A friend from Wuhan once told me this story about her uncle.
It happened in the 1980s, just a few years after the Cultural Revolution ended. Things were still unsettled, and life felt a bit chaotic everywhere. At the time, my friend's uncle was young and drifting, with no real direction. Her grandfather grew anxious watching him idle away his days, so after calling in many favors, he managed to get his son a job as a postman at the local post office.
It wasn't a hard job, and the route never changed. The uncle was assigned to deliver letters, newspapers, and official documents to a nearby prison. Summers in Wuhan are notoriously hot, and once he became familiar with the route, he started making his deliveries at night to avoid the heat. His father scolded him for this more than once, because the route passed right by the city crematorium—something the older man found deeply inauspicious. The uncle, however, didn't think much of it.
One evening after dinner, he loaded the mailbag at the post office, wheeled out his old Flying Pigeon bicycle, and pedaled leisurely toward the prison.
That night, the moon was unusually dim. Just as he passed the high walls of the crematorium, he heard a child's voice from the roadside.
"Uncle, wait! Please wait!"
He instinctively turned his head and saw a small boy standing under a streetlamp. The boy wore a clean set of clothes and carried a schoolbag on his back, but his face was pale—white as paper. The uncle stopped his bike, and the boy ran over.
"Uncle," he said, "could you give me a ride to the prison up ahead? I can't get in by myself."
The uncle found this odd and asked, "What are you going to the prison for?"
The boy lowered his head. "My dad is serving time there. I haven't seen him in a long time. I miss him."
Something softened in the uncle's heart. He waved his hand. "Alright. Hop on. Sit on the back."
The boy climbed on quickly and neatly. Strangely, though, the uncle didn't feel the bicycle get any heavier. He assumed the child was simply very thin and thought no more of it as he kept riding.
After about ten minutes, they reached the prison gates. The elderly guard recognized the uncle and opened the gate for him. The uncle stopped his bike and called back, "Hey kid, we're here. Get off."
He turned around.
The back seat was empty.
There was no boy. Nothing at all.
A chill ran through him. He asked the gatekeeper whether he'd seen a boy get off the bicycle. The old man looked confused. "What boy? No children are allowed anywhere near this place."
The uncle felt uneasy, but he tried to brush it off. Maybe the kid had jumped off earlier and slipped away without him noticing.
A few days later, the uncle came again to deliver newspapers. As soon as he arrived, the gatekeeper pulled him aside, lowering his voice.
"One of the inmates said something strange," the old man whispered. "A few days ago, he heard that his son was gravely ill, but he couldn't leave. That same night—when you came to deliver mail—he dreamed his son came to see him. The boy called out, 'I miss you. Dad, I'm leaving now.' He tried to grab the son, but woke up suddenly."
The gatekeeper paused.
"The next morning, word came from home. The boy died that very night—around the same time you were here."
The inmate collapsed on the spot.
The uncle broke out in a cold sweat as he listened. From that day on, he never again made deliveries at night.