We had seen hanged ghosts before, but never a corpse suspended mid-air, head down. Only the upper half was visible; the body was caked in earth, as if it had just crawled from a grave. The nose and mouth were nearly rotted away, a large chunk of the jaw was missing, and the face was a mass of pale maggots, save for the eyes, which shone with uncanny vitality. Yet, this vitality was unlike that of the living; the corpse's eyes were fixed, unmoving, catching the light of the illumination flare with a dead, straight gaze fixed directly upon us.

Fatty and I were both taken aback. Though our legs were threatening to cramp up, we managed to brace ourselves, using our scabbards to hold the inverted zombie's head against the wall. In his panic, Fatty tried to draw his pistol, but I kept my eyes locked on the dead thing's stare and urged him urgently, "Keep looking at its eyes, don't you dare blink."

The zombie hanging from the ceiling exuded a stench like a pile of rotting, briny fish. Its claws, gnarled like old tree roots, reached out as if to strike. Fatty and I pushed together with our scabbards against its head, pinning it to the wall, but the zombie possessed ferocious strength; we strained with all our might just to hold it in check.

The face of the corpse that had burrowed from the ceiling mud was less than half intact; white maggots crawled in and out of its lipless mouth. Although its gaze was vacant, when the beam of the engineer's flare hit it, a sudden, sharp gleam erupted, and its strength intensified. Even through the scabbard wedged against the wall, its long, curved fingernails managed to snag Fatty's shoulder.

Fatty panicked, "Old Hu, didn't you say there were no ghosts? What the hell is this thing?" I replied that I had no idea. The clothes it wore didn't resemble those of the prisoners kept here; it looked like some spectral remnant of the Warlord Era returning to haunt the flesh.

A strange dread settled in our hearts. As we spoke, Fatty reached for his Type 14 pistol. Seeing this, I wasn't sure what we were facing—how could a being with only half a head still attack? Moreover, the mud and maggots on the corpse suggested it had risen from a grave, yet its eyes were sharper than those of any living person, resembling the eerie gaze of a night cat.

I held the scabbard with every ounce of my strength. Seeing Fatty reach for the gun, I thought that even if we shot two clear holes through its remaining half-head, it probably wouldn't stop this thing from lunging. This was undoubtedly a zhà shī (risen corpse). I quickly told him, "Don't use that 'Turtle's Box' [slang for the pistol]; it won't do any good. Keep staring at its eyes—absolutely do not blink."

In the mountains of Northeast China, the phenomenon of the zhà shī is incredibly common; you could find someone to tell you several different versions, each citing different causes and remedies, making it impossible to discern truth from fiction. Among the various zombie legends I knew, they could be categorized broadly. One type, covered in hair that might resemble animal bristles, was called a xiōng shī (fierce corpse). The long hair also led the folk to call it shà, which implies ferocity. This transformation was caused by the unique soil conditions underground. If undisturbed, this type of corpse would not rise up to attack.

Another type was very similar to the first, where the zombie developed a layer of short, dense fuzz, like mold on aged steamed buns. This wasn't technically a zombie but a method of tomb protection, often occurring when a grave was dug directly into a fox den. A talisman was placed in the coffin; if grave robbers tried to steal valuables, the Fox Immortal would be drawn to the corpse. Even if the thieves escaped, the Fox Immortal would cling to the dead body and relentlessly torment them until they died—a truly venomous and malicious trick. To counter this, one needed to carry realgar wine and the head of a male chicken to scare away the Fox Immortal attached to the corpse.

The third, and most common type, had a dark purplish body, stiff as iron or stone. If a body showed this change before its final sealing, in addition to keeping a vigil lamp lit and having someone constantly attend to it, its feet had to be bound with red cord, called a 'foot-tying rope.' If the lamp extinguished or a wild cat brushed against the corpse, it would instantly zhà shī, gaining immense strength and capable of sinking its ten fingers deep into flesh upon contact. The prescribed method to deal with this was to first prop the zombie up with a bamboo pole and then cover it with a fishing net and burn it.

Grave robbers, the Mojin Xiaowei, always used dried black donkey hooves to deal with zombies. However, we didn't even have black donkey hooves, let alone fishing nets or bamboo poles. While we weren't completely unarmed, possessing only an empty scabbard, we could only momentarily brace the rotting corpse against the wall. Over time, we wouldn't be able to hold it. The situation we faced seemed to be that of a decaying corpse whose eyes wouldn't close—a sign that a deep-seated grievance remained at the time of death. Seeing the decaying corpse staring straight ahead, I recalled an ancient method: it was rumored that a zombie opens its eyes by borrowing the breath of the living. If a living person stares back, eye to eye, the yáng energy counters the yīn energy, suppressing the cold, deathly shī qì (corpse energy) so it cannot act. If the living person blinks even slightly, or their gaze wanders, the yáng energy disperses and weakens, and the zombie seizes the opportunity to attack.

