Chapter 67: A Visitor in the Night

The first day of the lunar New Year is the most taboo time for someone to die. According to custom, anyone who passes away on this day cannot have a funeral, nor can the family hold a mourning feast, and coffins must not remain in the house. The deceased must be dressed in everyday clothes and laid on the bed, wrapped in a quilt as if merely sleeping.

Firstly, news of a death on New Year's Day is unpleasant. Secondly, it’s unreasonable to ask others to help deal with a funeral during the festive season. Usually, families wait until after the fifth day of the New Year before formally announcing the death.

But this was my granduncle’s house, so the matter still had something to do with us. Early in the morning, my eldest and second cousins came storming into our courtyard, demanding answers from my father.

“What are you shouting about?” I pushed open the courtyard gate and addressed the two cousins outside, both wearing black mourning ribbons on their arms. “I hate being embarrassed on New Year's Day as much as anyone. Next time, remember to bring something when you come for a visit. What are you doing here empty-handed? Causing trouble? If you say you’re guests, you’re not welcome.”

“Listen to him!” One turned to my mother. “Does your son have any respect for elders? Last night, he dared to hit his uncles. Just because he’s been out in the world a couple of years and has some money, does he think he can do whatever he wants?”

“Uncles?” I laughed. “You think you deserve that title? Don’t talk to me about distant relatives. Either get out, or crawl back home.”

“You brat!” The second cousin, stung by my words, tried to swing at me, but my father caught his fist with one hand and shoved him, sending him staggering to the ground.

My father was notorious for his temper—he once chased off the Red Guards with a machete. He didn’t care for that branch of the family, and now, protecting his son, he let loose. “Go about your business. I’m embarrassed for you, all covered in filth! If it weren’t for your aunt, you two wouldn’t leave here today.”

My eldest cousin was famous for his shamelessness. Hearing my father, he sat down on the stone block at our gate, crossed his legs, and declared, “Fine, we’ll stay. If you don’t hand over that troublemaker, you can forget about enjoying the New Year!”

“And if I don’t?” my father asked.

“One hundred thousand yuan. The body’s still at home, so you have to pay burial fees first.”

So these two had come to extort us. I lost my temper. “Get lost! Pair of scoundrels, he fell into the cesspit and drowned—what’s that got to do with me? If I call you cousin, that’s out of politeness. If you push your luck, I’ll call you grandson! Coming here to demand money—did your brains get filled with manure too?”

“Ha, you little bastard! Fine, today I won’t even claim to be your elder. One hundred thousand yuan. Otherwise, you deal with the consequences!” With a wave of his hand, the crowd parted, and four young men with white mourning cloths tied around their heads carried a coffin to our gate and set it down. They were notorious troublemakers from their village.

The crowd began to murmur. No matter the era or place, this was the lowest, most disgraceful tactic imaginable. My father’s face turned the color of liver. In a cold voice, he said, “One last chance—take the coffin away, kneel and knock your heads three times, and I’ll consider it settled.”

My eldest cousin grew more arrogant as the crowd grew, knowing our family’s reputation would be ruined. Puffing smoke, he pointed at my father. “Old Xia, one hundred thousand yuan. Not a penny less!”

“Fine, wait here. I’ll get it for you.” My father barked at us, “Get inside, all of you!”

Perhaps people forget easily. That branch of the family had no idea whom they’d provoked. A minute later, my father strode toward the gate, carrying a homemade shotgun. My eldest cousin saw him from afar and shouted, “What are you doing? Don’t do anything crazy! Murder is a crime! Everyone’s watching! Hey, hey, don’t come over!”

He was already scrambling away. The crowd scattered quickly—they weren’t stupid; once a gun was involved, no one wanted to stick around.

If it were anyone else, people might try to intervene. But my father wasn’t bluffing.

With a bang and a cloud of black smoke, the shotgun’s noise was immense, though its power wasn’t great—it was loaded with iron shot meant for rabbits and pheasants. My eldest cousin hadn’t run more than ten meters before he collapsed with a scream, blood blossoming on his backside.

