It is said that every year on the night of the fifteenth day of the eleventh lunar month, at the stroke of midnight, if the weather is fine, the moon will hang bright and clear in the sky. If a person stands beneath the moonlight and looks down, there will be no shadow around him at all. This phenomenon occurs only once a year, at that precise moment. Afterward, the shadow by your feet will gradually return.
Although this happens only once a year, over the course of a lifetime spanning several decades, there should be dozens of occasions when the moon shines directly overhead. So why does the old saying go, “How often in life does the moon shine directly above?”
Since ancient times, China has been an agricultural nation, and most people lived by the rhythm of sunrise and sunset—rising with the sun and resting when it set. In rural life, who would stay up after sunset other than to cook dinner and then go to bed? Waking up at midnight was almost unthinkable. Therefore, although the moon shines overhead every year, for most Chinese people, how many times in their short lives of just a few decades could they actually rise to witness it? The Chinese people have always held a deep, indescribable reverence for the moon. The Mid-Autumn Festival is linked to the moon, and “the moon shining directly overhead” is also a tribute to it. But this admiration isn’t purely aesthetic—it carries a sense of mystery, even eeriness.
In 1961, agricultural collectivization was in full swing, and the nation was in a period of revival after years of turmoil.
In Liaoyang County of Northeast China’s Liaoning Province, there lay a secluded paradise untouched by the outside world. Within it were two neighboring villages: Xiushan Village on the left and Xiushui Village on the right. Together, they numbered about two hundred people. As the old saying goes, “Food is the first necessity of the people,” and in rural areas, people naturally relied on their own farmland for survival. In daily life, villagers lived self-sufficiently off their small plots of land. Though somewhat remote, life wasn’t boring. Once their daily chores were done, people would happily bring small stools and gather around the big locust tree in the village square, sunbathing, cracking sunflower seeds, chatting about this and that, gossiping about uncles and aunts, grandchildren and daughters-in-law. Time passed slowly and comfortably.
But this description doesn’t tell the whole story—why?
Ah! Because this place was far from the provincial capital. It was isolated, with no towns nearby. Apart from a small shop run by a man known as Big Wang at the village entrance, there were almost no other facilities. The shop’s goods were nothing like the dazzling variety found in today’s supermarkets—just salt, sorghum liquor, and a few candies for children. You could count all the items on your fingers. If you wanted to go anywhere, you had to cross several small hills and walk a few kilometers before you’d see the cobblestone road of the nearest town. Therefore, villagers rarely traveled unless it was absolutely necessary. But ironically, due to this inconvenient transportation, the villagers had lived in relative peace for decades. Even during the Japanese occupation of Northeast China, the enemy never imagined that anyone would be living in such a remote mountain village. Now it was already 1950. The Japanese had been driven out, and the Kuomintang had fled in disgrace to Taiwan. Across mainland China, the land reform movement was in full swing, and the country was beginning to rebuild itself from ruins.
It was the fifteenth day of the first lunar month, but the weather was strange—raining one moment, cloudy the next, even more unpredictable than Qingming Festival. Looking up, the night sky was pitch black, without a single star or sliver of moonlight, and no chirping of insects or croaking of frogs.
Legend has it that on the night of the fifteenth day of the eleventh lunar month, at midnight, if the weather is clear, the moon will hang brightly in the sky. Standing under the moonlight, if one looks down, there will be no shadow around them. This phenomenon occurs only once a year, at this specific moment. After this moment, the shadow at one’s feet gradually reappears.
Although this happens only once a year, in a lifetime of several decades, one would experience this phenomenon dozens of times. Yet, why is there a saying among the people: “How often does one see the moon directly overhead?”
