Volume One: The Journey of the Outcast—Fiery Demon-Slaying Chapter Twelve: Strange Happenings in the Village—A Coffin Blocks the Road

Chen Xin and her mother had indeed been safely escorted, but Chen San was left all alone. As he walked, there was no one to talk to, making the journey dull and tedious. Whenever he reached a fork in the road, he would look for someone to ask directions, and those he met were always willing to help, telling him which path to take.

On the second day of his solitary journey, Chen San came upon a crossroads and looked around; not a soul was in sight. He recalled that there were people in the small town half an incense stick ago, so he waited a bit longer, but when no one passed by, he retraced his steps back to the town to ask for directions. He would have been better off not asking—his life was nearly forfeited because of that inquiry.

Returning to the town, Chen San sat down in a teahouse and ordered a pot of tea. After taking a few sips, he asked the waiter, “How do I get to Mount Mao? There’s a fork ahead, and it’s my first time here. Could you show me the way?”

The waiter’s shifty eyes and furtive expression betrayed his character, but Chen San, naïve as he was, having never left his hometown, could not discern good from bad in strangers.

The waiter glanced at the peachwood sword on Chen San’s back, his eyes glinting.

“Heh heh, sir, at the fork ahead, take the western path—that’ll lead you to Mount Mao. Don’t take the wrong turn. Would you like to prepare some provisions for the journey?”

Chen San patted his bundle, nodded, took the provisions prepared by the waiter, and without further thought returned to the fork, choosing the western path as told.

He could not be blamed entirely for his simplicity; who suspects a lie when asking for directions? But Chen San was unlucky. As he walked west, he entered a village.

He wondered why he was passing through a village—was it necessary to cross it to reach the main road? With dusk approaching, he needed a place to rest and eat.

The village was fairly large—not as grand as his hometown, but not poor either. There were fenced yards, houses, and cattle sheds as one would expect.

Few people were seen on the paths, and since Chen San didn’t know the way, he knocked on doors to ask for directions. After knocking on several, not even an echo replied. His anxiety grew with each unanswered door—how could such a large village be empty? Was it plagued by evil spirits, as his own hometown had been?

Swallowing nervously, he knocked harder, and after several more attempts, finally an old woman opened a crack in her door. Through the slit, her face was barely visible.

Relieved to see someone, Chen San breathed easier.

“Grandmother, what’s happened in this village? Why is it broad daylight and not a soul around?”

The old woman was tense. “Who are you? What brings you here?”

“I’m Chen San. I’m headed to Mount Mao to find someone, but I lost my way after asking for directions and ended up here.”

She opened the door wider, her excitement rising upon seeing the peachwood sword on his back.

“Mount Mao? Are you a Daoist? Master, our village is haunted—you must help us!”

In her urgency, she pulled Chen San inside before he could react, shutting the door behind them. The dim oil lamp flickered in the small house, with two rooms—one serving as the main hall.

Once seated, Chen San asked, “Grandmother, what do you mean by haunted? Is someone dead and you need a Daoist for rites?”

He had no idea what “haunted” meant; had he known, with his solitary nature, he would have fled immediately.

The old woman sighed and shook her head. “Yes, someone died—a person from the east end of the village just a few days ago.”

“Then you just need a Daoist for rites. Death is common; every village experiences it. Don’t you have a Daoist to perform the rituals?”

She slapped her knee in frustration. “Ah, we did hire one, but he couldn’t complete the rites—nearly got himself killed. Halfway through, he fled in a panic.”

Chen San was startled. Fled? How could a Daoist run away during a funeral rite? In his hometown, whenever someone died, Priest Wang performed the rites leisurely. The atmosphere was solemn, but it seemed more like a theater performance and children loved to watch, though adults forbade it, calling it unlucky. Yet, Priest Wang had never been frightened off.

“How did he run? What do you mean he couldn’t complete the rites?” Chen San pressed, and the old woman began the story of the young girl.

