9

After a brief farewell, Besi didn't even bother to keep us and slammed the door shut.

Zhang Zhihao seemed to still be worried about Zheng Kun's condition. He kept muttering on the way back, but I didn't hear a word he said. My mind was full of Zheng Kun's sick mumbling.

He claimed he wasn't the murderer. Given his delirious condition at the time, he shouldn't have had the luxury of lying. Unless his illness was a hoax, staged by Beas and him. But that doesn't make sense. My visit was completely impulsive. Zhang Zhihao was supposed to be the only one visiting today. Was it really necessary to rehearse an entire scene just to deceive him? I doubt Zhang Zhihao would have believed Zheng Kun even if he claimed to be an undercover police agent, given his intelligence.

But what about Zheng Kun's behavior at the video store? If he had nothing to do with the murder, why would he be so worried that he became insane? What was the so-called curse of the evil spirit?

Too many questions filled my mind.

As I approached the bus stop, a man with a goatee approached. His beard had a burnt, yellowish hue, as if smoked. He wore his hair in a strange bun. His right eye, as if spilt with milk, had a pupil so pale it was barely discernible. His left, however, shone brightly. This obvious, palpable imbalance irritated anyone who met his gaze, leaving them feeling uneasy. It was freezing cold, and despite wearing only a satin coat, he didn't shiver, walking with a steady gait.

After we passed each other, I felt that everything about this man was very strange, and I couldn't help but look back. I saw the man with the goatee continued walking along the cement road that was about to end. There were only a few houses at the end of the road, so his destination was easy to guess.

"What are you looking at?" Zhang Zhihao asked.

"I left something behind, you go back first." Without waiting for his answer, I quickly returned the same way. When I approached Zheng Kun's house, I saw Besi coming out to greet him, and the man with the goatee went into the house with him.

It was obviously impossible to expect the beggar to politely invite me into the house, and I wouldn't be able to get any information that way. I tiptoed around to the side of the house, trying to find a position from which I could eavesdrop.

Just now, while inside, I'd felt distinctly cold, the temperature practically identical to that outside. I could even hear the whistling wind. Clearly, this old house had fallen into disrepair, with gaps everywhere that let in drafts. As I circled the west side, I could hear voices, clearly audible even through the wall.

I crouched down, approached the window, and cautiously peeked in. I saw the living room I'd just been in. But the furniture had been repositioned. The sofa, coffee table, and other furniture had been moved to the corner, freeing up a considerable space. Only the altar remained unchanged. Two men knelt respectfully before it, burning incense and praying, silently muttering something.

The ritual lasted about two minutes, and then the two men stood up again. Goatee reached out to brush the dust off his knees, while Bezoar asked impatiently, "Master, how long will it take for your method to work?"

The goat-bearded man groaned, "Whether the method works or not depends on the sincerity of your heart. If you don't believe it, feel free to seek help from others."

"That's not what I meant," Bie Si said, his forehead sweating and his panic evident in his words. "It's just that my son's condition hasn't improved in the past two days. Instead, it's getting worse. He could still eat a little the day before yesterday, but now he can barely even take in water. I'm afraid if this continues..."

Goatbeard grumbled and inquired in detail about Zheng Kun's current condition, focusing on what nonsense he had been talking about during the days since he fell ill and whether he had any abnormal behavior. Besie answered each question respectfully.

After hearing this, Goatee twirled his beard, closed his eyes in thought for a moment, and sighed deeply, "This is a shameless move, and it comes from a prominent background."

"What should I do then?"

"We need to invite a great immortal to come and exorcise the ghost. Go and move here the incense burner, talisman paper and offerings that I asked you to prepare last time. Time is running out, I will prepare to invite the gods to possess me now." After saying this, he sat down cross-legged, let his hair down, and said no more.

I couldn't help but laugh. I'd thought the man with the goatee was some important figure, but it turned out he was just a charlatan.

The "faceless" he mentioned is a cryptic term for ghosts. As for the ritual of "inviting a spirit to possess one's body," it's most likely what folks call "shaman dance."

