Volume One, Chapter 42: Strange Occurrences at the Ancestral Hall

The visitor introduced himself as Liu Dakui, living in Gaojiatun, a village about thirty miles away from ours.

Yesterday afternoon, the old master Liu at home suddenly collapsed. We called 120, the emergency number, but by the time the ambulance arrived, he had already passed away.

Liu Dakui was in his thirties. Normally, he collected wild goods and ran small businesses. With a bit of spare cash in hand, he was determined to give the old master a grand send-off.

Being in his thirties, still relatively young, he didn't want to follow the old-fashioned ways. He insisted on keeping up with the times.

To explain, our funeral customs have a sort of hierarchy. For ordinary families, two large loudspeakers on the roof would play mourning music. Those better off would hire people to beat gongs and play suona horns. Even better, they'd invite performers to sing operatic laments like "Crying Seven Passes."

Of course, there was an even more extravagant option: hiring a band to play upbeat tunes. When the DJ started the lively music, with the clangs and crashes, and a couple of ladies performing split dances, the funeral would become quite a festive affair.

Liu Dakui chose the unconventional route and hired a band that was versatile. They started with a DJ to attract the crowd. When most of the villagers, young and old, had gathered, some ladies began to dance, and soon half the village was there.

Then, the band began performing Errenzhuan.

In the earlier years, Errenzhuan in Northeast rural areas was even more risqué than what is now seen in small theaters. It was certainly not suitable for children.

That Errenzhuan had a strong punch. To give you an idea, Liu Dakui’s sister knelt before the coffin, adding paper offerings to the mourning basin, laughing as she burned the paper.

That night, when it was time for the filial son to keep vigil, Liu Dakui sat beside the coffin smoking, reflecting on his father’s life, tears welling up.

He thought about how, just as he had started making some money, his father was gone—never having had the chance to enjoy it—passing away in his early fifties.

The more Liu Dakui thought, the heavier his heart grew. The more his heart ached, the more he wanted to cry. As he wept, he suddenly noticed something was off—the coffin made noises.

The sounds were faint, intermittent, like someone softly singing a tune.

Panicked, Liu Dakui immediately called the other family members. They all pressed their ears to the coffin and indeed heard something moving inside.

Something was wrong.

Liu Dakui’s first thought was that his father wasn’t dead. He quickly called for the coffin lid to be removed.

When lifted, with a loud bang, the old master suddenly sat up. As the towel covering his face slowly fell away, it revealed a terrifyingly grotesque visage: eyes streaming bloody tears, mouth dripping blood foam.

Even those closest to him fled in terror. Everyone scattered. The coffin lid dropped to the ground with a clatter, smashing the offering table, the ancestral portrait, and even the mourning basin to pieces.

But at that moment, escaping was the priority; no one cared about the wreckage.

---

Outside the yard, Liu Dakui and the others stood pale-faced and flustered, unable to devise a solution.

Looking back into the house, the old master sat upright in the coffin, the bloody foam from his mouth dripping onto the funeral robe covering his chest.

Someone suggested calling the police, but the mortal authorities had no jurisdiction over the affairs of the dead. In the end, Liu Dakui sought out a spirit medium from the neighboring village.

When the spirit medium heard the situation, he flatly refused to come.

With no other options, they had to wait until dawn.

At daybreak, villagers came to help. Upon hearing the events of the previous night, they talked excitedly about Master Ma. Liu Dakui wasted no time seeking him out.

After hearing Liu Dakui’s account, Master Ma asked slowly, “What time did the old master pass yesterday?”

“Two-thirty in the afternoon.”

“Hmm, let me calculate.”

Master Ma closed his eyes and rubbed his long fingers together.

“The day’s date was fine. This shouldn’t have caused a corpse disturbance. Let’s go to your house and take a look.”

“All right.”

Liu Dakui placed a white envelope on the kang bed. Master Ma saw it but said nothing. I found Master Ma a bit strange—he refused to take money from the living, only from funeral affairs.

Liu Dakui drove a car to the house. It was my first time riding in a sedan, and to this day, I still remember the model: a Kia Pride.

That was something special.

Riding in a sedan felt far superior to those four-wheelers with panoramic sunroofs—no wind or rain leaking in. Driving around the village road in that car, the attention it drew was absolute.

No wonder Liu Dakui was so determined to give his father a grand funeral. Sitting in that car, I felt pretty impressive myself, as if I could be sworn brothers with the Jade Emperor.

Arriving at Liu Dakui’s home, the yard was quiet and empty. Not a soul was in sight. Even the neighbors had their doors tightly shut. Several old men gathered about a hundred meters away, basking in the sun. When they saw Liu Dakui’s car return, they came over.

Master Ma got out, greeted a few acquaintances, then said he wanted to inspect the corpse.

Liu Dakui hesitated and said, “Master Ma, why don’t you go in and take a look first?”

---

“Fine.”

Master Ma took a few steps forward. Without turning his head, he knew I hadn’t moved. Clearing his throat, I hurried after him.

Honestly, who isn’t afraid of ghostly matters? Even the son didn’t want to enter; how could I, a mere kid?

The yard was desolate. On the left stood a shed made of striped tarpaulin; on the right was the kitchen for the feast. The two stove hoods should have been steaming with heat, but now their lids were covered with snow and ice clumps.

The mourning hall was set up in the kitchen, what we Northeasterners call the “outer room.” It consisted of three rooms: living quarters on each side, with the kitchen in the middle.

Inside, the scene was chaotic. The dead already made one uneasy, but this sight made my legs tremble uncontrollably.

The scene was even more horrifying than Liu Dakui had described. The coffin lid pressed down on the offering table, and the pig’s head on the table was crushed and deformed by the coffin board. The pig’s head, already stewed soft, had half its facial meat torn away by the board, exposing bare, dried white bones glistening with pale fat.

The pig’s jaw was dislocated, gaping at a frightful angle.

Looking further up, inside the coffin sat a small, elderly man. His hair was messy, eyes wide open as if about to burst, but they were already frozen, covered in white frost.

His face was even more ghastly, mouth agape as if ready to devour someone. Blood tears and foam gathered around his chin, forming an icicle more than two inches long.

Glancing between the old man in the coffin and the pig’s head beneath the coffin lid, I felt a strange resemblance—not in appearance, but in expression.

Stepping closer, a foul stench struck my nose, clearly emanating from within the coffin.

It was winter; pork could last a month without spoiling, let alone someone who had died just overnight.

Looking again at the old man in the coffin: he wore a black, broad-sleeved funeral robe and black cloud-patterned pants. Yet his posture was odd—his legs were spread wide, both feet pressing against the coffin lid.

No leg bindings.

According to our customs, before placing the body in the coffin, the legs must be tied—two ties in total, one at the knees and one at the ankles—believed to prevent the dead from rising and chasing people.

But here, the bindings were absent.