Chapter Two: The Strange Grave

That night passed without any strange occurrences; I even dreamed of the spring blossoms in the peach orchard.

There was nothing to fear during the day—movies always said that vengeful spirits feared sunlight above all else.

Though unafraid, I was unbearably bored. Playing with the elders was tiresome—no common topics—and playing with little kids felt far too juvenile.

In this overwhelming boredom, I made a decision that would affect my entire summer vacation, even my life: I resolved to visit the graveyard.

Humans are peculiar creatures. Sometimes, despite fearing something, they are still drawn to it with hope. This is what people mean when they say curiosity killed the cat.

My grandfather’s home had one major characteristic and two minor ones. The major was its remoteness—utterly isolated. The two minor were the abundance of mountains and the multitude of graves.

Behind my grandfather’s house lay a graveyard; the entire mountain at its back was dotted with tombs.

I ventured onto that very mountain. A foul stench hung in the air—freshly dug graves with decomposing bodies inside, their coffins poorly sealed, leaking a yellow-green liquid onto the ground before the tombs.

Some graves were in decent condition, but others teetered on the edge of collapse.

Here, graves were stratified by status. The more prestigious ones bore stone markers, crafted not from random roadside rocks but carefully hewn stones.

I walked among the graves, gripping a wooden stick. Even under the bright sunlight, an involuntary chill crept up my spine.

These graves had formed over centuries. Some ancient ones were dilapidated from neglect, while others, newly made, still bore fresh soil.

I wandered between mound after mound—some mere heaps of earth, unattended.

My gaze did not linger on most, but two tombs caught my attention.

One was severely ruined, its headstone toppled; the other was lavishly adorned, flanked by two stone lions guarding its sides.

Only the extremely wealthy and noble could afford such guardians.

I stopped before the grand tomb, which stretched about ten meters long. Circling behind it, I noticed a depression in the center—a large pit where the coffin rested.

Approaching the front, I found a tilted headstone. Squatting beside it, I studied the inscription.

The characters were faded, but I could make out “The Tomb of Zhang…” The rest had been eroded by wind and rain.

A strange scent lingered there—not unpleasant, yet peculiar enough to send shivers down my back.

My courage was never great, and as the sun neared the horizon, I initially maintained my composure. But after ten seconds, I snatched up my wooden stick and dashed back to my grandfather’s house.

Grandfather sat smoking his pipe at the doorway; grandmother was cooking. Seeing my panicked return, he asked, “Where did you go? Don’t you dare go near the pond—it’s easy to fall in and impossible to climb out.”

“I… I wasn’t there,” I stammered.

“Zhang Shizhu fell in once, barely made it out! Several of us had to pull him up. When he came out, his feet were black—must have been some kind of swamp creature’s claws!”

Hearing this, I realized such things truly existed.

I knew Zhang Shizhu; he lived next door to my grandfather and was of my grandfather’s generation—I even called him ‘Grandpa Zhang.’

But he died of liver cancer over a decade ago, leaving behind a confused widow, who was somewhat mentally ill. It was said that shortly after his death, she accidentally set their house on fire. She was then taken to the city by their son. Now the house next to grandfather’s stands empty; the kitchen has collapsed.

“Zhang Shizhu was a pity,” grandfather sighed, puffing his pipe. “He was kind and hardworking, but after falling in that pond, he got sick. When he died, only bones remained.”

I asked, thinking of last night’s events, “Grandpa, are there ghosts here?”

Grandfather paused, extinguished his pipe, packed it away, and slowly replied, “Of course. How could there not be?”

He looked up thoughtfully, then said, “During the Collective Movement, the roads were filled with dead bodies.”

“How did they die?”

“Starvation. Back then, you had to earn work points to eat. No points meant no food. Our porridge was so thin it could cast shadows. Your great-uncle died of starvation.”

After that, grandfather changed the subject. “That night, when I passed behind the mountain, it was so dark I dropped my pipe. I fumbled around until I found it, but couldn’t pick it up. I left my load and came back. That night, I dreamed of Peng Zexuan borrowing my pipe. The next day, I found him dead on the mountain path, the pipe clutched under his arm. I thought, ‘You’ve had your fill, but I’m taking the pipe back.’”

I felt deeply moved and fortunate that I was not born in that era. To grandfather, death was common; I saw no trace of fear in his eyes.

“Later, I found a few men to carry him home on poles. His family dug a grave and buried him—no coffin at all,” grandfather continued.

But I was more curious about another matter. “Grandpa, have you ever seen a ghost?”

He thought for a moment. “Long ago, if you wore your raincoat inside out and sat in the ditch with a bamboo hat on, you could see them. I tried it once. Afterward, you had to smear blood from your middle finger on your forehead—or they’d follow you home.”

Now, I fully believed in the supernatural; such things were real.

“Oh, by the way, Grandpa, do you know whose graves are on that mountain behind?”

Most had no headstones, and even the few that did were illegible.

Grandfather’s face darkened. “You went back there?”

“Yes, I just wanted to see.”

“Don’t ever go back there again. Last time I was there, I saw dozens of snakes piled up. I left my hoe and ran off. Those snakes guard the graves!”

I drew in a sharp breath, relieved I hadn’t encountered them today—or I might have died of fright.

“I saw a particular grave, quite nice but unattended. Whose is it?”

“I don’t know. It was there when I was born. My grandfather said it belonged to a landlord’s wife, who was murdered and buried there. Since then, no one looked after it. A few years ago, someone dug it up.”

That explained the depression in the grave.

“After it was dug up, I gathered firewood there once. In front of that grave, I found a wooden lump. I took it home and used it to stoke the fire for cooking.”

Grandfather took out his pipe again and began smoking.

I noticed the change in his expression—there was a story behind this.

“When I tossed that lump into the fire, the mud cracked away. It wasn’t wood at all,” he said, voice trembling.

“It was a human head—one I’d mistaken for firewood.”

His lips quivered as he spoke.

“I quickly grabbed it with tongs and buried it behind the house.”

There were two graves behind grandfather’s house; I never imagined one had such a sinister origin.

“That head must have belonged to the person in that grave, dug up by those wicked people.”

Grandfather grew agitated, then turned to me. “Don’t go back there again. I’m afraid something bad will happen.”

A cold sweat broke out on my back. The pale figure last night, the strange noises, the things on my bedspread, the shadow blocking the window, the animals going mad—had I really provoked some unclean entity?