in the middle of the dorm, with a disposable cup filled with Huanghelou liquor. A willow branch was stuck in the cup. Next to it, a pack of 20-yuan Huanghelou cigarettes lay open, speared into a steamed bun, burnt down to ash.
Peanuts, pig ears, and trotters also had willow branches. Xu Guangsheng whispered, “Master, has Shuangxi come yet?”
The cup looked untouched. “Probably not. It’s still early—he’ll likely show by midnight.”
Through the telescope, the blond, blue-eyed granny now had three shirtless grandsons gearing up for round two.
I wondered—was Ma Shuangxi so engrossed he hadn’t even touched the liquor?
The Sichuanese dub ruined the immersion. I tossed the telescope back. “Why’d you pick a Sichuan-dubbed porno?”
Xu Guangsheng shrugged. “He liked the accent. Always wanted a Sichuanese wife.” After a pause, he asked, “Old folks say when close friends die, they drag one down with them. True?”
I pretended to ponder. “Absolutely. Proven by time. Back in my village, an 80-year-old died, and his lifelong chess buddy followed two days later.”
Xu Guangsheng’s eyes glazed over before he dropped to his knees. “Brother, save me! I’m the only son—if I die, my family line ends!”
I reassured him, “Relax, I’ve got you.”
Truth was, by 80, you’ve lost most friends. When your last childhood buddy dies, loneliness sets in, making survival harder.
Friends are life’s pillars.
By 11:30, the two-hour porno had ended with no sign of the supernatural. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Little Rascal dozed in the grass as two crickets leapt over his nose, making him sneeze and paw at his snout.
Like all tense waits, the last half-hour before midnight dragged.
Under the rare June stars, I told Xu Guangsheng to fetch white rice. He returned with several pounds, which I scattered from the dorm door down the stairs, sprinkling water over it.
Fifteen minutes to midnight, faint rustling came from the rice—something was walking on it.
No door sound. Had someone entered?
The DVD player, which had stopped, suddenly whirred back to life. “Does it auto-replay?” I asked.
Xu Guangsheng trembled. “No way. It’s not that fancy.”
I grabbed the telescope. “Then, if I’m right, a ghost just walked in and hit play.”
Through the window, a hand reached out and drew the curtains. Xu Guangsheng whispered, “Will he drink, eat, and leave? Or… take me with him?”
“Wait and see.”
Faint footprints marked the rice trail. A ghost stepping on rice leaves traces. If he didn’t leave after drinking, I’d go in.
Time crawled.
Then, under the streetlights, two legless ghosts wielding machetes advanced toward us…
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