Chapter Twenty-One: Afraid of the Light

As I approached the doorway, the old man Ma’s eyes glinted with a sly, mischievous smile. This old fox was, as expected, not exactly a model of propriety.

Just as he was about to push the door open, I said, “Did you notice anything?”

Prompted by my words, Xing San tensed up and asked anxiously, “Old Ma, did you see something wrong? How is my daughter?”

Old Ma coughed lightly, collecting himself. “It’s too soon to say. I’ll need to take a look. Open the door.”

Xing San opened his daughter’s bedroom door. Immediately, the scent inside grew more pronounced—a young woman’s room, without a doubt.

Old Ma strode in without a hint of embarrassment. I followed close behind. Su Fei and Yong also wanted to enter, but Old Ma turned to them and said, “You two wait outside.”

They hesitated for a moment, but realizing Old Ma wasn’t likely to run off, obediently stayed at the door.

Seeing Xing San’s worried expression, I assumed his daughter must be unconscious, feverish, perhaps delirious. But as I approached the bed, I found her sitting upright, her face calm, seemingly perfectly fine. Heavy curtains blocked out the daylight, casting the room into deep gloom, save for the soft glow of a night lamp by her bed.

She was sixteen or seventeen, straight hair to her shoulders, and radiated a quiet composure. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss.

But something felt wrong almost immediately. Old Ma strode right up to the bedside—yet the girl showed no reaction at all, her expression utterly unmoved.

He sat down at the edge of the bed and suddenly reached out toward the girl. I started—was he out of his mind, taking such liberties in front of her father?

Xing San also froze, about to intervene.

But Old Ma merely waved his hand before the girl’s eyes, moving it back and forth.

I let out a silent sigh of relief. At least he had some sense of boundaries.

The girl didn’t react in the slightest, no matter how Old Ma moved his hand, her face remaining serenely impassive.

“How long has she been like this?” Old Ma withdrew his hand and asked.

“Since the end of summer break, late August until now,” Xing San sighed.

Old Ma studied the girl up and down, then turned his gaze to the thick curtains. “Why keep the curtains drawn?”

“She’s terrified of light. We can only leave a single lamp on for her like this.”

Old Ma gestured for me to open the curtains.

I moved to the window and gently pulled back a corner. Sunlight streamed in.

Suddenly, the girl screamed, “Ah! Waaah! Ah—!” Hands flying up in panic to shield herself, she shrank into the corner, trembling all over, her composure gone—now frenzied, distraught with terror.

I hurriedly closed the curtain again.

Xing San rushed over to comfort her, “Don’t be afraid! It’s alright, you’re safe, don’t be scared.”

But the girl seemed oblivious to his voice, curled up in the corner, shivering as if dreading some unspeakable presence.

Old Ma tilted his head, silently watching her, lost in thought. After a long moment, he motioned for us to leave.

Back in the living room, Su Fei and Yong trailed after us as always. Old Ma questioned Xing San about when the change had first appeared, and whether there were any other symptoms.

From Xing San’s account, I learned his daughter’s name was Xinman, a high school junior. The exact onset was unclear—late August, she’d started to seem a bit absentminded, and things had gotten progressively worse. After the school year began, she attended classes for only a few days before the teacher called—she’d become like this: eerily calm, afraid of daylight.

They’d taken her to various hospitals, but nothing abnormal was found. Several hospitals later, still no diagnosis, so there was no treatment to prescribe.

Eventually, they wondered if something supernatural was at play.

Old Ma, head tilted in thought, asked, “Did she go anywhere unusual before this happened?”

“No, not really,” Xing San replied, troubled. “Just out shopping with friends now and then, sometimes coming home a bit late, but nothing else.”

Old Ma pondered. “Is she like this at night as well?”

Xing San nodded. “All the same. At night, we worry she’ll get exhausted, so we have her lie down, but she doesn’t sleep. She just stays like this. It’s been a month—how could anyone go without sleep so long? We’re at our wits’ end, Old Ma, you have to help us. Please, save Xinman.”

“I’m here, so I’ll do my best. I’ll check on her again later, and also observe her tonight.”

Old Ma returned to Xinman’s room for another thorough look, but whatever he saw, he kept to himself. He stayed nearly half an hour before leaving, silent.

Xing San arranged two rooms for us—one for me and Old Ma, the other for Su Fei and Yong.

I carried Old Ma’s bag into our room. At last, it was just the two of us. These days, except when sleeping, those two never left Old Ma’s side.

I asked, “If you don’t want to take Second Master Wei’s case, why not just refuse outright?”

Of course, I knew the answer—if he could refuse, he wouldn’t be dragging things out like this. Second Master Wei was no small figure; Old Ma couldn’t afford to offend him. What I really wanted to know was why Old Ma was so reluctant to accept his business.

Old Ma shot me a disdainful glare. “Why don’t you try refusing for me?”

I blinked. “Is there something especially tricky about Second Master Wei’s case?”

“These people have come before. Second Master Wei’s business is always convoluted, endless, one thing tangled with another, a mess you can’t make sense of. If I didn’t have to worry about crossing that bastard, I’d—!”

He launched into a long, colorful tirade.

So that’s it. Clearly, he’d been burned before. Whatever Second Master Wei’s business was, it must have run him ragged.

I pressed further, “What do you make of Xing Xinman’s condition?”

“It’s hard to say. There’s something strange about it, but I can’t pinpoint the problem just yet. I’ll have to watch her tonight.” Old Ma was far more serious now. When he’d examined Xinman earlier, there’d been nothing improper in his manner—he might be a scoundrel, but he took his own work seriously.

He sprawled out, claiming the room’s only bed, and waved me over. “Bring me the gourd from my bag.”

A gourd? I opened his small backpack and immediately spotted a heavy gourd. Pulling it out, the bag felt much lighter—it seemed most of the weight was from the gourd.

I handed it to him and put his backpack beside the bed.

Old Ma uncorked the gourd, releasing a pungent scent of mint and cilantro. The moment I smelled it, I knew what he was about to do. He brought the gourd to his nose, tipping it slightly to let the liquid flow into his nostrils, looking blissfully content.

Once the habit of nasal snuff is formed, they say, it’s almost impossible to quit.

Unable to endure the stench of mingled cilantro and mint, I simply stepped outside.