Unhurried, my father reloaded the shotgun, packing powder from a bullhorn into the barrel and tamping it down with an iron rod. He poured in more shot and raised the gun again. My second cousin, seeing this, bolted.

“If you take another step, I’ll break your legs!” my father roared. The scoundrel froze, trembling.

“Take away what you brought, kneel down, and apologize. And you lot!” My father gestured at the coffin-bearers.

They dropped to their knees, each stammering their innocence—who wasn’t afraid of death? The one groaning on the ground would probably be unable to sit for a month.

A row of men knelt obediently, and after knocking their heads three times, they carried the coffin away faster than rabbits. My father slammed the door shut, turned, and slapped me. “You’ve brought nothing but bad luck!”

I didn’t retort; I couldn’t. Having trouble come to your door during the New Year was shameful. That slap left me so frustrated I refused to leave my room until dinner.

My mother, still caring for me, brought food to my room in the evening. The fat guy brought some liquor, and we drank together—before we knew it, we’d finished two bottles of white spirit. Drowsy, I collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

Late at night, nearly dawn, I felt cold and tried to pull the quilt but couldn’t move. The struggle between cold and wanting to pull the covers lasted over a minute before my mind snapped awake. I tried to move my hands, but nothing happened.

“Sleep paralysis!” That was the first word that popped into my mind. My whole body felt leaden, utterly immobile; I could feel my muscles straining, but nothing responded. I tried to control my breathing. Slowly, I managed to open my eyes, and then, with effort, move my neck. When I turned to the right, I discovered another “person” in my room.

I couldn’t be sure if it was truly a person, but he was drinking with the fat guy. I tried to call the fat guy’s name, but my throat was blocked; I wanted to warn him, but was powerless.

I struggled to control my body, inching my head toward the bedside. About ten centimeters from my eyes was a glass of water. That ten centimeters felt like the hardest journey of my life—I stretched my neck, stuck out my tongue, inching closer and closer...

With a sudden crash, the glass fell to the floor. Instantly, the paralysis vanished, and my body responded. I sprang upright, and the words I’d been holding back burst out: “Fatty, what the hell are you doing?”

My shout was so loud the village dogs started barking, and my father came with a flashlight to check the situation. Yet, when I turned on the light, the fat guy was slumped over the table, sound asleep, the mess hinting at the wild drinking earlier.

No one else was there! Had I imagined it?

No—on the seat where I’d sat earlier, there was a white candle, its tip already melted away. Behind it lay a neatly arranged set of dishes and chopsticks. I was certain I couldn’t have arranged them so precisely in my drunken state.

“Hey, Fatty, wake up!” I slapped his face, but he just grunted and toppled to the floor, snoring again. Seeing there was no hope, I threw a quilt over him and went back to bed.

The next morning at breakfast, before I could mention last night, the fat guy spoke first. “Yi, I drank too much last night and had a dream—so vivid. I forgot everything before and after the drinking, except that dream. Isn’t that strange?”

Afraid he’d say something inappropriate for the New Year, I cut him off. “Don’t talk nonsense. What’s strange about dreams?”

“No, I dreamed your granduncle came drinking with me!” He said seriously, even telling my father, “Uncle Six, he looked just like his portrait, right in Yi’s room.”

“You dreamed of him?” Instantly, I recalled the figure I’d seen last night. My eyes... Could it be Fatty really drank with him?

“Is that so?” my father replied blandly. “Then drink, as long as he doesn’t cause trouble.”

“But he told me his children were all unfilial, and he cried. Afterward, he said that since he raised them without teaching them well, he might as well take them all with him. What do you think that means?”

I choked on my porridge—Fatty really had no sense of timing. My father’s face turned as dark as iron, about to explode, when someone outside shouted, “Old Six, something’s happened again! Your cousin’s family lost another member last night...”