Chapter 1 The Drum of Grievance Two drums were laid out on either side of the courtroom, the one on the left being…

The grievance drum outside the county government office was struck at midnight.

The grievance drum was as big as a millstone, and the drumstick was as thick as a rolling pin. When it was beaten, it made a huge noise, like rolling thunder, in the silent night, and the sound could be heard for miles around, waking up almost half the city.

Thump thump thump—

"What's wrong?"

"Someone is crying foul!"

"In the middle of the night..."

Scattered voices could be heard coming from inside the houses. Some people had already put on their clothes, gotten out of bed, unlatched their doors, and peeked out, half-awake and half-asleep.

The drummer was covered in dust and dirt, dressed in tattered clothes, looking no different from a beggar, or even more miserable. His bare feet were shackled, the skin on his ankles was worn raw, the flesh turned outwards, and his legs, as thick as hemp sticks, had several large and small whip marks. His ten fingers, which were used to beat the drum, were also covered with scars, clearly showing that he had been subjected to a series of severe tortures such as whipping, clamping with sticks, and finger crushing.

The man was covered in wounds, not a single patch of his skin unscathed. His tattered clothes were soaked in filthy blood and emitted a strong, foul stench. Even so, he beat the grievance drum with fierce intensity, the sound rough and domineering, one beat after another, even frightening a few teenagers into tears.

Thump thump thump—

The earth-shattering drumming only stopped when the gatekeeper on duty opened the yamen gates.

The bailiff, his face dark with anger, strode out from his bed and demanded sharply, "Who's beating the drum... what's all this commotion about..."

The constable was only halfway through his sentence when the gatekeeper, his face contorted with terror, practically stumbled in, tripping and falling face-first onto the footstool. When he looked up, his nose was bleeding profusely. Faced with the constable's questioning, the gatekeeper stammered, pointing behind him, seemingly choked up, speechless for a long time.

The constable shouted, "Who scared you so much you're like this?!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the man who had been beating the drum to appeal for justice turned out from behind the screen wall with its blue brick reliefs and walked over with unsteady steps.

Only one lantern was lit in the courtyard, casting a dim light. One could vaguely make out the tattered prison uniform the man was wearing. The constable squinted, staring at the newcomer for a long time. When the man drew closer and the constable saw his face, he was utterly horrified. The constable let out a howl and fled even faster than the gatekeeper. Chaos erupted throughout the yamen, and even the arriving magistrate was so frightened he lost consciousness.

...

Inside the dilapidated temple, a fire burned, and three or five porters sat on carrying poles, cooking thin porridge in an iron pot. Outside, the cold wind howled, pouring in through the broken windows and the half-missing temple door, whipping the flames about erratically.

A lean porter shifted his position; his face was the same color as the yellow earth from the sun. He used his slightly hunched body to shield himself from the wind as he fought the fire, and asked, "Wearing shackles, is this man a fugitive?"

One person said, "A fugitive dares to come to the county government office and walk right into their trap? He must have some extraordinary background. Otherwise, why would even the county magistrate and the constables be afraid of him?"

The old porter who had been telling the story chuckled, revealing a row of uneven, yellow teeth: "How could I not be afraid? Because this man couldn't withstand the severe torture and died a miserable death in the county jail a few days ago." His tone lowered slightly, becoming sinister amidst the howling wind, "A dead man, actually coming to the county jail at midnight to beat the drum and appeal for justice—isn't that like seeing a ghost?!"

The audience gasped, their hair stood on end, and they shivered from the cold wind.

A young girl of about sixteen sat beside a temple pillar. She had overheard every word the porters said. Perhaps feeling scared, she instinctively hugged her knees, shrank back, and leaned closer to the person next to her.

Sitting slumped next to her was a middle-aged man with a pale face, emaciated and skin and bones, looking like he had been ill for a long time. He shakily pulled out half a millet bun from his pocket, which he had carried all day. It had been hardened by the north wind while traveling, becoming as hard as an ice block. He forcefully broke it in half, gave a small half to the girl beside him, and ate it while listening to the ghost stories told by the porters.

One of them questioned, "Really?"

"When I was traveling around these years, I heard about this from an old blacksmith in Beiqu County. Almost everyone in that county knew about this strange incident," the old porter said. "The two officials next to him were so scared that they wet themselves on the spot. It is said that they were the ones who put the body in a sack in the middle of the night, carried it to the wilderness, dumped it there, and buried it in a small grove of trees."

