The experiences I'm about to write down might make you scoff and call them nonsense. But I urge you to bear with me and keep reading, because these are real events that happened in my life. I'm writing this with a chilling sense of dread, as for an ordinary person, these experiences far exceed the limits of comprehension and psychological endurance.
Before I begin, let me ask you a question: Are you afraid of death?
Many would say, "Of course, I'm afraid." Death means losing everything—your wealth, power, family, friends, all vanish into thin air. Someone once compared life to riding a bus: you board when you're born, and you get off when you die. What happens after you step off? No one knows. But one thing is certain—everything on the bus no longer has anything to do with you.
What makes death even more terrifying for many is the unknown. What is the world after death like? What state will I be in? No one can answer these questions—because those who know are already dead.
Throughout history, nearly all great works of art worth mentioning have been tied to death. It's a topic that captivates the living, an obsession that never grows old, rivaling even love in its enduring allure.
What I'm about to tell you involves a certain kind of person. It's hard to define them by their abilities; it's perhaps more accurate to call it a profession. Are they charlatans? Fortune-tellers? Con artists? Shamans? I can't quite pin it down.
Let me describe their abilities instead: they can navigate the realms of life and death, crossing the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead.
Let me start with a mysterious man. He's a friend of a friend of a friend—connected through layers of acquaintances. Meeting him and sitting down to talk was, in a way, a stroke of fate. He runs a small trading company, leveraging some connections to deal in international and domestic product reselling, amassing enough wealth to be considered middle-class.
The first time I saw him, he was watering plants in his office.
His office was spacious, with large floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street, filled with vibrant flowers that made the space bright and cheerful. Yet, the large office felt strangely empty, with only a massive desk in the center and a large money tree plant beside it.
When he saw us, he asked his secretary to bring in two chairs and apologized, "I rarely receive guests in my office; we usually meet in the conference room. But since you're here, you're not strangers. Let's talk here."
That day, I was dragged along by a friend named Li Damin—a rather common name. He had gone through many connections to reach this mysterious man. Honestly, I wasn't keen on coming, but Li Damin hooked me with one sentence: "This man died once and visited the underworld."
I've always been fascinated by strange and unusual things, with an insatiable curiosity. Li Damin's words completely reeled me in. He's a close friend, and his passion for such matters surpasses anyone I've ever met. He doesn't just skim the surface for novelty; he dives deep, researching documents and tracking down people to verify stories with a professionalism that's almost academic.
So, Li Damin and I ended up at this mysterious man's company.
He offered us cigarettes, which we politely declined. He lit one for himself, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled a long puff of smoke. Before we could ask anything, he said, "You've already explained your purpose over the phone. So, tell me, what do you know about me?"
Li Damin took the lead, while I played the sidekick, letting him steer the conversation. Li Damin said, "Brother Peng, we'll be straightforward. We heard you… uh, took a trip?"
Around here, people avoid saying the word "died," substituting it with "took a trip."
Brother Peng nodded. "That's right. Three years ago, I had a sudden heart attack. According to the hospital's diagnosis at the time, I was dead."
"And then you went to the underworld?" I couldn't contain my curiosity and blurted out.
"Something… like that," he said, his eyes slightly dazed.
"Can you tell us more?" Li Damin switched on his recorder.
Brother Peng took a deep breath. "You're here through mutual acquaintances, so I'll be honest. I don't like talking about that experience anymore. When I first came back from the underworld, I used to treat it like a curious anecdote, sharing it everywhere like Xianglin's Wife from Lu Xun's story. But as time went on, more and more people came to me, asking the same questions over and over. I got tired of it. I felt like a monkey in a zoo, stripped bare for everyone to gawk at. People came with all sorts of motives—some skeptical, some curious, and some even stranger, asking me to go back to the underworld to find their deceased loved ones."
Li Damin and I exchanged a glance. He said, "Brother Peng, we're not here to question you. We're deeply interested in the underworld and what happens after death. We want to learn and research, which is why we sought you out."
"What's the point of researching that?" Brother Peng shook his head. "Young people, you really don't know the immensity of heaven and earth. But since I agreed to meet you, I won't go back on my word."
And so, he began to tell his story.
Three years ago, Brother Peng was fifty-one. His business was on track, his family life was harmonious, with a wise wife and filial children. Compared to most, his life was near perfection. His only concern was maintaining his health to enjoy everything he had.
Around the age of forty-five, he joined a winter swimming enthusiasts' group. They swam from early autumn through to the next spring. Those familiar with winter swimming know it's not about jumping into icy water in the dead of winter after a quick warm-up. Instead, you start in autumn when the water is just cool, allowing your body to gradually adapt. By the time winter arrives with its freezing temperatures, your body can handle the shock.