The deceased was the daughter of the Zhao family at the east end of the village. She was unmarried and had secretly met her lover. When her father found out, he beat her severely, feeling disgraced that such a thing had happened before she was married.

He wanted the lover to marry her, but she already knew he had a wife in the neighboring village and could not marry her. In a fit of rage, the Zhao family drove her out.

Heartbroken and homeless, she went to the neighboring village to plead with her lover for elopement, only to be denied. The lover’s wife, perceptive and sharp, had long suspected their affair. When the girl came to find her lover and he disavowed her, the wife mocked and assaulted her in public.

The girl, battered by her father and then torn by her lover’s wife, hair disheveled and clothes in tatters, looked like a madwoman. Perhaps overwhelmed by disappointment and grievance, she harbored thoughts of suicide.

…

She was consumed with resentment, feeling everyone owed her. She believed she had done nothing wrong—her only mistake was choosing a weak man.

Her spirit dead, with no home to return to, abandoned by a faithless man, she saw no place for herself and, in despair, threw herself into the river.

The river was deep, notorious for drowning many; she could not swim, so after she went in, she disappeared.

Several days later, her bloated corpse surfaced and was discovered by villagers. News spread quickly, and her father came to identify the body. Though it was swollen and decayed, he recognized her tattered clothes instantly.

The family wept bitterly, her mother fainted with grief, but regret could not bring her back. They hired a Daoist to conduct rites, hoping to help her soul find peace and reincarnation—a routine ritual, after which the body would be buried.

But when preparing the body for burial, those dressing her found her abdomen unnaturally hard—she was pregnant. The Daoist sensed trouble and performed another rite for the unborn child. The hot weather hastened decay, and though the body was dressed, burial could not take place until the third day; the second day was forbidden. Yet, trouble struck that very night.

Chen San listened, wide-eyed and absorbed.

Because of the stench, most people went home, but relatives had to stay and endure. Late at night, as fatigue settled, the girl’s sister suddenly screamed, startling everyone. She pointed at the corpse in the coffin, crying that her sister’s eyes had opened.

A corpse’s eyes opening—an omen of unrest—is a dire taboo. Everyone panicked, jumping back against the walls. The Daoist, young and inexperienced, bravely closed the eyes with his hand.

The eyes were shut, but the villagers remained anxious. Oddly, the more one fears something, the more one fixates on it, and despite knowing the corpse had opened its eyes, they kept glancing at it.

Through the night, the girl did not open her eyes again. As dawn approached and people nodded off, her sister screamed once more and fainted, hitting her head on the coffin and bleeding. The others rushed to lift her and carry her inside.

Seeing the bloodstain on the coffin, the girl’s aunt grabbed a white cloth to wipe it. As her hand reached out, she saw the girl’s corpse open her eyes again, staring fiercely. The aunt threw the cloth up in terror, scrambling back several paces and cowering in the corner, pointing at the coffin, speechless.

The Daoist, who had just returned from home, was startled by the commotion, rushed in, saw the aunt pointing at the coffin, looked inside—and was terrified. Not only were the eyes open, but they seemed to lock onto him. His legs went weak, barely able to move.

Yet he had some training; he quickly pulled out a talisman and stuck it to the corpse’s forehead. The eyes closed, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

After consulting with the family, they decided to close the coffin lid—sudden eye-opening could scare someone to death, and out of sight was out of mind. The family, terrified, agreed.

But closing the lid only worsened matters.

The corpse’s eyes stayed shut, but soon, scratching noises came from inside the coffin, as if someone were clawing at the wood.

At first, those nearby thought it was rats, but when they realized, they scattered, fleeing to other rooms, leaving only her father and the Daoist beside the coffin.

The young Daoist was frightened, trained only in ordinary rites and burials, never having encountered such events, and didn’t know what to do.

