Fleeing the country was something utterly unimaginable for us back then, yet when Uncle Ye said it, it sounded as casual as taking a business trip to another city.

Of course, we later learned that Ye Wenmo hadn't left through any legitimate channels; it was just one of those things that couldn't be explained in a few words.

As for why I still remember that experience, it was entirely because within that very temple, we encountered not only terrifying events but also received unprecedented aid.

I no longer recall the layout of the temple clearly; I only remember there were two ancient trees in the courtyard—very old trees—and the main hall housing the Buddha statue was quite dilapidated. At night, you could see the moonlight filtering through the gaps between the roof tiles, and occasionally, a large, fat rat would dart across the floor.

After talking with Uncle Ye, the terror in Pi Hou'er's and my heart reached an extreme. According to him, after moving away from that place, first Uncle Ye’s father, and then Ye Wenmo’s mother—his wife—died sequentially, and the cause of death was shockingly being scared to death.

Uncle Ye spoke with such tranquility, as if recounting a mundane event, possessing the demeanor of a high monk. But Pi Hou'er and I certainly didn't feel capable of remaining calm.

Pi Hou'er cut straight to the chase: "Why did you come here?"

Uncle Ye's expression turned sorrowful: "For Wenmo."

According to Uncle Ye, he believed his father and his wife were both killed by a ghost, and next in line were he and his son. Therefore, like us, Uncle Ye was also searching for a way to resolve the haunting.

By a stroke of providence, he met the abbot of this current temple, who saved him and brought both him and Ye Wenmo to this place.

Either this temple, despite its decay, possessed the ability to protect them, or perhaps the distance rendered the ghost incapable of reaching them. In any case, once Uncle Ye and Ye Wenmo arrived here, their lives gradually settled into peace.

I couldn't quite grasp it: if this place guaranteed safety, why did Ye Wenmo leave, even choosing to go abroad?

Uncle Ye shook his head. It wasn't entirely safe even here; at least, when he was with his son, this place wasn't entirely secure. That’s why he finally decided to let Ye Wenmo leave the temple.

The old abbot's original intention was for Ye Wenmo to get as far away from that place as possible; he never expected Ye Wenmo to choose to go overseas.

"Why?" I still didn't understand. "Where did he go?"

"He should have reached somewhere like Thailand or Malaysia," Uncle Ye sounded uncertain.

Pi Hou'er and I both gasped, sucking in a cold breath. Thinking of such distant places was no easy feat back then; I genuinely couldn't fathom how Ye Wenmo managed to get there.

I suspected Uncle Ye didn't know the details either; when this topic came up, he could only manage a helpless, bitter smile.

"He sent a postcard once," Uncle Ye said.

The postcard was mailed to the post office in the nearest town; communication in this area was extremely inconvenient. Pi Hou'er and I looked at the postcard Uncle Ye produced. Apart from a vague place name, it contained no substantial content.

Before Pi Hou'er and I could examine the postcard more closely, a series of sounds—like weeping mixed with laughter—suddenly seemed to erupt outside.

At first, Pi Hou'er and I both assumed it was the cry of some wild beast in the mountains, but upon hearing it, Uncle Ye's face went ashen with shock. He bolted out of the room and ran toward the main hall.

Pi Hou'er and I were startled and quickly followed close behind him.

When we reached the courtyard, Pi Hou'er and I both felt gusts of cold wind surrounding us, swirling fallen leaves, dust, and dry grass on the ground, forming eddies of light breezes.

The closed main gate of the temple began to bang with muffled thuds—peng, peng—one after another, as if someone were constantly pushing against it. Though the sound wasn't loud, we heard it with perfect clarity.

Someone was outside the gate?

I was about to ask Uncle Ye, but he simply threw back a clipped order: "Don't mind anything, don't move."

Then, he charged into the main hall.

A few candles were lit inside. The faint candlelight allowed us to vaguely discern the scene: on the floor before the Buddha statue, the elderly abbot sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion, hands pressed together, eyes half-closed, his expression exceptionally grave.

"Master..." Uncle Ye called softly.

The old monk remained silent for a long moment before saying faintly, "What is due to come will come. Stay here with me."

After that, he paid us no further attention.

Pi Hou'er and I felt quite at a loss. Uncle Ye took a few meditation cushions and gestured for us to sit down too.

The hall doors were not closed. The wind from the courtyard occasionally blew inside, making the candlelight flicker, causing the hall to swing between light and shadow. The shifting light and dark hues involuntarily created a sense of agitation.

I expected the abbot to chant some sutras for us, but instead, I only heard Uncle Ye instruct us to close our eyes and not look outside.

I don't know about Pi Hou'er, but for me, closing my eyes and not looking was manageable at first, but gradually I couldn't resist squinting and sneaking glances around.

The sound of the wind outside, barely audible at first, grew into a roar, like the biting, harsh cold wind of the deepest winter months. Especially since we all heard a woman's voice mixed within the wind, sounding like wailing and lamenting. The branches and leaves of the old trees outside swayed violently in the wind, looking ferocious and wild.

I shut my eyes tight in terror. The wind pressed the candlelight down to only a faint glow, rendering it useless. At that moment, I suddenly noticed a strange phenomenon: no matter how intense the wind was in the courtyard, it didn't fully rush into the hall; only a few cold drafts swirled within the structure.

With my eyes tightly shut, darkness naturally enveloped me, yet my mind couldn't stop racing with chaotic thoughts. I can't recall what exactly I was thinking then, only a vague impression—a feeling of drowsiness, as if I were drifting in and out of consciousness.

The only thing I can clearly remember is a scream—a sudden, piercing shriek that made me almost jump up involuntarily.

Alas, I wanted to jump up, but my body wouldn't move at all. However, I wasn't conscious of that then; my senses were too muddled, mainly because the scream was so utterly horrifying, as if it had erupted directly from a terrifying hell. After hearing that cry, I couldn't even imagine my own situation, as the sharp, shrill sound seemed to seize my heart in a vice grip, or perhaps the person making the sound was having their entire heart ripped out.

Immediately following, I suddenly saw light.

Even though my eyes were tightly shut, I could see a luminescence not far in front of me. It was just a patch of light, nothing distinct appearing, but looking at that light, I inexplicably felt pain.

Now, trying to recall that sensation, I still feel my heart pound; it’s impossible to truly describe, because it was a tangible agony. In that light, I saw myself, as if facing a mirror, except the me on the other side was enduring various tortures.

When I saw the flash of a blade, I could genuinely feel the sting of steel slicing across my skin. When I saw a club raised, I felt the crushing, bone-deep agony of every heavy blow…

My body involuntarily curled into a tight ball, as if trying to bury my head in my chest. My eyes opened and closed repeatedly, but the result was the same: what I saw and what I felt remained vividly clear.

I asked myself over and over: "Why is this happening..."