By the time I returned to Taiyuan, it was around 4 a.m. The streets were desolate, shrouded in thick fog that blurred visibility to near-zero.
I'd slept through most of the ride, but the moment I stepped out of the car, a icy dampness clung to my skin, jolting me awake. I waved vaguely at Xing Wei and turned to head home, but paused abruptly at the storefront—something felt off.
Xing Wei's car still sat by the curb, its window cracked open. Peering inside, I saw him slumped over the steering wheel, head lolling. Under the eerie glow of the dashboard lights, his face twitched grotesquely, skin sagging like excess flesh, creased and puckered as if mid-laugh, teeth glinting white…
A chill ran down my spine. "Hey, what're you doing?" I called out.
Xing Wei coughed softly, straightening up. "Nothing. Just… the day's been weird. My mind's wandering."
He rolled up the window and gunned the engine, speeding off into the fog. I figured he was still spooked by today's events, so I didn't press.
Back in my shop, I rummaged for the Xuan Kong School of Burial manual—my gut said the "Seven-Compartment Tomb" curse was tied to that "Polar Region Ominous Funeral Pavilion." But after a fruitless search, I collapsed into a chair, sweating. Time to call my dad at dawn, I thought.
Today's events had shaken me. For the first time, I'd witnessed the uncanny firsthand—not just heard tales. Ghosts? Spirits? My trade had always leaned toward charlatanism, but now… I had to reconsider the old ways.
Before I knew it, I'd drifted into a fitful sleep.
The dream was restless. A cold, crawling sensation slithered across my face—like insects under my skin. I tried to wake, but my eyelids felt glued shut. Then, faint giggles reached my ears: "Hehehe…"
Cold, calculating, and vaguely sinister.
Panic jolted me awake. A pale face loomed above mine—powdered like an old Japanese geisha, with a child-sized body but an adult-sized head, eyes bulging, grinning stiffly. It straddled me, face inches from mine.
Terror swallowed me whole. I grabbed a brass paperweight from my desk and slammed it into that grinning face.
Crack!
The weight pierced through, shattering the bookshelf glass behind it. The thing vanished, as if it had never been.
"Was that… a ghost?" I stammered, voice trembling.
Footsteps thudded up the stairs. My heart raced—until I saw who it was.
Zhang Xinya, my tenant. She was tall, over 175 cm, with a lean, athletic build hidden under a baggy nightshirt. Her sharp features looked tired, probably woken by the noise.
"Xinya?" I exhaled, relieved. At least she was human.
But her eyes widened, and she froze, staring at me. Then—she screamed.
"G-GHOST!!"
Her shriek pierced my eardrums, making my head throb. She bolted upstairs.
"Wait!" I yelled, chasing after her. Ghosts targeted the alone—crowds meant safety. But as I reached the stairs, she wheeled around, face contorted with fury.
Her hands flew to her waistband. With lightning speed, she yanked something white from her pants and hurled it at my face.
I dodged, but the object smacked the wall. My blood ran cold.
A used sanitary pad.
"Are you insane?!" I gaped. "A girl throws a pad at someone's face?!"
Before I could finish, she spat—blood mixed with saliva—across my face.
The sting was excruciating, worse than acid. I collapsed, clawing at my cheeks, rolling on the ground.
Of course. She knew what I was.
Sanitary pads (called "Red Dragons" in some regions) and menstrual blood—both potent against spirits. And the spit? She'd bitten her tongue; fresh blood carried yang energy, a ghost's bane.
"Stay away from me, you freak!" she snarled, fleeing outside.
The pain lingered, ebbing slowly. When it faded, I was weak, trembling.
I looked at my hands—pale, almost translucent.
A breeze swept through the open door, lifting a flap of skin from my wrist.
Paper.
I staggered to the mirror.
Staring back was a creature of horror: skin as white as powder, eyes inked on, cheeks flushed with red paint, lips curled in a stiff grin.
"Paper figure…" I whispered.
The mirror showed exactly what I'd feared—the effigy used to bury the dead.