The entrance to Ghost Howl Ridge lay behind a mass grave three li north of the village.
By the time I arrived, it was pitch black. The moon was hidden by clouds. Only my lantern lit a small patch of ground. The mass grave was overgrown with weeds taller than a man, mounds of graves packed closely together. Some tombstones had fallen; others were flattened, leaving only unmarked mounds.
Grandpa had written of this place in his Records. Those buried here were all yin walkers of Yin Village who had died before sixty. Three generations of the Chen family, plus several other clans—seventeen people in total.Their graves bore no names, only blank stone tablets. For yin walkers could not leave names after death; otherwise, underworld officials would track their souls and drag them away.
Yin walkers served the underworld in life. In death, the underworld settled all accounts.
As I crossed the grave field, I felt something following me—not footsteps, but a heavy stare. When I stopped, it vanished. When I walked, it returned.
I drew the Seven-Coin Sword and held it tight, continuing forward.
At the end of the graves, I finally saw the entrance to Ghost Howl Ridge: a gap between two ancient scholar trees. The trees were so old three men could not embrace them, their knotted bark resembling twisted human faces.
Between them, gray-white mist poured down the mountain but halted at the foot, churning at the entrance, refusing to spread outward.
Grandpa had said this mist was the gate of Ghost Howl Ridge. Entering was easy. Leaving was harder than climbing to heaven.
I stepped into the mist and was instantly swallowed by white. The lantern light turned murky, illuminating only two or three steps ahead.
Beneath my feet was not dirt, but smooth stone slabs, worn by centuries of footsteps. Black moss grew in the cracks, soft as living flesh, making me uncomfortable.
I took out the guide talisman and stuck it to the lantern. The paper burned slowly, its smoke sinking downward instead of rising, creeping along the ground. The smoke marked my path back; following it, I could find my way out.
After walking about the time of an incense stick, I heard crying—the cry of an infant, near and far, as if ahead or behind. When I stopped, it stopped. When I walked, it resumed, sharp and piercing, chilling my heart.
Grandpa had written in his Records: infant cries in the mountains were rarely human. Often they were imitated by mountain spirits luring people into traps, or starved ghosts deceiving women to seize their bodies.
I bit the tip of my tongue, held a mouthful of blood, and kept going. The cries grew closer. Soon, under an old tree, I saw the source.
It was no baby. It was a lump of flesh in human shape, no limbs, only a head and a mouth split to the ears. It crawled toward me using a long pink tongue, letting out infant wails with every movement.
I spat blood onto the Seven-Coin Sword. The seven coins glowed deep red. Runes emerged from the rust. The creature froze at the light, its tongue thrashing uneasily."Get back," I said coldly.
Its mouth opened and closed, no longer making baby sounds, but an old, hoarse voice.
"Chen Jiu… your grandfather owed me. You will repay him…"
"My grandfather owed no one."
I swung the sword. Before the blade even touched it, the creature burst into black mist and melted into the mountain fog. Before vanishing, it left one last sentence:
"Ghost Howl Ridge is no place for you. Go further, and you will regret it!"
"I already regret not coming sooner," I muttered, sheathing the sword and pressing on without hesitation.