I have no idea what it means to have a dance party, let alone one inside a coffin. How on earth do you hold a dance party inside a coffin? Could Wu Zhen be using the exaggerated rhetoric commonly found in literary novels? Before I could think further, I stood up from the ground, only to feel dizzy and nearly collapse face-first onto the floor. Shen Yihu wasn’t doing much better than me, also affected by Huang’s lingering yin energy, almost passing out.
I shouted, “Village Chief… Old Chief, fetch two thick cotton coats and light two bonfires in the madman’s courtyard. Quick!” Bai Guangde nodded and, despite his seventy-year-old frame, ran like Liu Xiang hurdling. He found a military overcoat for each of us.
Wearing heavy coats in the warm April weather would make outsiders think we were madmen. But I couldn’t care less and immediately dashed toward the mountain. Shen Yihu and I shivered as we ran, growing colder with each step. By the time we reached the hilltop, we were drenched in sweat, feeling slightly better, though we still couldn’t take off the coats.
By then, the sky was dimming, signaling the end of a hectic day.
Wu Zhen’s sleeves were soaked from wiping sweat as he stood fifty meters from the grave, ready to flee at any moment. His two subordinates looked like they’d rather rocket away. Seeing me arrive, Wu Zhen was overjoyed, though his expression turned worried when he noticed the military coats. Trembling, he stammered, “Earlier, the coffin was thumping and clanging—like a real dance party inside!”
I didn’t dwell on Wu Zhen’s words but noticed Zhang Dagan suddenly lurch forward, nearly face-planting. Staggering up, he ended up squatting on a rock, dozing off.
*Talk about nerves of steel—no wonder they call him Uncle Bold.*
I said, “Officer Shen, hurry and have the villagers bring torches up. It’s not completely dark yet—let’s tough it out, finish this, and then eat.”
Shen Yihu had no objections and quickly arranged for torches to be made in Baishui Village and brought up. The coffin resting on the flat ground was utterly silent—no sign of any dance party. The counterweight was still on top, the three daggers still embedded, and the eighteen red ropes still tightly bound around it. Where could things have gone wrong?
Zhang Dagan stretched as he stood up, grinning. “There *was* movement, but it didn’t feel like a dance party. More like fingers tapping. And that ‘thump-clang’ wasn’t festive—more like a temple fair at best.”
Wu Zhen had clearly exaggerated and quickly backtracked, “Now that Brother Zhang mentions it, it might’ve just been fingers tapping.” Zhang Dagan strode forward and slapped the coffin lid, cursing, “Knock on your grandpa’s grave! Couldn’t even let me nap in peace!”
If Zhang Dagan had lived during the Qin-Han transition, he’d have been another Fan Kuai—born with nerves of steel. I’d love to borrow some of his courage.
After a moment’s thought, I said, “Hurry and find him a comfy spot, or he’ll really complain.” Bai Guangde arrived with torches, which we lit, creating a blazing fire. The pallbearers were summoned too, towels wrapped around their foreheads and white cloth tied at their waists. No one wanted this dragging into tomorrow—leaving the coffin overnight risked Bai Jingren popping out, and that wouldn’t be a joke.
Bai Guangde said, “Grandson of the Long family, we’re counting on you. I don’t feel safe leaving this coffin here overnight.”
I replied, “Let’s assess the situation first.” Climbing onto a large rock, I surveyed the area. Truthfully, geomancy wasn’t my master’s forte—he said Yang Junsong had already mastered it, leaving little room for new discoveries, so he specialized in ghost-catching instead. The books only briefly mentioned principles like avoiding extreme yin or yang. Asking me to find an ideal spot on the spot was like forcing a duck onto a perch.
*Woof… woof…* A dog’s bark echoed from the mountainside. Bai Guangde frowned. “Why is my little black dog barking?”
I immediately clapped my hands, tightened my coat, and said, “Right where the black dog is barking. A few of you, come with me to dig, then move the coffin down.” At the final stretch, everyone was eager to wrap things up, working even more efficiently than during the day. I grabbed a hoe and jogged downhill. The little black dog, surprisingly resilient, had already climbed up and was waiting for me on a flat rock.
Once everything was arranged, Bai Guangde finally relaxed. Afraid the corpse might emerge, I placed the large counterweight atop the grave mound and told Uncle Bai Guangde, “After forty-nine days, you can dig it back up.”
With the matter settled, Wu Zhen gave Bai Guangde some money—100 yuan per helper from the day—and handed me a red envelope. The task force took away Huang’s body and the madman, leaving without even eating dinner. Shen Yihu gestured from the car that he’d call me later, and I nodded.
I returned the bone-cleaving dagger to Zhang Dagan along with two packs of Baisha cigarettes as thanks. Zhang Dagan headed home in the dark, muttering, “Five pigs left unbutchered today—gave them an extra day of life. Wonder how many people went without meat.”
Dinner was still at Village Chief Bai Guangde’s place.
Knowing I couldn’t eat meat, Old Bai stir-fried a plate of peanuts and prepared some greens, pulling me aside. “Tell me, what really happened?”
I chuckled. “That’s official business—I shouldn’t say.” Bai Guangde frowned. “Grandson of the Long family, that’s not fair. Watching a show without the ending is torture!”
