Chapter Eight: Accusation

Aunt Hui’s face turned pale for a moment, glancing toward the direction of the village chief’s house. Her expression was full of disbelief, and after a short pause, she sighed and said, “I’ve been cooking in the kitchen all this time. As soon as I finished, I came looking for you. How could something like this happen?” Her words were filled with regret for the tragedy at the village chief’s house, but she said nothing about Liu the Mourner taking the relics.

A sense of unease and suspicion had already begun to stir within me.

I questioned Aunt Hui again, saying that Grandpa had taken the relics to the village chief’s house, which seemed very odd.

Only then did Aunt Hui force a smile and say, “Xie Yuan, I know you and your grandfather have some issues, but he certainly didn’t do anything wrong. He’s been trying to appease the old village chief’s spirit these last few days. With such a massacre at the village chief’s house, he sent over the relics so the old chief’s ghost would stop haunting the place.”

“Aunt Hui, I don’t mean to pry… My mother came from the neighboring village, and you all know what happened over there,” Wang Erjun couldn’t help but chime in.

Aunt Hui shook her head and replied, “Erjun, I know you and Xie Yuan are overthinking it, but you don’t understand these things. The old village chief’s seven-day mourning is over. In the days before the seventh, resentment and anger can grow, but once the seventh day passes, a wronged soul remains a wronged soul, a vengeful ghost remains a vengeful ghost, but it won’t turn into a fierce spirit.”

“In the end, the old chief couldn’t enter his home after death, all because of your grandfather. Now that he’s returned the relics, it fulfills the old chief’s last wish. Since none of his family are left, he has nothing else to hold onto and can only depart and reincarnate.” Aunt Hui paused to explain further.

Wang Erjun looked at me in confusion.

Even I didn’t know whether to trust Aunt Hui or doubt her.

“Your fathers are both at home. They came into the village for convenience, not through the main entrance, and have just arrived. They surely don’t know about the chief’s tragedy yet—you need to tell them quickly,” Aunt Hui urged us to hurry home instead of continuing the previous topic.

I struggled internally, but remembered how Aunt Hui had believed me even more than my own father.

Her explanation was not unreasonable—after all, neither Wang Erjun nor I understood any of this.

If things really were as Aunt Hui said, and I refused to trust her, wouldn’t it chill her heart?

Even if Liu the Mourner truly had problems, Aunt Hui was helping us. If she was mistaken, it was not her fault—I shouldn’t doubt her.

Having thought it through, I felt a weight lift from my heart. I pulled Wang Erjun along, saying we should go home for dinner.

Aunt Hui hurried ahead of us, her steps visibly tense.

Wang Erjun tugged at my sleeve and whispered, “Do you believe her?”

I nodded, afraid Aunt Hui might overhear, so I kept silent.

Soon, we returned home.

Liu the Mourner had not come back.

Inside the main hall, my father and Wang Erjun’s father were sitting at the table, chatting.

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The table was piled high with dishes.

“Xie Yuan, you tell them what happened. I just threw up once and I’m starving—let me grab a quick bite first…” Wang Erjun swallowed hard, greeted my father, then sat right down and grabbed a piece of fatty chicken, stuffing it into his mouth until the juices spilled out.

His father picked up his chopsticks and smacked Erjun’s hand, scolding, “No manners! Xie Yuan’s grandfather hasn’t even come to the table yet!”

Erjun shuddered and the chicken dropped from his mouth, sweat beading on his forehead.

“It’s fine, Old Wang, let Erjun have a bite first. Xie Yuan’s grandfather never eats at the table,” Aunt Hui said, frowning and sounding a little unnatural. “Something happened at the village chief’s house. Erjun and Xie Yuan just came back from fighting the fire—no idea how many died.”

My father’s expression changed instantly, and he shot up from his seat. The fat on Erjun’s father’s face quivered twice.

Without another word, my father ran straight out of the house.

Erjun’s father followed right behind.