"Perhaps he's not dead, maybe he's still clinging to life?"

The old porter shook his head. He had raised the same question before. The old blacksmith from Beiqu County said with absolute certainty, "The jailers aren't that muddle-headed. Even if someone dies from torture, the coroner from the yamen will examine them carefully. They'll be stiff when they're carried out."

The audience was astonished: "Could it be that the soul has truly returned?"

The iron pot began to bubble and steam, releasing a rich aroma of rice porridge, instantly filling the desolate, dilapidated temple with the scent of cooking.

The old porter stirred the pot of porridge with a long-handled iron ladle and continued, "I thought that after a night of ghosts and the rooster crowing, the haunting would stop, but the next morning, the man's body was hanging brightly in front of the grievance drum. When the wind blew, the body was still swaying back and forth in front of the yamen, hitting the grievance drum again and again, making a loud thud."

In the dead of night, in a dilapidated temple, the atmosphere was intense, and the audience felt their scalps tingle: "Holy crap!"

Another person said, "This is terrifying."

The little girl huddled in front of the temple pillar, timidly sidling up to the man accompanying her. Every now and then, she would turn her head, her eyes always glancing intentionally or unintentionally towards a dark corner in the dilapidated temple.

—A young man dressed in blue sat leaning against the corner, facing the mottled gray wall, never turning his head.

The little girl had noticed this man since she entered the temple. He must have been too tired from his journey and had fallen asleep against the wall early on, seemingly undisturbed by the noise and conversation of these people.

The young girl glanced at the man in blue several times, because he was different from everyone else who had stayed at this dilapidated temple. Although his blue clothes looked simple and elegant, his outer robe was made of the finest brocade from the silk shop, revealing a fold of snow-white collar of his inner garment.

The man in blue leaned his head slightly against the wall, revealing a long, slender neck that was almost the same color as his collar, a stark contrast to the ashen-faced group of people.

The little girl stared at that slender white neck for a moment, then turned her face away shyly.

For some reason, she felt uneasy, wondering if she had developed palpitations from being frightened by the ghost story, and then looked at the porters surrounding the porridge pot.

The old porter had traveled all over the country his life, experiencing many strange and wonderful things along the way. When he rested, he loved to share his experiences from the first half of his life with everyone. He told the stories in great detail, and continued what he had said before: "No one in the yamen dared to step forward, but they couldn't just let the corpse hang there and beat the grievance drum. The whole town was watching. Everyone knew that there was a big miscarriage of justice in the county yamen, and that the wrongfully killed person had come back at midnight to seek justice."

"So what exactly was wronged him?"

"It's said that the local rich man's youngest son was pushed into the river and drowned, but the man refused to confess. Would the old rich man let it go? He bribed the jailers to torture him severely in prison. This man was truly a tough nut to crack; he was tortured to death but still refused to confess. Who knows, maybe the old rich man's son accidentally fell into the water and drowned himself, but he insisted on blaming someone else and dragging an innocent victim to pay for his short-lived son's life."

The old porter shook his head and sighed, "The locals all say that the man died unjustly in prison, without a single relative by his side. Naturally, no one spoke up for him, so he died with his eyes wide open in disbelief. That's why he became a vengeful ghost to seek justice for himself."

The firewood in the bonfire crackled and popped, the sound particularly crisp in the still night, startling the people who were listening intently.

A few sparks flew out, and the porter quickly pulled back his outstretched leg, raising his hand to brush the sparks off his trouser leg. A withered yellow spot was burned on the coarse linen. The porter didn't seem to care much, grabbing a dry twig from the side to stoke the fire.

Some people couldn't wait to ask, "And then what happened?"

The red glow of the fire scorched the old porter's deeply lined face: "Later, it was the county magistrate who sent someone to Renzu Mountain to invite a highly skilled Taoist priest, who was able to remove the body that had struck the grievance drum. It's said that the body was incredibly heavy, weighing about a thousand pounds, and harder than stone. It was perfectly straight, almost like a stone sculpture. Two people couldn't move it at all. In the end, seven or eight strong men were called up to carry it before it was finally placed in the mortuary on the outskirts of the city." The old porter coughed half a time. "It's said that because he died at midnight, his soul returned to the county office at midnight to plead his case, precisely at the right time."