With this in mind, I quickly fixed my gaze on the rotting corpse’s eyes. But one person cannot maintain a direct stare for very long. I quickly instructed Fatty to do the same. We took turns locking eyes with the zombie, daring not to relax for a moment, stuck in a stalemate where we could neither advance nor retreat.

But the strength of the rotting corpse, covered in maggots and mud, did not diminish. Its white, nail-tipped fingers curled toward us. Facing the corner, seeing the danger, we both forgot about staring contests and ducked simultaneously to avoid the strike. The nails were like steel hooks; whoosh—they swept over our heads, scoring several deep marks into the brick wall.

I shouted to Fatty, "Staring isn't working! This thing is probably not a zhà shī. Let's push it away and run..." But the moment we let go, the rotting corpse would leap upon us. In our desperation, we couldn't break free, and one person couldn't hold it alone. It was impossible to reach for a weapon. Soon, sweat beaded on both our foreheads.

As the saying goes, "Man relies on courage, the tiger on its might." Initially, our confusion halved our courage. But after about half a minute of deadlock, we slowly regained our senses. We saw that the corpse was formidable. Held by the silver-wrapped scabbard jammed against its head, one end of the scabbard was deeply embedded in its skull from our pushing, yet its skin was as tough and resilient as leather; no amount of force could pierce its head. The wounds on Fatty and me, which had stopped bleeding, reopened from the excessive strain. I realized that continuing this stalemate meant certain death, yet escaping seemed impossible. A flash of inspiration struck me.

Using the tight confines of the corner, Fatty and I swiftly rotated the end of the scabbard we held, wedging it firmly between the two brick walls. This action effectively pinned the ceiling-dangling corpse in the corner. Even if it could break free, it wouldn't happen quickly. Seizing the opportunity to escape the stalemate, we didn't dare linger. We turned to leave. The moment we shifted our feet, several pale, bony hands shot out from the thick mud covering the floor of the brick chamber, gripping our ankles.

In the darkness, Fatty and I were completely unprepared and immediately thrown to the ground, landing with mouths full of mud. Looking down, we saw that the arms emerging from the mud were withered and white, crawling with maggots, flailing and grasping with long, sharp nails. It turned out this huge brick chamber was filled with corpses buried beneath the floor.

I kicked off the grasping hands and scrambled, using the leverage to inch toward the iron door. But who knew how many rotting bodies lay beneath the dirt? It seemed the exposure to our yáng energy had caused them all to zhà shī at once. They began crawling out in heaps from the earth. Amidst this chaos, I thought I heard a louder disturbance from the depths of the chamber—something immense, beyond imagination, stirring beneath the soil layer. The sound wasn't one a rotting corpse could make. The noise grew louder, like ripping silk, a grating sound like tearing coarse cloth.

Fatty and I couldn't even manage to stand; we could only use our hands and feet to push off the heads and arms of the emerging corpses to crawl forward. We were almost at the iron door, so close to escape, but after crawling two steps out, we were dragged back three by the grasping arms in the mud. We were actually moving further away from the exit.

We tried to shout for Old Sheepskin outside the iron door, but our voices were drowned out by the colossal noise behind us. Waves of despair surged from our depths. This brick kiln felt like the very entrance to hell—once inside, there was no leaving, slowly dragged by hungry ghosts into the eighteenth level of Avici Hell. Thinking of this sent chills through us like dousing ice water; we likely wouldn't live to see the day of the world revolution's dividends.

Just as despair peaked, a flash of light appeared before our eyes. It turned out Old Sheepskin, hearing the commotion from the chamber, had cautiously entered with his lantern to investigate. He was notoriously superstitious about ghosts and spirits, but seeing Fatty and me in distress, he couldn't stand by. Puffing his beard out in agitation, he swung his blade. The edge of the Kangxi Treasure Sword sliced through several arms tangled around my legs. My feet felt free, and I instantly pushed up with my hands and got to my feet, then hauled Fatty up.

Old Sheepskin was momentarily stunned by the massive sound echoing from the depths of the kiln, standing there wanting to see what kind of thing was making the noise. I wanted to yell at him to run, but my mouth opened uselessly. Fatty and I had no choice but to shove and drag him, and the three of us frantically scrambled out of the iron door. Behind us, we heard a continuous, booming sound, like an old tree being uprooted. The chamber absorbed sound so effectively that the entire underground tunnel vibrated. However, the engineer’s flare only illuminated a few steps ahead, so we could only hear the sound, not see the shape. At that moment, we had no time to speculate or observe what colossal entity was breaking ground. Since we were all injured, quick escape was impossible. Our only recourse was to slam shut the iron door of 'Zero' Chamber, hoping that this exceptionally thick, heavy door could hold it back.