I said, “Don’t worry, Old Chief. I’ll tell you if you agree to one thing.” He laughed. “What is it?” I replied, “Sell me the little black dog. To you, it’s just a dog, but to me, it saved my life.”
Bai Guangde cheerfully called the dog over. “Here, he’s your new master now, got it?” Country dogs weren’t worth much, so he added, “Consider him a gift.”
The little black dog wagged its tail at me, as if understanding the old chief’s words. Bai Guangde cracked a peanut and popped it into his mouth. “Now, spill it.” I said, “Alright, but what I saw and guessed might differ from the task force’s final report. Still, it explains all the killings.”
As I prepared to speak, I recalled my university professor Yao Baobao’s words: *True masters never boast about their feats.* I didn’t want to exaggerate in front of Old Bai—just lay out my deductions plainly, omitting my own role.
I steadied myself and said, “Chief, brace yourself for this story.” Bai Guangde nodded, smoothing his sparse eighty-eight hairs. “Go ahead, I’m ready.”
Here’s what likely happened: The madman and Widow Wang were once lovers. But she thought he was too poor, so she married his cousin Bai Jingren. This was evident from their coffins—one poplar, one toon, with a big price difference.
Bai Guangde froze. “Then what about the child? How did it die?”
I said, “Hold on. After marrying, Widow Wang had a child. Judging by the timeline, the father was likely the madman. Bai Jingren, furious, tried to strangle the baby, and Widow Wang begged the madman for help. They must’ve negotiated a monetary settlement. Huang, the madman’s wife, didn’t object, thinking getting the child back was good. But then Bai Jingren fell to his death while gathering herbs. Widow Wang suspected the madman and started blackmailing him.”
Bai Guangde took a drag from his pipe. “Then how did Huang die? And the child?” I smiled. “Judging by Huang’s face, she died of illness—no foul play. The child was drowned in the reservoir by his own father, the madman. His unspent resentment turned him into a water monkey, which I later encountered and dispelled.”
After Huang’s death, the madman, grief-stricken, dug her up one night, dressed her in new clothes, and gave her a new ‘home’ by his side. She’d died in winter, so the cold preserved her body. But lingering too long as a corpse breeds resentment, and her first target was Widow Wang.
Bai Guangde muttered, “Sounds like a storyteller’s tale. But you’re right—Huang did die in winter.”
Mimicking Professor Yao’s tone, I straightened up. “Real life is always more dramatic and bizarre than fiction.”
I could only guess part of the truth—maybe I’m entirely wrong.
Bai Guangde tapped his pipe. “In my view, Huang killed the child. No woman would tolerate her husband bringing home another’s child. And Bai Jingren? Probably pushed off the cliff by her. The most innocent was Widow Wang—child dead, husband dead, and then Huang possessed the madman to axe her head off.”
I laughed. “I don’t know the ‘correct’ answer. Maybe it’s an open-ended question. Maybe you’re right, Chief. Often, impulsive conflicts between people lead to killings. Even the gentlest soul can turn violent. Who’s *really* the culprit? Hard to say.”
*Readers, can you solve the riddle?*
Bai Guangde asked, “What about Bai Jingren’s original grave? And the madman’s house? Both are cursed—will strange things happen?” I thought, *Some resentment and corpse-qi linger; only time can disperse them.*
I suggested planting sunflowers at the “White Tiger Bites Corpse” site and pure gardenias at the madman’s doorstep. By summer, the sunflowers would soak up sunlight, dissolving sorrows, while the gardenias’ white blooms wouldn’t evoke bloodstains—white is the purest color.
Bai Guangde nodded. “A fine idea. When flowers bloom, hope returns.”
Leaving with the little black dog, I paid Bai Guangde fifty yuan—after much insistence.
Outside, I heard the chief’s wife scolding, “You old fool, stop talking to that Long family boy! Bad luck! Long Youshui was a lunatic—stayed single his whole life and dragged his grandson into it too. What woman would marry him now? Such a waste…”
I pretended not to hear and walked on. Some words hurt if taken to heart—better to ignore them. Baishui Village’s stone-paved paths dated back to the Song Dynasty’s Jingkang Incident, when war drove a Bai family from Bianjing to these remote hills.
Without city streetlights, only dim household lamps lit the dark stone paths. After today’s events, every door was shut tight.
The moonless night was pitch-black, as was the little dog. My phone was dead, leaving only my eyes to guide me. I wondered: *On a night like this, how did the madman feel carrying his dead wife home? Crying? Laughing? What kind of life is that?*
Those who haven’t lived it can’t fathom it, nor can words capture it.
I imagined the madman sitting on a roadside rock, offering his wife a sip from his flask: *Darling, drink some? No? Then I will.*
Snowflakes drifted down; icy winds howled. The world was silent as a monk’s meditation. The madman sat frozen, a statue on cold stone.
I stepped lightly past them, unwilling to disturb. When sunflowers and gardenias bloom, all will be well.
Just thinking of sunflowers makes me unafraid—of the dark, of the insect masters, of the bloody handprint on Grandpa’s back.
Gently, I called, “Little Rascal, let’s go home.”
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