I am a Feng Shui master, though I haven’t been in the field for long—just about three years by rough count. In that time, I’ve dealt with female corpses in the mountains, wild ghosts in abandoned villages, century-old spirits, and even petty people in this world…
If you have the patience, let me first tell you about what happened before I entered this line of work.
In 2006, I graduated from university, but during my pre-employment medical checkup, I was diagnosed with tuberculosis. The company coldly dismissed me, and I had no choice but to take my medication and return home to recuperate. In the past, this would have been a death sentence. Fortunately, we live in an era of advanced medicine, and after taking medication for over half a year, I recovered.
At the beginning of 2007, after the Lunar New Year, feeling mostly recovered, I started job hunting again. But luck wasn’t on my side—I searched for months without finding a suitable position. My parents had spent so much money to put me through school, yet I couldn’t repay them. There were even a few times when I walked across the Yangtze River Bridge and nearly jumped into the river, almost becoming just another wandering soul in its waters.
By the end of 2007, with no other options, I had to transfer my household registration and records from my university back to my hometown, fearing that if I delayed any longer, I’d become an undocumented person.
When my household registration was moved back, my father drank a whole bottle of liquor and sulked all night. I was born in a small town at the border of Hubei and Jiangxi, a place so poor that, in my father’s eyes, all those years of education had been for nothing—my household registration had returned to the countryside, as if they’d wasted their money raising a college graduate.
At the beginning of 2008, a friend invited me to invest in an electronics shop in Shenzhen. I asked my father for 50,000 yuan—his entire life savings—but the 2008 financial crisis hit like a wild beast, and the money vanished without a trace.
By the end of 2008, I was in my rented apartment, reflecting on my life in tears. The only companion I had was Gabriel García Márquez’s *One Hundred Years of Solitude*, which provided some solace for the unease in my heart. On New Year’s Eve, I didn’t return home. Instead, I welcomed the new year alone on an overpass in a strange city, listening to a street musician sing Wang Feng’s *Fireworks*: “This is a performance without an ending… drunk like a lost wild pigeon…”
During the Qingming Festival in 2009, my father called and demanded I come home to pay respects to our ancestors, threatening to disown me if I didn’t.
This trip home would change the course of my life.
I bought a train ticket and, upon arriving in the county town, decided to bring my father two bottles of twelve-year-old Zhijiang Daqu liquor, since I hadn’t been home in a year. When I got back, my mother wept with joy.
My father said, “Since you’re finally home, let’s drink together.” By the end of the meal, both bottles were empty. He didn’t say much, nor did he ask about my future plans. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with silence and hesitation.
Late that night, I slipped outside, far from my parents, and sobbed uncontrollably, careful not to let them hear.
On the day of Qingming, my mother packed a bamboo basket with liquor, cups, cured meat, dried fish, paper money, and incense. She added two apples, saying it was fashionable to bring fruit, and told me to eat them on the way back after paying respects—our ancestors would bless me.
My father and I each carried a knife. Our ancestors’ graves were scattered across the mountains. As we walked, my father reminded me, “Remember the location of each grave. When I’m gone, don’t forget to come back every year to pay respects. A person must never forget their roots…”
At the last grave, I bent down to clear the weeds from a small mound when suddenly, a pure white, ten-centimeter-long centipede with countless legs leaped out like lightning and landed on my shoulder, scurrying down my neck and into my clothes.
Terrified, I shook violently, screaming and trying to brush it off. Strangely, the centipede didn’t seem intent on harming me—it rolled off me and onto the ground. Once white, it turned black the moment it touched the soil and vanished underground.
I didn’t think much of it at the time, but by afternoon, I was burning with fever. My mother suggested calling Aunt An, an old witch in our village, fearing the centipede might have been something unnatural from the grave.
Years of higher education had made me despise her. I insisted on going to the town hospital instead. For five days, my fever raged, subsiding only briefly before flaring again. Yet my mind remained clear—just my body weak, as if roasting over a fire. I thought of all the hardships and humiliations I’d endured over the past three years, wondering if this was finally my release. But I hadn’t even repaid my parents’ kindness—what a worthless son I was.
