When I was a child, my grandmother told me that if a Jiangshi ever appeared before you, as long as you could shout its name, the creature wouldn't dare to bother you. We now face two problems: first, we don't know the name of the Scarface, although there should be a spirit tablet on the offering table, I can't see it peering through the crack in the door. Second, even if we knew the name, there’s no guarantee this trick would actually work.

When Wang Jue lowered the body from the rope snare, he had checked it; the deceased's cervical spine was broken from the excessive stretching during the hanging. Under such circumstances, common sense dictates that there was no possibility of feigned death or anything similar. If I hadn't experienced that scene in the villa, if I hadn't been locked away in the mental hospital as a schizophrenic, perhaps I would have doubted what I was seeing now. However, at this moment, I was utterly convinced that the Scarface standing beside the door was no normal person.

I cautiously pulled myself back from the gap in the door and gently nudged Wang Jue. He opened his eyes groggily, about to speak, but I clamped my hand over his mouth. I gestured for him to remain silent, and he nodded slightly.

We huddled close to the door, quietly observing the movements outside.

After a while, the sound of hacking with a sickle—piba piba—came from outside, followed by the clatter of wood falling—guang dang dang. A little later, the piba piba turned into a jingle—ding ling kuang lang—as if the iron plates and bowls used for offerings had been knocked onto the floor.

I craned my neck for a peek. Damn it, I nearly scared myself to death!

Scarface was wildly slashing around the room with the sickle; the coffin, the tables, the stools, the offerings—nothing escaped his destructive grasp, all chopped into a chaotic mess.

A thread of cold sweat traced down my back. If he managed to chop through the inner room door and rush in, Wang Jue and I would surely not be his match. No, it should be said we definitely wouldn't be his match. The only thing we had that could serve as a weapon was the crude earthenware teapot Ah Li had slipped to us that afternoon; perhaps it could withstand one attack, and if used well, even launch one counterattack. After that, it would be purely hand-to-hand combat.

Now, besides silently reciting Amitabha in my heart, there seemed to be no other recourse.

After some time, the hacking stopped. I summoned my courage and crept back to the crack in the door. I saw Scarface woodenly walking towards the courtyard, utterly disregarding the broken stools and rotten tables underfoot, kicking them aside with every step. At this moment, I clearly saw his entire back; his head was tilted unnervingly, hanging limply on his shoulder, confirming it had snapped during the hanging. Yet, it seemed to offer no impediment to his movement. I broke out in a sweat; this scene was more terrifying than any horror movie.

Fortunately, he didn't turn back, and his sound grew fainter as he moved away. I nudged the stunned Wang Jue beside me.

Once Scarface was far enough away, he asked in astonishment, "What was that thing?"

"A Jiangshi, or perhaps a lingering spirit." I wasn't entirely sure myself; I called it a Jiangshi because legends spoke of such things, and I called it a spirit because I’d heard Li Xiaoshu mention it.

We returned to sit on the floor, spending a sleepless night.

As the sky began to lighten, someone entered the courtyard. First, a sharp cry of terror, followed by a rush of hurried footsteps. Upon reaching the main hall, someone gasped, "Good heavens!" Then, the iron chains on the inner room door were undone.

Wang Jue and I kept our eyes closed, feeling a beam of light flood in the moment the door was opened. When we opened our eyes, the light was slightly harsh, and a pair of blue floral trousers wavered directly in front of us.