26: True Terror

Not finding the corpse rats and soul-devouring chickens at Old Qin’s house, being told to go and chat with him—there was nothing wrong with that.

Yet in reality, once you discover someone’s terrifying secret, it’s impossible to remain calm when facing them again. Learning that Old Qin was not as kindly as I’d imagined, but rather someone who hid himself deeply, left me fearful, unsure of what to say in his presence. I dreaded that the man who had just moments ago smiled at me, vowing to help me no matter what, might in the next breath turn on me with unimaginable methods.

“I’m not going. If you want to go, you go,” I said.

“Oh? Weren’t you rather fond of running to him before? Why not now?” Xu Buhuo looked at me with a half-smile, half-mocking expression, and my face flushed—I realized Xu Buhuo was even sharper than I thought.

I’d believed my visits to Old Qin were discreet, but clearly, he’d known all along. It also dawned on me that our encounter at Old Qin’s gate had not been a coincidence; Xu Buhuo had been watching him for some time, and always knew of my secret dealings with Old Qin, but had never exposed me.

The old ginger is always spicier—a saying that couldn’t be truer. Against Xu Buhuo, I was still too green.

“You don’t have to go, unless you want trouble at your grandmother’s funeral, or for something to go awry beforehand. By now you should know what kind of person he is. Maybe he wasn’t behind those earlier incidents, but if he was, the real drama is yet to come. The reason I want you to go is to keep him occupied, to prevent him from preparing anything in secret before your grandmother’s coffin is taken out.”

Everything that had happened so far was already headache-inducing. My grandmother’s seven days of mourning would soon be over, and once the funeral was done, everything would be fine. I just wanted her to be sent off in peace, so I picked up my flashlight and left the yard.

On the way, I kept reminding myself to stay calm, not to let Old Qin see through me, and rehearsed what I might say to him—after all, it was not yet eight, and there were still hours until midnight.

At Old Qin’s gate, I hesitated, when suddenly his voice called out from the yard, “Who’s there? If you’re outside, just come in.”

Entering the house, he saw it was me, coughed dryly, beckoned me to sit, and asked if I’d come so late because something was wrong.

“My mind’s in turmoil—I wanted to talk to you,” I replied.

“Mm. If there’s anything troubling you, just say it. I’ll do what I can to help.”

But what could I say? I stayed silent. The room grew almost oppressively quiet. After some thought, I remembered Liu Lai’s strange death and the black handprint found on him, and brought it up, curious if Old Qin knew about that lethal black handprint.

“That handprint? I’d nearly forgotten until you mentioned it. I saw it once—eighteen years ago.”

He paused, looked at me, and said, “When Yan Jiang died, I saw those black handprints on the beam where she hanged herself.”

So Yan Jiang’s death was also connected to the black handprint?

I couldn’t help but tense up, confused as well. My grandmother had said Yan Jiang took her own life, but never mentioned any black handprint, which meant she must not have seen it.

If my grandfather and father’s deaths were also linked to black handprints, I doubted my grandmother would have called Yan Jiang’s death a suicide if she’d seen one.

“You weren’t born yet, so you wouldn’t know. I was actually the first to discover Yan Jiang’s body. At dawn, unable to sleep, I went for a walk. Just as I reached her house, I saw her hanging from the beam, her bulging eyes staring right at the door, scaring me half to death. Going inside, I saw a pair of black handprints on the beam, but by the time I summoned the villagers, they’d vanished.”

So that was it. I relaxed a little, realizing my grandmother had only arrived after the villagers, so only Old Qin had seen the black handprints. It made sense that no one else mentioned them.

That black handprint was a death omen—present at Yan Jiang’s suicide, making it impossible to distinguish whether she’d killed herself or fallen victim to the handprint.

But if the handprint was responsible, why had she been dressed in red at her death?

Grandmother’s old books said: “If one dies in red, soul and corpse are matched; the soul neither enters the earth nor ascends to heaven.” Basically, those who die in red garments are believed to become vengeful spirits—almost every region has such stories. My grandmother had said she saw intense resentment in Yan Jiang’s face, and her red clothes meant she’d died with a grudge, taking her own life.

If that were true, what role did the black handprint play?

“By the way, I heard from Little Wang next door that you came looking for me yesterday?” Old Qin suddenly asked.

At that, my heart leapt into my throat. Forcing myself to remain calm, I nodded and said, “I wanted to see if you were feeling better. I waited for a while when you weren’t home, then left.”

“I see. I was going to ask if you knew who left those strange droppings in my yard—the smell was odd, like the stench of corpses.”

