Home was meant to be the last refuge, where one found solace and protection. But now, she had entered the sanctuary.
Ethan tried rousing his cousins—Pan, Ray, Lily—shaking each awake, but they slept as if enchanted, just like Grandma Elena in the kitchen. The drip-drip-drip of water echoed, pooling at his feet, spilling across the uneven floor, cold and clammy against his skin. Then, icy hands seized his neck.
He stiffened, breath constricting, but the grip slid downward, replaced by a shadow towering above. Wet hair cascaded like a black void, plastering his face, engulfing his vision until all was darkness…
"William, slow the hell down! My backside's raw from this saddle!" Li Sanjiang clung to William's waist, massaging his sore hip as the bicycle jolted over the rutted path.
"Hold on, Uncle—we're almost there." William pedaled harder, the urgency in his chest relentless.
Sanjiang, the village corpse-fisher, had been dragged away from a funeral banquet. "Why the panic? Aunt Blind Liu sorted the boy's spirit, mark my words. He's probably stuffing his face with Grandma's pickles by now."
"Does her hocus-pocus even work?" William scoffed. He'd seen Liu Jinxia's struggles—if she truly talked to spirits, why hadn't they spared her family?
"Liu's no saint, but life's beaten her into a survivor. She knows how to read the dead's whispers, especially for your family's sake."
"I'd take his place in a heartbeat."
"You've always had a soft spot for that daughter of yours—and now her son. But spirits latch onto the vulnerable, not the willing."
"Is this some twisted blessing?"
"Not blessing—survival. Think of it as a bad dream. He'll wake, and it'll fade."
William shifted, tense. "What about her? The corpse that walks in water."
Sanjiang snapped, "You think I'm itching to tangle with a spirit that defies the current? We escaped—let her haunt the depths."
They skidded to a halt in the courtyard. William called for Elena, who emerged, finger to her lips—children slept inside. But Ethan sat up with a gasp, eyes wide.
"Grandma… Grandpa… She's here. In the house."
Elena pulled him close. "Shh, love. It was a dream. Your grandma chased her away."
William sighed, but Sanjiang's gaze lingered on the back door, jaw tight. "Flashlight. Now."
He stormed to the river, William on his heels. The beam cut through the dark—nothing but still water and silent reeds. But the absence of night sounds was deafening; no frogs croaked, no crickets chirped—just unnatural silence.
Sanjiang demanded rice wine, pouring it over Ethan's neck, rubbing until the boy's skin reddened. He leaned in, nostrils flaring, then recoiled. "That's no dream. She's here. I smell rot on him."
Elena carried Ethan to the inner room as the men stayed behind, kitchen lamp casting long shadows.
"William, listen—this isn't a simple haunting. She followed him home. If we do nothing, she'll drain this house dry: Ethan first, then the others, then you and Elena."
William gripped an axe from the wall. "I'll send her back to the river myself."
Sanjiang sneered, "And if she hides in the shadows? She'll pick you apart like rot in wood—slow, silent, inevitable."
William's voice wavered. "Then what? We can't outrun a ghost."
Sanjiang hesitated, then leaned in, voice low. "There's a way… but it's a gamble. We return her to her 'owner'."
Inside, they set up an altar—cookies, mooncakes, peanuts, and a makeshift meat offering of dried pork floss. Sanjiang lit candles, chanting as he burned ghost money, the flame flickering on Ethan's solemn face. He tied a small bell to the boy's wrist, its jingle sharp in the quiet.
"Ethan, you follow me now. Keep your eyes forward, hold the incense burner steady, and do not look back. Understand?"
Ethan nodded, fingers clutching the ceramic burner.
By the river, Sanjiang whispered to the water, forehead gleaming with sweat. Then he turned, leading Ethan into the night, the bell's chime a fragile shield against the dark.
They trudged along the riverbank, Sanjiang glancing back every few steps, heart pounding at the faint drip-drip of trailing water. Halfway to the fishpond, Ethan stopped, voice steady: "She's behind me."
Sanjiang swallowed, forcing himself to grin. "Good lad. Keep going—we're almost to her doorstep."
As they neared Uncle Big Beard's compound, the fishpond loomed, its surface like black glass. Sanjiang knelt, gesturing to the house. "This is where she belongs. We give her back to the ones who wronged her."
Suddenly, the iron gate creaked open. Uncle Big Beard and his youngest son emerged, eyes blank, walking on the balls of their feet like marionettes. Without a glance at Sanjiang, they marched to the pond, stepping into the water until it swallowed them whole, leaving only ripples.
Ethan staggered as the invisible grip on his shoulders vanished, collapsing to the ground. There, in the moonlight, Yellow Oriole emerged from the shadows, dripping, hair a tangled veil. She danced awkwardly toward the pond, each step deeper, until her red heels disappeared, her smile frozen as the water claimed her.
Sanjiang hoisted Ethan onto his back, fleeing the scene. When he finally paused, breath ragged, he pressed a cigarette between his lips. "Forget this night, lad. To you, it's a dream. To the world, it's just another village tale."
Ethan nodded, but the image of her final dance—stiff, solemn, sinking—would stay with him. Sanjiang clapped his shoulder, smirk returning. "Tell you what's worth remembering? The next feast. Funeral or not, those banquets always have the best braised pork."
The bell on Ethan's wrist fell silent as they approached home, the river now calm, crickets chirping once more as if the night's horror had never been. Some secrets, Sanjiang knew, were best left submerged—along with the dead who refused to rest.
And so the summer wore on, the children laughing and squabbling, unaware of the shadow that had briefly touched their world. Ethan grew quieter, but when Grandma Elena served her salty pickles, or Grandpa William lit his pipe with a story, the bell on his wrist would jingle softly, a reminder that even in the brightest days, the dark lingered—waiting, watching, but for now, silent.