Brother Peng had been swimming for years and felt his health improving—until one incident shook him. It was a cold winter day, and he was swimming in the sea with his group when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his left calf. He quickly realized it was a cramp. For an experienced swimmer, cramps are common and not a big deal. The key is to stay calm.
Since it wasn't a major issue, he didn't tell anyone and began swimming slowly toward the shore. In such moments, staying relaxed is crucial to maximize your body's buoyancy.
Just as he neared the shore, he felt a sudden palpitation in his chest. His heart raced, feeling as if it had twisted. His chest felt crushed under a massive boulder, and he couldn't breathe. One hand paddled the water while the other clawed at his neck, desperate to break through the suffocating barrier and let air into his lungs.
The figures on the shore grew blurrier. The water was freezing, the cold piercing his bones through every nerve, an agony beyond words.
Fortunately, the excruciating sensation came and went quickly, lasting maybe three or four seconds. But for Brother Peng, those seconds felt like a century, as if he'd rolled through the gates of hell. When he finally staggered onto the shore, he collapsed, exhausted. His heartbeat returned to normal, and his breathing eased. The feeling of surviving a brush with death was something only those who've experienced it could understand.
This incident was a wake-up call, making him realize something was seriously wrong with his body. Without telling his family, he went to the city's central hospital for a full check-up. The results were a shock: his coronary arteries showed signs of hardening—a layman's term for coronary heart disease.
The diagnosis hit him like a thunderbolt. The words "coronary heart disease" gnawed at him like a parasite, inescapable. Stunned, he left the hospital with a pile of prescriptions, too shaken to drive. He took a taxi home.
At home, his wife and son were oblivious to his condition, and the household remained warm and joyful. Brother Peng kept his pain to himself, silently bearing the burden of his illness.
He sought second opinions, and an experienced cardiologist told him that his condition was likely triggered by winter swimming. "Not everyone is suited for it," the doctor said. "The icy water puts immense stress on your body, especially your blood vessels and heart. Half of our male heart patients here have issues related to winter swimming."
Desperate to believe he could recover, Brother Peng stopped winter swimming, hoping his heart would heal on its own. But as he ignored and concealed his condition, it worsened. And then, one day, he died.
It was October 5, three years ago, at a relative's child's wedding. The scene was lively, with friends and family gathered, clinking glasses in celebration. As the bride and groom made their rounds toasting guests, a loud crash rang out—a table had been overturned. A woman's piercing scream followed: "Old Peng, what's wrong?"
Brother Peng lay sprawled amid shattered plates and spilled food, motionless, his body rigid, hands still clutching his chest from the moment he lost consciousness.
The wedding descended into chaos. An ambulance rushed him to the nearest hospital, followed by a crowd of concerned relatives and friends. By the time they arrived, he was already in the emergency room. The corridor was packed with people anxiously waiting.
Soon, the doctor emerged from the ER. The crowd surged forward, but the doctor shook his head. "We did everything we could. Prepare for the aftermath."
Before he could finish, Brother Peng's wife collapsed, foaming at the mouth, unconscious.
At this point, Brother Peng's voice grew somber. He said to us, "When you die, it's like a lamp going out—you don't feel much yourself; it's just lights out. But for the loved ones you leave behind, it's the greatest blow. I despise people who choose suicide. Only the most irresponsible would escape their problems by dying, leaving a trail of pain for those who care about them."
He skipped over the mundane details—arranging the funeral, contacting the crematorium, buying a plot, ordering wreaths. "It was a close call," he said. "Around here, the custom is that a body can't stay overnight. No matter how late, you have to get it to the crematorium and into cold storage. I woke up just as they were about to push me into the freezer. A moment later, and even the greatest immortal couldn't have brought me back."
He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. We leaned forward, knowing the heart of the story was coming.
According to Brother Peng, the moment of death didn't have a clear boundary between life and death—at least not for him. He retained some consciousness, though it was vague, like a dream. Everything he experienced was vivid, yet he had no control, as if guided by some unseen force dictating the scenes he encountered.
At this point, Li Damin scribbled two words on a piece of paper and passed it to me. I froze when I saw them: "Soul."
Brother Peng first saw an old-fashioned freight elevator, standing at its entrance. He had no idea where he was. Without thinking about whether to board, he stepped inside naturally. The doors closed, a red light glowed, and he felt the elevator descending slowly.
He felt calm, free of agitation or stray thoughts. His body was light, unburdened by the heaviness of life, as if he'd returned to the purity of infancy—free of desires, pride, or impatience, simply going with the flow. It almost felt… Buddhist.
The elevator descended for what seemed like a long time, though he had no sense of time then. Reflecting later, he felt it might have been an eternity.
Eventually, the elevator stopped, and the metal doors slowly opened.