Chapter Sixty-Five: Ghostly Voices on New Year's Eve

Time flew by so quickly; it had already been two years since I last returned to my hometown for the New Year. Seeing that my career was finally picking up and my finances were no longer so tight, I decided to go home that year. Fatty, who had no family of his own, naturally came along with me.

The green train from Guangzhou to Hangzhou took four days and three nights. Although the Spring Festival travel rush wasn't as extreme as it is now, it was crowded enough to press people into submission. Dragging bundles and bags, we returned once more to Hong Village. The village looked just as it had years ago, but I was no longer the naïve youth I once was.

Heavy gold chain, flashy gold watch, slicked-back hair shining with mousse, black leather shoes and a single-button suit, V-neck wool sweater over a crisp white shirt with a red tie, a briefcase clutched in my hand—this was the standard look of the business bosses of the last century. In those days, our appearance was both conspicuous and dazzling.

News of the young man from the Xia family making his fortune outside spread everywhere in the village, and I basked quietly in the attention. Of course, I never told them I was just a junk collector; a trendy phrase was all it took to impress them: resource recycling and development!

According to local custom, the morning of Lunar New Year’s Eve is spent visiting ancestral graves. Preparations must be made early: three meat dishes, three vegetarian dishes, paper money, gold ingots, incense, candles, and firecrackers. At the gravesite, you tell the departed relatives that the New Year has come, that you are here to visit, offer them good food and drink, burn the paper money, bow your head, and light the firecrackers—this is how the dead are celebrated for the New Year.

That year was special; not only did I go to the graves in the morning, but I had to return again at night. Why was that?

Hong Village had another custom—one common throughout northwest Zhejiang and many parts of China—called “burning pure incense.”

What is burning pure incense? On the first Lunar New Year’s Eve after someone is buried, their family, relatives, especially the younger generation, must go to the grave at midnight—what people call “the hour of the year”—to burn paper money and incense. This offering is called “pure incense.”

Burning pure incense is a solemn custom. In my third year after moving south to Guangzhou, my granduncle passed away. Communication was difficult, so I received the news long after his funeral and missed seeing him off.

Truthfully, my granduncle’s family had only ordinary ties with mine. We didn’t visit often; when my grandfather was alive, he would drop by regularly, but after he passed, the visits dwindled. I remember as a child, my granduncle brought me apples, Red Fuji—then a luxury snack.

That New Year’s Eve, heavy snow fell. Hearing my father’s words, I thought perhaps I should go burn pure incense that night. My father, suffering from years of hardship and severe arthritis, couldn’t bear the cold. Anyway, the ritual was mostly a formality—showing up was what mattered, as we were all relatives.

Father didn’t object, only warned me that the path was difficult, the grave high and lonely in a mountain hollow.

I went, and Fatty wanted to come too. He had no interest in staying home with my parents to watch Zhao Zhongxiang. Burning pure incense involved a rule: the deceased’s children must arrive at the grave before the guests, kneeling to welcome every visitor who comes to burn incense, a sign of family virtue.

My granduncle’s family had one son and two daughters, all grown and established. I called them uncle and aunt, though they were little more than childhood acquaintances whose faces I could hardly recall. Their village was ten miles from ours, so Fatty and I chose to walk. We didn’t waste the trip; we entertained ourselves by setting off firecrackers everywhere, tossing them into courtyards, animal pens, even latrine pits, running off amid curses and laughter, making the journey pass quickly.

We left at ten, arriving at their house near midnight. Only my grandaunt and two little children were home. I introduced myself as the Xia family from Hong Village. She welcomed us, brought out fruit and cigarettes, and began to cry, recounting the misery of my granduncle’s passing, how he left her alone.

Indeed, I’d heard from my mother that my granduncle drowned in a latrine pit.

In rural villages, every household had a manure pit. After fermenting, the contents were spread as fertilizer in the fields. With many people and livestock, fertilizer was scarce, so pits were dug deep. My granduncle, they said, fell in while carrying manure, vanished beneath the surface without a struggle. It was his daughter-in-law, coming to use the latrine, who saw a face looking up at her from below and cried out, “Help! Someone’s grabbing me!”