He nervously suggested tying the coffin with rope and nailing it shut, then burying it at dawn. They called relatives hiding in other rooms to help.

Soon, the coffin was tied up, and the Daoist fetched large iron nails from home, smeared them with hearth ashes, and hammered them into the coffin.

Yet, the scratching persisted, though at least the coffin was sealed, giving everyone some relief.

But at first light, the sound of a child crying came from inside the coffin, driving all the relatives outside in fright.

Chen San was shocked—being a relative of that family was no easy task, half their lives frightened away in one night.

“And then? What happened next?”

“Then dawn came. Thinking the ordeal was over, as soon as the rooster crowed, the coffin noises stopped. No one dared delay; everyone listened to the Daoist and tried to carry the coffin out for burial.”

“Of course—what else? Wait for her to climb out of the coffin?”

At this, Chen San paused, looking at the old woman, who shook her hand.

“She didn’t climb out, but the coffin couldn’t be moved. Four men tried, but it wouldn’t budge. Then six men, still nothing—the coffin didn’t even lift off the ground. In the end, they had to leave it in the house, and it’s still there now.”

Chen San listened as if to a story, growing more and more intrigued. The old woman, thinking him a capable Daoist, found him congenial, and neither noticed that night had fallen.

Having finished the tale, Chen San realized the village was haunted and he had taken the wrong path; he should have chosen the other fork. As for why the waiter misled him, he’d have to ask after finding someone.

Though in his early twenties, energetic and bold in ordinary affairs, Chen San had one rule when it came to ghosts and spirits: run as fast as possible, keep out of trouble.

A brief explanation sufficed, and the old woman, realizing he was powerless, scolded him thoroughly—what was the point of listening to the story if he couldn’t help? Just wasting emotion and time.

Chen San opened the door to leave, but outside was pitch black—the sun had set, and he hesitated. With the thought of a female ghost possibly lurking in the darkness, he immediately lost his nerve, closed the door, and sat back down inside.

The old woman, though grumbling, saw that Chen San dared not leave, so she let him stay and even brought a quilt for him to lay on the floor.

Watching her trembling movements, Chen San thanked her several times and prepared to sleep in the outer room for the night, planning to leave in daylight—his cowardice was to blame; had he been braver, he might have found an inn to sleep in.

After chatting a while longer, the old woman retired to her inner room.

Lying on the floor in the outer room, Chen San began to daydream about the girl’s story. The oil lamp flickered gently; since someone was in the outer room, the old woman left it burning.

Though the conditions were simple, at least he wasn’t exposed to the elements—it was much better than the previous night, sleeping on the ground with Chen Xin and her mother, and now he had a quilt beneath him.

Afraid Chen San might be hot, the old woman gave him a straw mat, making the first half of the night quite comfortable.

Suddenly—thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump…

Chen San was awakened by a series of noises, groggy and hearing the thumping persistently. He rubbed his eyes, intending to open the door and see who was making such a racket in the middle of the night, disturbing his sleep.

Just as he reached to open the door, the old woman, wrapped in her clothes, hurried out, whispering urgently, “Don’t open it, don’t open it! You mustn’t open the door!”

Still half-asleep, Chen San didn’t wait for her to reach him and pulled the door open anyway, taking a glance. The old woman promptly shut it again. Chen San’s face turned pale, and he stared at her, speechless.

She pulled him inside, and he followed, shaken to the core. The thumping outside grew closer, and Chen San clung to the inner room’s doorframe, nearly unable to stand. Suddenly, with a loud bang, the thumping ceased—silence fell.

The old woman gestured for Chen San to keep quiet; he couldn’t have spoken if he tried. Through the window, he saw a black coffin lying in the middle of the road, directly facing the old woman’s house.

The glimpse he’d caught when opening the door was of a coffin standing upright before him, bound with thick ropes. Remembering it, his scalp prickled, cold sweat pouring, and he wished desperately to find a hole to hide in.