Outside the hospital room, I heard my mother whisper, “Husband, should I ask my father to take a look?”
After a pause, my father agreed.
That night, my grandfather arrived wearing a straw hat and sandals. I’d known of him but had never met him. He looked like a rural Feng Shui master. The moment he entered, he shooed my parents out.
He removed my IV and said, “Xiao Qi, you’ve been destined for three years of misfortune, and now it’s nearly over. If you endure, your path ahead will be smoother. If not… well, it’s hard to say.”
Though my mind was clear, my lips were too parched to speak.
He continued, “That centipede was a Yin-Sucking Myriapod, born in the caves of these mountains, feeding on dark energy.”
Gaining some strength, I argued, “Centipedes are black or yellow—never white. And I’m young and full of vitality. How could I have dark energy? Stop spreading superstitions—call the nurse back for my IV.”
Unfazed, my grandfather replied, “Why you had dark energy, I don’t yet know. But I’ll return in three days.”
With that, he left as quietly as he’d come. Strangely, the moment he was gone, my fever broke. Within two days, I was discharged.
Looking back, that centipede might have saved me—it didn’t bite or sting but instead absorbed the dark energy in me. Its venom, though, had caused my fever.
After my grandfather left, I asked about his profession. My mother hesitated, but my father said, “He’s been in the ‘university of life’ long enough. It doesn’t matter if he believes or not.”
As my mother peeled an apple for me, she began, “Your grandfather is a geomancer—what some call a Feng Shui master or a Yin-Yang practitioner. I was a child he found and raised. After I married, he rarely visited, not wanting to bring bad luck to our family.”
I bit back the word “charlatan.” I still refused to believe in dark energy, three-year curses, or supernatural nonsense.
Three days later, my grandfather returned, looking noticeably more haggard. He told me the issue was resolved and advised me to rest, not to overthink it.
I didn’t know what to make of his mystical act.
Later, I learned the dark energy in me had been planted by an old enemy of his. Once my grandfather dealt with that enemy, I recovered. But that’s a story for another time.
Before leaving, my grandfather said, “I know you don’t believe me. In a few days, I’ll show you something. Then you’ll see if I’m right or not.”
After a week of rest at home, I considered returning to Shenzhen. Then my grandfather called, asking me to visit him. I hesitated.
My mother chuckled. “For all your education, there are things even an old woman like me knows better. Let me tell you—Old Song in Songxi Village ran a clinic. A fortune-teller warned him repeatedly to close it this year, but he didn’t listen. Then he accidentally killed someone with an injection.”
I laughed. “People love embellishing stories after the fact. There’s no way that’s true.”
My father set down his reading glasses. “Xiao Qi, practice is the sole criterion for testing truth. There’s no harm in seeing for yourself.”
In the end, I decided to go.
My grandfather lived deep in the mountains, a place I’d barely visited. The winding mountain road was traversed by a noisy, smoke-belching three-wheeled vehicle that climbed like a roller coaster. After over an hour, we reached his village, Baishui.
At the border of Jiangxi and Hubei, the terrain was rugged but lacked the dense forests and dangerous wildlife of western Hunan. The air was fresh, the birds plentiful—a perfect place for quiet living.
At the village entrance, a long-haired middle-aged man squatted under a dead jujube tree, staring vacantly and grinning at passersby, drooling occasionally.
I approached him. “Uncle, do you know where Long Youshui’s house is?”
The man shrieked and ran away like a madman. Cursing my luck, I finally found my grandfather’s home—an old two-story wooden house with a vintage copper lock.
The yard was alive with ducks, chickens, and a dog, their droppings everywhere.
Inside, my grandfather was waiting. He tossed an old iron box at me. “See for yourself if I’ve been lying.”
The box was smooth from countless touches. Inside lay a ten-centimeter-long, translucent centipede, resembling the “blood silkworms” of martial arts novels. I smirked. “Mountain centipedes must be easy to catch. Why call it a Yin-Sucking Myriapod?”
Unfazed, my grandfather said, “Since you don’t believe me, I’ll take you into the mountains tonight. There are things you’ve never seen—consider it broadening your horizons.”
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