After the shout, she realized something was off. Who would soak in a latrine just to peep at her? And the face looked familiar…

When they pulled him out, my granduncle was long dead. They tossed him in the river to wash before burial. It was a wretched end. Fatty and I didn’t linger, feeling sympathy for their hardship. I left a red envelope for my grandaunt, though she protested, I placed it on the table and left.

Before leaving, I glanced at the portrait hanging in the main hall. The old man’s face held an indescribable expression, and it seemed I wasn’t alone in feeling unsettled. As we walked out, Fatty muttered, “Xia Yi, your granduncle’s portrait is creepy. If that thing hung in my house, I’d never sleep at night.”

I had my doubts, too, but replied, “Come on, with your strong yang energy, even ghosts would flee.”

Fatty went on, “Don’t you think his eyes are too wide? Like he wants to eat someone.”

“Stop it. We’re about to pay our respects. No need to imagine horror movie scenes, especially on New Year’s Eve—it’s bad luck.”

“Fine, but your village customs are interesting—keeping vigil with the dead, counting years for someone buried in mud. Are we supposed to drink with him, too? In this freezing weather, I wouldn’t mind warming up.”

The more you respond to him, the more he goes on. I replied irritably, “Enough, if you want, stay and drink.”

Fatty chuckled, “Alright, I will.”

“Is there any liquor?”

He slapped his forehead. “Oh, I forgot to bring any.” But just then, he suddenly grabbed my arm and asked, “Was that you speaking just now?”

“I was about to ask!” I’d heard the words, “Is there any liquor?”—drawn out, clear, as if someone whispered right in my ear. At first, I thought Fatty was talking to himself, but it was obviously two different voices. It wasn’t him, nor me. Who was it?

“Who!” Fatty and I shouted in unison. The surroundings were silent, save for the occasional howl of wind and distant firecrackers. Unknowingly, we’d reached halfway up the mountain, among a grove of tea bushes scattered with graves. Focused on the trek, we hadn’t noticed before, but now, looking around, the scene was eerily unsettling.

If only one of us had heard it, it might have been an auditory hallucination—but we both heard it clearly. Fatty’s face turned pale. I scanned our surroundings. I was certain: tonight, there were no spirits nearby. If there were, I’d see them.

I comforted Fatty, “It’s nothing, forget it. Let’s keep going.” I knew that another mile ahead was my granduncle’s new grave, the family burial ground of my great-grandparents. I’d been there as a child.

Fatty took a deep breath, grabbed a handful of snow as if to steady his nerves, and tossed it away, saying, “If you want to drink, ask nicely. Stop playing ghost—if you piss me off, I’ll break your coffin tomorrow!”

“Want!” Another clear reply, right beside us, unmistakably close.

Fatty and I were stunned. Something was definitely here!

Back in the wildman settlement, Cha Wenbin had told me I had the gift of seeing the spirits, even the underworld messengers. If anything ghostly approached, I should be able to see it. Over the years, I’d seen plenty; those things usually kept their distance unless provoked. If you saw them, pretend you didn’t, and I’d grown used to it.

As the saying goes: people fear ghosts a little, ghosts fear people a lot. Humans carry three fires—two on the shoulders, one atop the head. The stronger the yang energy, the brighter the fire. Yin and yang counter each other; ghosts are born of yin and resentment, and proximity to yang fire weakens them. Usually, ghosts avoid the living. But tonight, Fatty and I heard the voice twice, yet I saw nothing. Why?

I signaled Fatty, and he understood immediately. He wasn’t easily frightened. Clearing his throat, he said, “Sir, if you want a drink, we’ll buy some after we finish our business—top shelf, best dishes. But we have something to do right now, so please let us pass.”

After he spoke, the voice didn’t come again. We waited for the time it took to smoke a cigarette, made sure the ghostly presence was gone, then continued up the mountain...

Good night.