Since ancient times, China has been an agricultural society, with most people working from sunrise to sunset. In rural areas, people typically cook after sunset and then go to bed. Getting up at midnight is almost impossible. Therefore, for the vast majority of Chinese people, although the moon is directly overhead every year, actually getting up to witness it is rare in one’s lifetime. The Chinese have an indescribable reverence for the moon. The Mid-Autumn Festival is related to the moon, and the moon directly overhead is also a form of praise for the moon. However, besides appreciating the beauty of the moon, there is also a sense of mystery and eeriness…
In 1961, during the period of agricultural collectivization, everything was in a state of reconstruction.
In Liaoyang County, Northeast China, there is a simple and idyllic place with two neighboring villages. The one on the left is called Xiushan Village, and the one on the right is called Xiushui Village. Together, they have about two hundred people. As the saying goes, “Food is the essence of life,” and the villagers rely on their own farmland for sustenance. They live a self-sufficient life, working on their small plots of land. The place is indeed remote, but not boring. Every day after finishing their work, the villagers happily gather under a large locust tree, sitting on small stools, basking in the sun, eating melon seeds, and chatting about family matters. The days pass by leisurely, and life seems quite pleasant.
However, there is more to the story. Why?
Well, the place is too far from the provincial capital! It’s not near any county or town, and apart from a small shop run by a man named Wang Da Tou at the village entrance, there are almost no facilities. The shop’s goods are limited to salt, cheap liquor, and candies for children—basically, you can count them on your fingers. To go out, one has to cross several small hills and walk a few kilometers to reach the town’s gravel road. Unless it’s a major event, the villagers won’t take this troublesome route. However, due to the inconvenient transportation, the villagers have lived a peaceful life for decades. Even during the Japanese invasion, the enemy didn’t realize that people lived in these remote mountains. Now, in 1950, the Japanese have been driven away, and the Kuomintang has fled to Taiwan. Across mainland China, there is a strong sense of rebuilding and renewal.
On the fifteenth day of the first lunar month, the weather was strange—sometimes raining, sometimes cloudy, even more unpredictable than during the Qingming Festival. Looking up, the dark night had no stars, no crescent moon, and no sounds of insects or frogs.
In Xiushan Village, the smooth bluestone streets reflected rows of yellowish spots. Strangely, every household had a large white lantern hanging outside their straw curtains, with the character “奠” (meaning “mourning”) written squarely on them. On this chilly night, the sight was quite eerie.
Old Master Hu had died the night before the fifteenth day of the first lunar month. His death was both pitiful and confusing. He didn’t even get to see his grandson, who was studying in another city, one last time. His family was well-off, and these lanterns were lit for him. This was also a village custom—to honor the deceased neighbor and to light the way for the departed souls, so they could return home during festivals and not be lonelier than widows…
On this night, the usually peaceful village seemed unusually quiet.
The faint candlelight flickered with the cold wind, casting a yellowish glow that brightened and dimmed. Occasionally, the call of a wild turtledove broke the silence, adding an eerie and sinister atmosphere to the night.
The ground was extremely damp from the recent rain, and fine raindrops mixed with the cool night wind hit people’s faces, bringing a bone-chilling cold.
“This damn weather is unusually cold,” a man’s angry voice suddenly echoed in the dark countryside, accompanied by hurried footsteps, eerily reverberating through the mountains.
“Shh! Keep your voice down!” a woman’s voice urged, perhaps realizing the man’s voice was too loud. Her voice was very low. “Let’s hurry. Tonight is too unusual.”
After that, the footsteps noticeably quickened. After a while, the man whispered, “Is it true? Did Old Master Hu really…” The rest of his words seemed to be left unsaid.
“Absolutely true! They say Old Master Hu died strangely, just suddenly in his room. Oh, the way he looked…” The woman didn’t continue.
“I heard that too. They say the old man was strangled by a ghost…” The man’s lowered voice was eerie, sending chills down the listener’s spine. The woman quickly interrupted him, “Hush! Buddha bless us, Buddha bless us!”
The man scoffed. “What’s the big deal? It’s the truth. His tongue was hanging out…”
“You…” The woman was furious, her voice rising involuntarily, “If you keep talking nonsense, go to your mother’s house by yourself! I’m not going with you in this pitch-black night…” She threw the few pounds of sticky rice cakes she was carrying as a gift into the man’s arms.