Some people sighed, "No wonder."

The old porter said, "Fearing that this thing might cause more trouble, the old Taoist priest from the ancestral mountain set up an altar and performed a series of rituals, suppressing the corpse in a black coffin and covering the coffin with yellow talismans. And guess what happened?"

"Won't it be able to subdue it?"

"Hey! That thing was incredibly malevolent!" The old porter exclaimed with absolute certainty, as if he had witnessed it firsthand. "First, the yellow talismans used to suppress the coffin started emitting black smoke at midnight, then the cinnabar red slowly turned black, and then it caught fire! Dozens of corpse-suppressing talismans instantly burned to ashes! *Smack!*" The old porter slapped his thigh, his mouth also making a particularly loud "smack," spitting everywhere, to startle everyone before continuing, "The coffin lid was flung open! The person inside suddenly sat up!"

One person exclaimed, "It's come back to life!"

The other person was already prepared: "They've been bluffing for a while now, this is the second time."

“There was a lot of noise inside, but no one dared to go closer to look. After all, the mortuary was full of dead people, and there must have been wandering ghosts for miles around. It was even more eerie than the graveyards on the mountain. So at that time, the old Taoist priest was inside, but he couldn’t stop that evil thing. It went to the yamen gate and beat the grievance drum.”

"Even the old Taoist priest can't do anything about him?"

The old porter shook his head: "The malevolent aura is too strong; it's practically a ferocious corpse. There's nothing we can do about it."

"Then what should we do?"

"The old Taoist priest at Renzu Mountain said that although this fierce corpse is obsessed, it doesn't go around harming the people in the city. It only goes to the yamen to beat the drum and appeal for justice. It's probably a reasonable person who values ​​innocence more than life and death. So if you want it to rest in peace, you have to dispel its resentment and wash away the injustice on its body." The old porter stared at a pot of bubbling rice porridge. "So we did it. The magistrate trembled as he entered the court at midnight, and a bunch of yamen runners standing below were shaking like leaves. The case had to be thoroughly investigated again. After half a month, they still couldn't find anything. Then one night, the magistrate and several yamen runners all hanged themselves in the courtroom."

Everyone was caught off guard: "What? The official hanged himself?"

"Is this now an unsolved case?"

"Some of the older generation think that the government only gave him half a month to report to the underworld after that, because if he missed the appointed time, the King of Hell wouldn't accept his soul, and he wouldn't be able to reincarnate, becoming a wandering ghost in the mortal world. Since the government couldn't redress his grievances, they simply took all these people with them," the old porter said slowly. "Others say that the spirit never really dissipated, and now there are a few more spirits wandering around the government office. Later, the imperial court appointed new ones..." A county magistrate arrived in Beiqu to take up his post, but only a few days later, after judging a murder case and striking the adjournment drum three times, the magistrate rose from his armchair. Before he had taken more than a few steps, he inexplicably tripped and fell backward, as if someone had pushed him. His head slammed against the corner of the three-foot-long judge's table, and he died instantly. It was said that the magistrate was walking on the very stone slab where the condemned prisoner had knelt—the very seat where the man who had risen from the dead years before had stood.

There's a specific meaning to these bluestones. In the yamen (government office) courtroom, there are two stones laid out on the left and right sides. The left one is the plaintiff's seat, and the right one is the defendant's seat.

The old porter recounted the story vividly and in great detail: "It must have been another miscarriage of justice, so when the court adjourned, the magistrate was punished by the underworld spirits lingering here. Then came the third magistrate, who, after judging the case, was killed by the 'Mirror of Justice' plaque in the courtroom. After that, this place became extremely eerie, filled with a chilling atmosphere even in broad daylight, and a cold wind would blow down your back as soon as you stepped inside. With three magistrates dying in succession, who would dare not believe in the supernatural? So the next magistrate listened to the old Taoist priest's advice and moved the county government from the east of the city to the west, and the original government office was abandoned."

By the end of his speech, the old porter was parched and starving. He glanced at the iron pot and said, "It's overcooked and mushy. Quickly, bring me a bowl to scoop it out..."

The porters, still eager for more, gathered around the iron pot with their bowls, asking questions about what would happen next. However, with the relocation of the government office, no more mysterious events occurred, and the story of the dead seeking justice gradually became a folk tale.

A note from the author:

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