I was about to call after my father, but Aunt Hui stopped me, saying, “No matter what, the chief just gave us land. If your dad doesn’t go over, the whole village will talk behind his back and tear him apart.”

I was stunned, while Wang Erjun looked at Aunt Hui and me, mumbling, “Should we go too?”

Aunt Hui hesitated, then said, “We’d better go see for ourselves. The rain has stopped for a while now. Who knows if your grandfather is still there, or if anyone survived at the chief’s house.”

Wang Erjun glanced longingly at the chicken on the floor, then grabbed several more pieces and stuffed them in his mouth, finally nodding hard and mumbling, “We should check—maybe someone survived.”

Leaving home, our fathers were already out of sight.

When we reached the village chief’s house, the villagers who had left to shelter from the rain had all returned.

Outside the house, now almost a ruin, a large white sheet was spread out, five disfigured corpses lying atop it.

From a distance, the smell of burnt flesh was overpowering.

Wang Erjun covered his mouth, retching.

My father stood silently before the sheet.

The bodies were carried out by the strong men summoned by the old village secretary.

The old secretary, now over seventy, wore an army-green cap and had a wrinkled face, half-squatted beside the sheet.

He sighed and said, “I told Zhuangshi, you can’t keep your father out of the house. But he insisted on listening to Liu the Mourner, profiting off his father’s death, and leaving him in the wild graveyard. Now look—his whole family’s gone.”

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Then the old secretary looked up and glared at my father, saying, “What are you doing here? Years ago, when you married that woman who conducts funerals, how many people in the village objected? You still drove your parents away, brought that funeral woman into our village, and now Zhuangshi’s family is ruined—are you happy?”

The secretary was one of those who had opposed the village chief keeping his father out.

When Aunt Hui married my father, many in the village gossiped.

Our village is mostly made up of distant relatives. The old secretary is respected and has served for many years, so his words carry weight.

He tried to persuade my father back then, drinking with him several times, but my father never relented and married Aunt Hui anyway. Since then, the secretary has had little goodwill toward our family.

Especially since he was close with my grandparents, he despised Aunt Hui even more, saying that even if he died and couldn’t find someone to manage his funeral, he’d never let Liu the Mourner or Aunt Hui handle his wake.

We stood not far off.

Aunt Hui’s face changed, her body swaying slightly.

Wang Erjun stole a glance at me.

Hearing the secretary speak so harshly about my father and Aunt Hui, I felt uneasy inside.

But with the chief’s family tragedy, it wasn’t the time to argue in front of the corpses.

My father was silent for a long while, then suddenly said, “The chief’s family had six members—wife, son, two grandsons, a younger son, and himself. There are only five bodies here. We should search the house for survivors. I feel something’s wrong—the fire burned too quickly for all five to be trapped.”

My heart skipped a beat—I couldn’t believe my father was the one saying this.

Before, whenever I mentioned Liu the Mourner, he’d always hush me to avoid trouble.

The old secretary replied coldly, “Don’t pretend to care. Cat mourning mouse, false sympathy—do you need to say it? The bodies of the children and women are here; either Zhuangshi survived, or one of the sons is left. This fire isn’t normal. Zhuangshi’s father died with grievances, now he’s back for revenge—Liu the Mourner is to blame!”

“If it weren’t for his manipulation, would Zhuangshi have done something so heartless? Now his family is ruined, and it’s all Liu the Mourner’s responsibility!”

My father suddenly looked up, anger in his eyes. “Secretary, you have no evidence—don’t accuse blindly! The chief’s seven days are over; how could he come back as a ghost? This fire was set—let’s see who survived before making judgments.”

Among the onlookers, someone spoke up, “How do you know ghosts stop haunting after seven days? Plenty of haunted places stay that way for decades—ghosts linger. I think the secretary’s right, Liu the Mourner must be behind this!”

Suddenly another voice said, “When the rain started, everyone ran for cover. On my way, I saw Liu the Mourner heading straight here.”

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