Volume One, Chapter 11: Drifting Wolf Fur

The purpose of traditional ghost plays is to appease deities and ward off evil spirits, whereas the ghost plays of the Guandong region serve to thank the spirits and bring peace to their souls.

In other words, Guandong ghost plays are primarily performed for the ghosts themselves. According to legend, these plays are only staged on the first and fifteenth nights of the lunar month, when the gates of the underworld are wide open. The performances take place at midnight on a three-zhang-high platform, surrounded below by seven or eight round tables. On these tables rest sacrificial offerings—heads of the three sacrifices—and bowls filled with the blood of six domesticated animals.

On stage, actors chant ghostly scripts while below, yellow incense ash and paper offerings intermingle. It is said that when the performance reaches its climax, the porcelain bowls filled with animal blood tremble and shake violently, creating an eerie and unsettling atmosphere.

As for the purpose of the Guandong ghost plays, the people of the old forest believe that all things hold spirits. The woods are filled with vengeful ghosts and malevolent spirits, and the old forest is especially sinister. Hence, whether heavenly gods or earthly ghosts, mortals must offer their respect and worship.

During the Republican era, many workers in the mountains, waters, and mines would specifically invite ghost play troupes to perform as offerings to the mountain spirits and land deities.

Regarding those who perform Guandong ghost plays, under normal circumstances, ghosts fear humans because humans possess yang energy, which ghosts dread. Since Guandong ghost plays are sung for ghosts, the performers must minimize their own yang energy as much as possible.

To achieve this, Guandong ghost play troupes follow numerous strict rules. For example, they recruit people with weak birth charts, wear black robes year-round, and avoid sunlight on all parts of their bodies except their eyes. They stay hidden during the day and emerge only at night. When traveling, they lodge in haunted houses or sleep in cemeteries. They carry almost no living energy and, apart from singing during performances, they never speak. Anyone wishing to invite such a troupe must negotiate with the troupe’s manager.

The manager informs the host when the play will be performed, how the stage should be set up, and which offerings to prepare. On the appointed day, the manager leads the ghost play troupe onto the stage to begin the performance.

In other words, these performers never interact with outsiders during the entire process. The play begins at midnight. The peak of the ghost play occurs when wild dogs bare their teeth around three or four in the morning, when yin energy is strongest. The play ends before dawn, just as roosters crow and dogs bark.

Thinking of all this, my legs began to tremble uncontrollably. Setting aside everything else, the very fact that these performers exist in a state neither fully human nor ghostly sends chills down one’s spine.

Master Ma’s gaze was sharp as lightning. He stared at the mountain site, gritting his teeth and whispering, “Do you know what those who sing ghost plays eat?”

“What do they eat?”

“Dead children.”

A wave of nausea washed over me. I asked, “Where do they get so many dead children?”

Master Ma gave an example from the Qing imperial family. Since Emperor Shunzhi took control of the Central Plains, the Qing dynasty had nine emperors and a total of 146 children. Among them, 74 did not live past fifteen years old. The survival rate of princes and princesses was less than 50%.

And this was the royal family, the place with the best doctors and medicines in the land.

Ordinary commoners lost even more children, though they also had many more births.

In ancient times, common folk worked from sunrise to sunset, living an agrarian life with little entertainment. Their only pastime was often having children. Without birth control, if a child came, they simply raised it.

Peasant families were poor and powerless, lacking medicine and doctors. Another important point was early marriage: girls married at fourteen or fifteen, worked during the day, and bore children at night. Their bodies were already weak, and the children born were even weaker, so survival rates were low.

Master Ma lowered his voice and said, “It’s about time. Let’s go see that ghost play troupe.”

“You don’t think they’ll eat me, do you?”

“Hard to say. Ghost play troupes are very sinister. Be sharp and see if they left us here on purpose.”

I always felt that Master Ma knew what was going on from the moment he saw the hunter.

Back then, the hunter raised his gun to let us leave, but he never intended to spare us. He wanted us to die in the traps.

Damn Taoist, damn Taoist. You see through everything, so why drink so much?

When we returned to the room, the old hunter was already asleep, slumped over the kang table.

Looking around the room, I felt increasingly uneasy. A terrifying thought crept into my mind: could the tiger head mounted above the wooden door be the mask the old hunter wore when performing ghost plays?

The more I thought about it, the more afraid I became. My heart pounded, and the worst part was that I couldn’t escape.

The old hunter slept soundly. When I gently covered him with a quilt, he barely stirred.

This also suggested the old hunter was confident—he was certain we couldn’t leave.

Or maybe, what if the old hunter meant no harm?

No, that didn’t make sense either. When we first met him, he told us to leave quickly. A lone hunter deep in the mountains would surely have traps to protect himself—not just against ill-intentioned people, but also against dangerous beasts. Why would he tell us to leave if he wasn’t trying to lure us into his traps?

He wanted us to leave and die there.

And as for Ghost-Slaying Ridge, I couldn’t understand why the old hunter led us there. Was he really trying to help us?

Moreover, the old hunter slept so deeply—didn’t he fear we might harm him?

At that moment, my mind was full of questions. Master Ma absentmindedly took a few more sips of wine, then collapsed on the kang, snoring loudly.

I was tired too, but I dared not sleep—especially since the Taoist said the ghost play performers eat dead children. I was already a child; all that was missing was death.

The fire burned brightly, the room warm and cozy. The wine buzzed in my head, and my eyelids fluttered uncontrollably.

Damn it all—go to sleep, sleep soundly, sleep through the ages. If something happens, at least there’s Master Ma.

Not that Master Ma was protecting me, but just in case trouble came, at least I wouldn’t be alone on the road to the netherworld.

When I woke up, it was pitch black around me. The broken window let in a few slivers of ragged moonlight. The rhythmic snores of the Taoist and old hunter sounded like a wind chime, rising and falling without pause, leaving no room for rest. Outside, strange winds blew—sometimes like a woman crying, sometimes like children laughing. Occasionally, wild beasts howled, each sound cutting into my heart.

I had drunk too much during the day and wasn’t sure if the door was locked. I decided to get up, check, and relieve myself.

Feeling my way in the dark to the door, I found it bolted shut. Not daring to go out, I peed through the crack beneath the door. In a blur, I saw a pair of glowing red eyes outside. The creature was swift, darting away in less than half a second.

I shuddered and hurried back to the kang, but my brain and body were out of sync.

I wet my pants.

As I climbed onto the kang, I suddenly froze because the wolf skin hanging on the wall had changed.

The wolf fur danced without wind, each hair standing on end like writhing tendrils.

My whole body tensed. If I hadn’t just urinated, I would surely have peed myself.

Wolves are highly spiritual animals, and wolf pelts are said to predict danger. It is said that anyone entering the old forest must carry a wolf pelt—not only as bedding but also for its ability to sense danger.

When predators or malevolent spirits approach, the wolf fur stands up. Experienced people can tell what lurks nearby just by the way the hairs move.

I had no such experience, but even I could tell that something unclean was nearby from the wolf pelt’s movements.

I shook Master Ma urgently, but the Taoist slept deeply. No matter how hard I shook him, he just turned over and kept snoring without a sound.

“Master, there’s something dirty outside,” I whispered through gritted teeth.

“Sleep. Nothing can get in, nothing can get out,” he murmured.

My heart jumped—the old hunter had just spoken. I wasn’t sure if it was sleep-talk or an answer to me. The key phrase was “nothing can get out.”

Looking at Master Ma, his eyes were wide open. He gave me a slight nod, as if telling me not to act rashly.

I smiled bitterly to myself. What kind of rash moves could a mere kid like me make?