“Weren’t those droppings from your chickens?” I blurted out, instantly regretting it.

“You know I only keep a few chickens,” Old Qin replied, seemingly unaware of my slip.

With that matter addressed, my earlier certainty faltered. I had thought the corpse rats kneeling at Yan Jiang’s grave were raised by Old Qin, but he denied it, and said he didn’t know how corpse rat droppings ended up in his yard. Perhaps he truly didn’t keep them.

Had I been wrong?

“Zhiwu, you look like you’re hiding something from me. If so, spit it out. When you’re done, I’ll tell you something you’d never guess—about that Mr. Xu at your house.”

Something about Xu Buhuo?

Curiosity got the better of me, and I quickly recounted Xu Buhuo’s visit the day before and his suspicions.

“He’s full of nonsense.”

No sooner had I mentioned the soul-devouring chickens in the yard than Old Qin slammed his palm on the table, startling me. He coughed from the effort, only calming after a while, his face red, eyes glaring, clearly enraged. I wondered if there was some secret about those chickens after all.

“Soul-devouring chickens, my foot! Those are golden-eyed chickens, sent by a friend from the coast. Know why they eat blood and not bugs? Because they were born by the sea, used to a diet of fish and shrimp, and won’t eat anything else. That’s why I’m always fishing by the river—to feed them. You know fish and shrimp are scarce inland—how could I fatten them up with just a few catches?

Old Qin, still angry, coughed for several minutes before continuing. “Blood is fishy. When I slaughter fish or eels, I toss the bloody pieces in the coop. Do you think chickens can tell what kind of blood it is? I haven’t been fishing lately because of my injury, and the golden-eyed chickens are half-starved. Naturally, when they smell blood, they react as you saw.”

So the chickens eating blood was explained. I knew Old Qin loved fishing—I’d often seen him by the river—always assumed it was for his own meals, never realizing it was to feed his chickens.

“But what about the corpse rat droppings?” I asked.

“What else? Framing me, of course. Since he ran into you outside my door, he must have known about our secret dealings, realized I was helping you, and planted the droppings in my yard. Then, seeing the golden-eyed chickens looked odd, he spun a story to make you doubt me and trust him instead. Cough, cough...”

Apart from Old Qin’s coughing, the room was silent.

Thinking over his analysis, it did seem plausible. Xu Buhuo had long known about my connection to Old Qin, but if he’d spoken ill of him to my face, I’d never have believed it. Instead, he set up this scenario while Old Qin was away.

Otherwise, how could he have sniffed out the corpse rat droppings from six or seven meters away? I hadn’t smelled a thing—only found them by chance while wandering.

When I suspected Old Qin because of the droppings, Xu Buhuo had led me straight to the chicken coop, drawing my attention to the unusual chickens.

The coop was right by the door, and though I’d visited Old Qin many times, I’d never noticed the chickens’ golden eyes. Xu Buhuo had spotted it within moments of arriving—wasn’t that observation a bit too sharp?

If Xu Buhuo had planted the droppings, then the corpse rats kneeling around Yan Jiang’s grave must have been his.

At this point, I was completely confused, unable to tell who was telling the truth. Xu Buhuo had sounded so convincing about the corpse rats and soul-devouring chickens. Now Old Qin’s explanations seemed equally plausible.

Instinct, at that moment, seemed to have deserted me, and I felt on the verge of a breakdown.

“Do you know what I found out when I went out today?” Old Qin’s words pulled me back.

“This morning, I went to town, and remembered you mentioning that letter, so I dropped by West Hill Village to inquire. Aside from your grandmother, there really is a famous feng shui master named Mr. Xu there. However, that Mr. Xu died of a heart attack seven days ago.”

“What? Mr. Xu of West Hill Village is dead?”

The news left me dumbstruck, my whole body trembling.

If the real feng shui master Mr. Xu of West Hill Village had died seven days ago, then who was the Mr. Xu who’d been tirelessly working at my house all this time?

In the letter my grandmother left after her death, she specifically instructed us to invite the feng shui master Mr. Xu from West Hill Village to handle matters. Thinking back, if he was already dead, where had the village chief found the Mr. Xu he brought to us?

Before Xu Buhuo arrived, I’d thought a true master would look the part. But when the chief brought Xu Buhuo, nothing about him fit the image.

At that moment, I was truly afraid.

I’d never suspected Xu Buhuo’s identity for a moment.

Never imagined that the Mr. Xu who had worked so diligently at my house was a fraud.