Scholar Han had been away for half a year, only returning home as the year drew to a close. One night, as his wife settled into bed, she suddenly heard footsteps approaching. She peered intently, and the coals in the brazier had flared up with astonishing intensity, illuminating the entire room as brightly as day. There stood an old woman, perhaps eighty or ninety years of age, her skin like wrinkled parchment, her back severely hunched, and only a few, sparse strands of white hair left upon her head.

The crone shuffled to the bedside and asked the wife, "Would you like some fentiao?" The wife was terribly frightened and dared not utter a sound. The old woman picked up a pair of iron chopsticks, stirred the embers in the brazier, and set a clay pot directly over the flames, pouring in clear water. In moments, the sound of boiling water erupted from the pot. The crone opened the front of her coarse garment and produced dozens of fentiao, dropping them into the simmering broth. She muttered to herself, "Once I find a pair of chopsticks, we can eat." Then she stepped out and vanished.

As soon as the wife confirmed the old woman was gone, she sprang from the bed in a single bound, dumped the entire contents of the clay pot—the fentiao—out behind the bamboo mat, and pulled the covers over her head to sleep. Not long after, the old woman returned, pressing her aggressively, "Where are my fentiao? My pot, where did they go?"

The wife, consumed by fear, began to wail loudly, waking the entire household, who rushed in to see what the commotion was. Only then did the old woman depart. The family lit torches and pulled back the bamboo mat to examine the floor; there were no fentiao to be seen, only several dozen black beetles.