“Heh,” the man chuckled and didn’t say anything more. Both of their footsteps quickened.
Their figures gradually emerged from the dark night and walked onto the bluestone path of Xiushan Village. Due to the untimely death and the cold weather, even with coats on, their limbs felt stiff. The surrounding households had tightly closed their doors. Some of the white lanterns along the road had been blown out by the wind, and some even showed signs of being burned. The only faint light on the entire road came from two lanterns at the entrance of a large courtyard ahead.
Whether it was an illusion or not, the woman felt that the further they walked, the more sinister the wind became, as if it was seeping into her bones and reaching her brain. She shivered and rubbed her stiff arms. She looked around at the tightly closed doors and windows. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there were eyes watching them from behind the dark windows. The two large red lanterns at the entrance of the courtyard ahead looked like the bloodshot eyes of a monster, and the half-open gate seemed like the gaping mouth of a beast.
Old Lady Hu had died the night before the fifteenth, in a manner both tragic and confusing. She passed away without even seeing her grandson, who was studying away from home. Her family was prominent, and these lanterns were lit in her honor. It was also a village tradition—to send off the departed with dignity and to light the way for the deceased souls, so that even as wandering spirits, they could return home during festivals and not feel lonelier than a widow.
The usually peaceful village was unusually quiet that night.
Candlelight flickered, the soft yellow glow wavering with the wind and the trembling of the lantern paper. Occasionally, the call of a wild dove pierced the silence, adding an eerie chill to the night.
Rain had just fallen, leaving the ground damp and the air filled with a fine mist carried by the cold wind, chilling to the bone.
“Damn this weather—it’s freezing cold,” a man’s angry voice suddenly broke the silence of the dark countryside road, accompanied by hurried footsteps echoing strangely through the mountains.
“Shh! Be quiet!” a woman’s urgent whisper followed, perhaps realizing how jarring the man’s voice had been. “Let’s hurry. Tonight feels… too strange.”
After she spoke, their footsteps quickened. After a while, the man lowered his voice and asked, “Is it true? Did Old Lady Hu really…?”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but the implication was clear.
“Absolutely true! They say she died in a very strange way—just collapsed in her room for no reason. Oh, the sight of her was terrible…” The woman didn’t continue.
“I heard about it too. People say she was haunted by a ghost that choked her…” The man’s hushed voice sounded eerie, making the listener’s scalp tingle. The woman quickly interrupted, “Tsk tsk! May Buddha protect us! May Buddha protect us!”
The man scoffed. “What’s the big deal? It’s the truth. They say her tongue was sticking out so far…”
“You…” The woman grew angry, her voice rising unconsciously. “If you keep talking nonsense, you can just go to your mother-in-law’s house by yourself! I’m not coming with you in this pitch-black night…” She shoved a few pounds of sticky rice cakes—intended as a gift—into the man’s arms.
“Hehe,” the man chuckled, saying nothing more. Their footsteps quickened again.
Their figures gradually emerged from the darkness, walking onto the cobblestone path of Xiushan Village. With the recent death and the cold weather making even wearing a padded jacket feel stiff, the villagers had shut themselves indoors. Some of the white lanterns along the road had already blown out in the wind; others bore signs of having burned out. The only soft light along the entire path came from the two lanterns hanging in front of a large courtyard ahead.
Whether it was just a trick of the mind or not, the woman felt the wind growing colder and more sinister with every step forward, as if it were seeping into her bones and reaching her brain. She shivered involuntarily, rubbing her frozen arms. Glancing around at the tightly shut doors and windows, she had the unsettling feeling that eyes were watching from the darkness behind. And straight ahead, those two red lanterns outside the courtyard looked like the bloodshot eyes of a monster. The half-open gate seemed like the gaping mouth of some dark beast, waiting hungrily.
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