When I was young, the superstitious practice of shaman dances was rampant in rural areas of northern China. Many villages had a self-proclaimed witch who claimed to be able to summon spirits or fox spirits to possess them and resolve problems. These ranged from simple divination, feng shui interpretation, and calculating auspicious dates to more elaborate activities like calling back the souls of children and exorcising ghosts for adults. Some even claimed to cure any illness.

When I was about five or six years old, I witnessed a "shaman dance" ritual at a relative's home in the countryside. The resounding gongs and drums were a powerful revelation, deeply moving to my young mind. My father explained to me that it was simply feudal superstition. In the old society, medical care and medicine were scarce, and there were no established psychologists. This gap naturally required the practice of shamans. Shamans performed these rituals with great fanfare, and the patients, receiving positive psychological signals, believed their ailments were being cured. They relaxed, their spirits began to improve, and their illnesses gradually improved, sometimes even completely resolved.

He kept talking like this, completely ignoring whether I understood him or not, and ignoring the distant relatives' rolling eyes and my mother's tugging at his sleeve. Now that I think about it, their marital problems may have more to do with their personality differences.

In recent years, whether it's because the efforts to dismantle feudal superstitions have taken root, or perhaps because the elderly people who believed in them in the countryside have mostly died, I haven't heard of anyone practicing them in ages. Going to the hospital and taking medicine when you're sick has become common sense. The two men still performing the shaman ritual before me looked like living fossils to me.

Beguiled went in and out of the kitchen, moving things several times. I hid in the shadows under the window, not daring to make a sound.

On his last trip, he opened the iron cage in the kitchen and grabbed the ball of fur inside. He brought it to the living room and dumped it in front of the altar. The fur moved, stretching into the shape of a human. I was so frightened I almost couldn't hold back my laughter. Fortunately, I finally saw clearly in time—it was a monkey.

Yes, it was the kind of monkey that leaped around in the zoo's monkey mountain, scrambling for bananas thrown in by tourists. But this one couldn't move that nimbly. Its mouth was taped, and its limbs were tied behind its back with hemp rope. Like a dehydrated fish, it only struggled once or twice. It looked half dead.

Before I could figure out what they were doing with this thing, Goatee had already recovered from his trance-like silence.

"Normally, the ceremony of summoning gods requires two people, so I have to ask for help. But time is tight this time, so you can help. But you have to remember what I say and do it one by one. You can't make any mistakes, otherwise the consequences will be unpredictable." The man with the goatee warned.

The Beagles nodded timidly. The Goatee taught him how to ask for help from the gods, but as if he was still unsure, he asked the Beagles to repeat it again, and only after he was sure that it was correct did he begin the ceremony.

A man with a goatee lit incense and candles. As the incense curled, he lowered his head, shook a tambourine, and began to sing aloud: "The sun sets in the west, the sky darkens, every household locks their doors, magpies and crows fly to the trees, sparrows and pigeons take to the eaves, nine out of ten households lock their doors, and one door is still open. I'm setting up an altar to pray to the gods, hey hey hey!"

His voice was high and resonant. If I hadn't been born in the wrong era, I might have become as famous as Fei Xiang, I thought to myself.

The incense was halfway burned when the deity left the stage. Goatee's entire body shook violently, his head swaying with increasing force, like a condemned man being electrocuted. He clapped his hands repeatedly, then suddenly let out a loud cry. With a single push of his feet, he leaped to his feet, seemingly energized, dancing wildly, practically on the verge of a moonwalk.

Besieged, his expression solemn, asked in a tone reminiscent of an opera, "The sky has its shades of black and white, its clouds and clear skies. People leave their names behind, and wild geese leave their voices behind. I wonder where the immortal's hometown is? Leave behind your surname, Mo, and your noble name."

The man with the goat beard trembled all over and replied, "I live in Yanbo Ridge. I have been practicing Taoism for thousands of years, cultivating the truth and saving sentient beings. My name is Hu Tianlong. Oh my!"

Then Besi described his son's condition and pleaded for treatment. After the fox spirit-possessed Goatbeard inquired about Zheng Kun's birth date, he closed his eyes and shuddered for a moment, then suddenly opened his eyes and shouted, "There are more hypochondriac illnesses than real illnesses. It's a big deal if you're dealing with ghosts!"

