On the very night Ma Laosan's wife was buried, her corpse had already broken free from the coffin—because she showed up at our home precisely at midnight.
At that time, Jiushan Village was still terribly poor. We had no electricity, and most families relied on candles or kerosene lamps for light.
Even then, no one could afford to waste such luxuries, so people usually went to bed early.
That night, my parents were fast asleep when a sudden knocking echoed from our bedroom window—sharp, rhythmic knocks: three long, one short.
They were exhausted from a full day's work in the fields and first assumed it was just the wind or maybe a bat hitting the window, so they paid it no mind.
But the knocking persisted, growing faster and more urgent—still the same ominous rhythm: three long, one short.
Groggy, my father dragged himself up and opened the window to see what was making the noise.
He could never have expected what he saw.
The moment he opened the window, a wave of putrid stench rushed in, followed by the sight of a swollen, corpse-spotted face—staring at him from just inches away. It was Ma Laosan's wife.
Her lips were still curled in the same twisted grin she had when she died.
One look at that bloated, blotched face and my father was wide awake. He let out a blood-curdling scream and fell backward, landing hard on the floor.
His scream jolted my mother and me awake.
To this day, I can never forget the grotesque face of Ma Laosan's wife. It haunted my dreams for years.
My mother was so terrified she couldn't even scream. She just clung to me, trembling violently.
Then Ma Laosan's wife spoke.
First came a low, chilling laugh, then her blank, corpse-white eyes locked onto mine.
"Four more days… four more days…"
My father's scream had woken my grandfather, who had been sleeping in the eastern wing. He burst into the room wielding a gleaming saber—an old war blade he'd kept since his days fighting the Japanese.
One glance at my father collapsed on the floor and my mother clutching me in fear was enough to tell him something was wrong. Then he followed their gaze to the window.
The moment he saw her, he shuddered—but not with fear.
Grandpa had seen real horrors on the battlefield. Though clearly shaken, he remained composed.
"Ma Laosan's wife," he said coldly, "I know you've got a grudge, but this was fate. No one's to blame. I suggest you leave now, or I won't be so polite. You think you're scarier than those Japanese devils I cut down? My blade here has tasted real blood—it won't mind adding yours."
He raised the war saber. The metal gleamed so brightly you could see your reflection in it.
Perhaps it was the sight of that blade that worked. Ma Laosan's wife suddenly turned around and limped away, laughing as she vanished into the darkness.
But not before repeating her eerie words:
"Four more days… four more days…"
None of us slept that night.
We kept wondering—what did she mean by "four more days"?
The next morning, a shepherd discovered that Ma Laosan's wife's grave had been disturbed. But when Ma Laosan brought people to investigate, they realized something even more terrifying: the grave hadn't been dug into—it had been broken open from the inside.
The dirt was pushed outward. The coffin lid had splintered and lay scattered around. It looked for all the world like she had clawed her way out.
The image alone sent chills down everyone's spine.
In the dead of night, her grave had split open. She had clawed her way to the surface and wandered to our house—just to knock on our window.
But Ma Laosan didn't know his wife had come to our home. Grandpa and Dad decided not to speak a word of it. Our families were already on poor terms, and we didn't want to make things worse.
Ma Laosan assumed her body had been stolen.
Back then, body snatchers were common, and young female corpses were in especially high demand—for many reasons, though most were sold off for ghost marriages.
Though Ma Laosan's wife wasn't especially beautiful, she was young—not yet thirty—which made her valuable.
If she had been stolen, that might've been a relief.
But she hadn't been.
Because on the second night, she came back—to our house.
After the terror of the first night, my mother couldn't sleep at all. My father tried to comfort her, insisting that someone must have stolen the corpse.
She wasn't convinced. She had Grandpa sleep in the main hall that night, war saber in hand, just in case.
Despite their fear and exhaustion from another long day of farm work, my parents went to bed early.
But just like before, the sound of knocking returned—jerking them awake.
My father sat bolt upright. Bathed in pale moonlight from the window, he could see the silhouette of someone standing outside—knocking in the same dreadful rhythm.
My mother was sobbing, curled up in bed with me, trembling.
"Dad… she's back…" my father muttered, gripping a wooden stick tightly, shielding us from whatever horror lurked beyond.
Grandpa wasted no time. He charged in with that gleaming saber once more.
And there she was.
Ma Laosan's wife.
Bloated face. Twisted smile.
"Ma Laosan's wife," Grandpa growled, "don't you have anything better to do? I'm old. I've lived enough. If you've got the guts, kill me now. But I'll tell you this—once I'm a ghost, I'll make your afterlife hell."
With that, he stabbed the saber through the window.
Outside, Ma Laosan's wife stood there smiling, eyes dead white, voice sharp as a needle.
"Three more days… three more days… heeheehee…"
Even Grandpa flinched at the sight of her.
Then she turned, dragging one bare, bone-white foot behind her, and hobbled toward the gate—disappearing moments later.
"Dad… last night she said four days… now three… what happens in three days?" my father asked, horror blooming in his voice.