It was rumored that on the night of the fifteenth day of the twelfth lunar month, precisely at the stroke of midnight, anyone who stepped outside, provided the weather was fair, would see the moon hanging bright and pure in the sky. Standing beneath it, one would look down to find no shadow whatsoever cast around them. For the entire year, only on this single night, at this precise moment, would a person standing under the moon be entirely shadowless, only for the shadow at one’s heels to gradually reappear shortly thereafter!

Although this phenomenon occurred but once a year, across a human lifespan spanning several decades, there were still dozens of nights when the moon was directly overhead. Why then did the folk saying persist: How many times in a lifetime does one see the moon directly overhead?

This stems from the fact that since ancient times, China was fundamentally an agrarian society, leading the vast majority of its people, for millennia, to rise with the sun and rest with the setting sun. Furthermore, in rural life, who didn't start cooking right after sunset and then go to bed? To be up at midnight was practically impossible. Thus, for the overwhelming majority of Chinese people, while the overhead moon arrived annually, actually rising to witness that exact moment—how many times could one manage it in a short, few-decade life? The Chinese harbored an indescribable sense of reverence for the moon. The Mid-Autumn Festival is connected to the moon, and seeing the moon directly overhead was another form of ode to it; yet, beyond merely appreciating its beauty, there always lingered a trace of mystery, a hint of the uncanny…

In 1961, agricultural collectivization was underway, and everything was in ruins, needing rebuilding.

Let us speak of a secluded paradise nestled in Liaoyang County, in the province of the Northeast, where two adjoining villages existed. The one to the left was called Xiushan Village, and the one to the right, Xiushui Village. Together, they housed perhaps two hundred souls. Since food is the primary concern of the people, and rural folk naturally depend on the bounty of their own fields, the villagers subsisted on the meager yield of their small plots, living a life of self-sufficiency. The location was indeed remote, but not entirely tedious. Every day, once their work was done, they would cheerfully carry their small stools outside, gathering in a circle beneath the great locust tree in the village square to bask in the sun, crack melon seeds, spin yarns, catching up on the news of distant relatives and neighbors—whose grandson was up to what, whose daughter-in-law was doing what—and the day would drift by. Reflecting on it, this simple life was rather pleasant.

But the story cannot end there; why?

Alas! This place was simply too far from the provincial capital! And with no town ahead and no shop behind, save for the small sundry store run by Big Head Wang at the village entrance, virtually all modern amenities were nonexistent. Nor was the store stocked with the dizzying array of goods found in our modern supermarkets; it mainly carried salt, Erguotou liquor, and candies for the children—in short, everything could be counted on ten fingers. To venture out required traversing several small hills and walking for several kilometers just to reach the paved, blue-stone road of the nearest town, meaning the villagers would only make that taxing journey if something truly urgent arose. Yet, precisely because of this poor access, the villagers had lived in relative peace for decades; even when the Japanese devils brutally oppressed the people of the Northeast, they never bothered to check if anyone was living deep in these mountain gullies. Now, it was 1950. The devils had been driven out, the Kuomintang had fled in disgrace to Taiwan, and across the entire mainland of China, the fervor of reconstruction was intense, with everything needing to be restored.

It was the fifteenth day of the first lunar month, yet the weather had turned devilish—alternating between rain and clouds, more unpredictable than Qingming Festival itself. Looking up, the pitch-black night offered no starlight, not even a sliver of a waning moon, nor the sound of chirping insects or croaking frogs.

In Xiushan Village, the bluestone street was fine and slick, reflecting rows of mottled, pale yellow light spots. It turned out that outside the straw blinds of every single household, a large, stark white lantern was strangely hung. Upon each lantern was inscribed the square character for ‘Mourning’ (). On this chilling night, the sight was rather unnerving.

Old Master Hu had passed away the night before the Lantern Festival. He had died in a choked, confused manner, and in his final breath, he hadn't even seen his grandson, who was studying in another city, for one last time. His family was prominent, and these lanterns were lit for him. Of course, this was a village custom: firstly, to ensure their former neighbor departed with some dignity; and secondly, to illuminate the path for the departed spirits, so that even as lonely ghosts, they could return home for the annual festivals, lest they feel lonelier than a widow…

The usually peaceful and tranquil little village seemed unnaturally silent that night.

The faint flicker of candlelight, a warm halo of light that swung with the rustle of the lantern paper in the cold wind, pulsed dimly. Occasionally, the cry of a wild dove would pierce the still night sky, inexplicably lending an air of eerie strangeness and gloom to the silence.

The ground, freshly washed by the rain, was utterly damp, and fine strands of drizzle mixed with the cool night wind constantly kissed the faces of passersby, bringing a bone-deep chill.

“This damned weather, it’s frighteningly cold,” a man’s angry curse suddenly broke the silence on the dark country road, accompanied by the sound of hurried, light footsteps, echoing strangely and repeatedly through the mountains.

“Hush! Keep your voice down!” The woman’s voice was urgent, perhaps realizing how abruptly the man had spoken. Her own voice was kept very low. “I think we should hurry up; today feels… very unusual.”

As she spoke, their footsteps noticeably quickened. After a moment, the man lowered his voice again. “Is it true what they say? That Old Master Hu really…” The rest of his sentence seemed veiled in unspoken apprehension.

“Absolutely true! I heard that Old Master Hu died mysteriously, just dropped dead inside his own room. Oh, the look of him when he died… Tsk, tsk!” The woman stopped short of finishing her thought.

“I heard that too. They say the old man was strangled by a ghost…” The man’s hushed tone carried a bizarre quality that made the listener’s scalp prickle. The woman quickly cut him off: “Ptooey, ptooey! May Buddha protect us, may Buddha protect us!”

The man scoffed dismissively. “What’s there to fear? It’s plain fact; his tongue was hanging out for a good distance.”

“You…” The woman became agitated, her voice unintentionally rising slightly. “Keep talking nonsense like that, and you can go stay at your mother’s house! I’m done serving you, out here in this pitch black…” With that, she slammed the few pounds of sticky rice cakes she was carrying as a gift into the man’s arms.

“Heh heh.” The man chuckled and fell silent. Both their footsteps began to quicken.

The silhouettes of the two figures gradually emerged from the deep night and stepped onto the bluestone path of Xiushan Village. Because of the untimely death and the sudden drop in temperature, even with their padded jackets on, their limbs felt stiff. Consequently, the surrounding homes had their doors tightly shut; some of the white lanterns lining the road had already been extinguished by the wind, and some even showed scorch marks where the paper had burned. Along the entire stretch of road, the only gentle light came from the two lanterns hanging at the entrance of the large courtyard directly ahead.

Whether it was a trick of the eye or not, the woman felt that the further they walked, the more menacing the wind became, as if it could seep into the marrow of their bones and straight into the center of their brains. She shivered, rubbing her stiff, cold arms. She glanced around at the tightly closed doors and window shutters on either side. She constantly felt as if unseen eyes were watching them from behind those dark window frames. And the two large red lanterns at the gate of the grand courtyard straight ahead looked exactly like the bloodshot eyes of a monster, while the half-open courtyard gate gaped like the creature’s monstrous maw.