Then he leaned forward and whispered a few words, and the beggar hurried over to listen. When he finished, he sang again in a cold voice: "Do remember my words, now it's time to ride back to the mountains! Qinglong Mountain, Baihu Mountain... Traveling three thousand miles at night, riding the wind is not difficult..." He straightened his body and fell backward, and the beggar hurried to catch him.

He didn't move for a while, and then he regained consciousness as if from a dream, but he looked very tired, as if he had just recovered from a serious illness, and he didn't even have the strength to move a finger.

Beazi wanted to give him some water, but he stopped him with his hand, looking righteous and awe-inspiring, “Don’t worry about me, just finish what you have to do.”

I could barely contain my laughter. This guy's acting was so convincing, it would be a shame if he wasn't an actor. But what happened next immediately stopped me from laughing.

Besie nodded, pulled out a black, leak-proof plastic bag like the ones used in seafood markets, dragged the monkey over, put the plastic over its head, and then tightened the bag around its neck with a hemp rope. Perhaps because it was tamed, or perhaps because it had no strength left, the monkey struggled only briefly. But after just a minute, its animal instinctively realized something was wrong. The air in the plastic bag was becoming increasingly thin.

It began to struggle desperately, erupting with unexpectedly powerful vitality. But even so, it couldn't break free from the hemp ropes. With its hands and feet bound behind its back, its every effort only caused it to bounce up and down like a large fish on a chopping block. After four or five minutes, the large movements ceased, leaving only resonant, subtle spasms that lingered for a long time.

The two men in the room watched the entire process with disdain. Then, Bezoar stepped forward and kicked the monkey in the stomach. After confirming it was dead, he grabbed a carpenter's saw and hacked away at the neck for two full minutes. The neck was broken, and blood flowed everywhere. I finally understood the reason for the foul odor that permeated the entire mansion. This perverse killing spree must have been repeated more than once. The old blood dried, and new blood poured in repeatedly, finally creating this unique stench.

I instinctively vomited, making a few noises. When I realized it, I quickly clamped my throat and forced it to stop. Fortunately, the two people in the room were busy with their own things and didn't notice the noise outside.

The beggar tied the black plastic bag tightly with a rope, replacing the original bag on the altar. He then wiped the sweat from his brow and breathed a sigh of relief. Meanwhile, the man with the goatee was busy burning talismans in the incense burner.

After the last flame in the incense burner died out, he solemnly picked up the incense burner and handed it to Besi. "Soak the ashes in water and give it to your son to drink three times a day for seven days."

Besie took it with slightly trembling fingers, "Drink it and everything will be fine, right?"

"Don't worry. The more spiritual the offering, the happier the immortal will be to accept it. You've invested so much money, it must be good."

I leaned against the cold outer wall, fingers pressed tightly against my mouth, afraid to let out a single sound. My initial excitement had completely dissipated. There was something fishy about these two people. This wasn't some minor superstitious activity; it might be directly connected to some underground cult.

The beggar thanked me profusely, then stood up to escort the goatee out. I waited for the sound of their footsteps to fade, still uneasy. I waited a full minute, making sure there was no movement, before lowering myself and moving along, hugging the corner. Only when I saw the concrete road did I let out a long sigh and straighten my back.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through the side of my face, and I found myself kneeling, slowly falling toward the roadside ditch. A yellow, irregular halo flickered before my eyes. The moist smell of wet earth reached my nose.

I vaguely saw a pair of dirty cotton boots stepping on the muddy ground beside my face. I raised my arms to protect the back of my head, but my limbs refused to obey me, as if they were paralyzed. The second blow drilled into my brain like an icicle, freezing my vision for an instant and blinding me.

…

I woke up and blinked in the darkness. My limbs couldn't move, like I was in a dream. But I was sure it wasn't a dream. When I tried to move my hands, I felt pain at my wrists, as if they were bound. I couldn't see it with my eyes because my hands and arms were tied behind my back.

The same goes for the legs.

I blinked a few times, my vision returning somewhat. I was sitting in a chair in Zheng Kun's living room. The furniture, moved to the corners, and the central altar remained in their original positions. Only the light had dimmed noticeably. How long had I been unconscious? Was it already night?

But then I realized something was wrong—the candles on the altar were still lit, but their flames had dimmed, turning almost gray. At the same time, breathing became increasingly difficult, and the air became thinner.