Chinesisches Neujahr

Kapitel 1

abandoned village apartment

Cai Jun

Section 1: A Strange and Unusual Tale

"I know where the deserted village is." This was the title of a post on a BBS. Clicking on it revealed a Flash animation—against a suffocatingly gloomy backdrop, turbid waves crashed against a desolate shore, and below the hillside lay a deathly silent village, its many black rooftops arranged haphazardly. On a cliff overlooking the village, a woman in white stood in the distance, her hair and clothes tossed about by the wind, accompanied by the most famous song from Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical *The Phantom of the Opera*. It turned out this Flash animation was created by a netizen after reading my novel. Was this their vision of the deserted village? The familiar melody of *The Phantom of the Opera* played over and over again in the Flash animation. I took a deep breath. Since my novella *The Deserted Village* was published in *Sprout* magazine, my life had been disrupted by it. And because of this novella, an extremely mysterious figure had entered my life—as for who this mysterious figure was, I will tell you in detail later. Besides this mysterious figure, several other significant events happened around me, which still send shivers down my spine when I think about them. These events were so unbelievable that when I told many journalist friends about them, not a single one believed me; they all thought it was from my latest novel. I really regret not having a DV camera with me at the time to record everything on video, making a chilling and heartbreaking documentary. Otherwise, who would believe such bizarre things? So, just consider this a strange tale you overheard while relaxing in the cool of the night!

In many of my novels, the stories resemble the circular ruins described by Borges, without beginning or end. Any point along the story's trajectory can open a secret door, leading to another world of imagination… However, to tell this story, we must begin with the spring of that year, when my novella "The Deserted Village" was published in the April issue of *Mengya* magazine. This novella of over 20,000 words tells the story of a deserted village that first appeared in my novel *The Ghost Inn*, a desolate little mountain village in eastern Zhejiang, nestled between the sea and a cemetery. But in reality, I've never been to the deserted village, because it's purely a figment of my imagination. If it weren't for a book signing event, the deserted village would have remained only in my imagination.

The book signing for *The Ghost Inn* took place in a bookstore in the subway. It was a cold winter night, and as the signing was about to end, a girl named Xiaozhi appeared before me. She wore an oversized sweater that didn't fit her at all, and her long black hair was tied in a ponytail; she looked like a female college student. This strange girl had a pair of beautiful eyes, with an indescribable quality in them. She asked me to sign her autograph with a slight shyness, saying that her name was Xiaozhi and that she came from a place called the Desolate Village. I was immediately stunned, because the Desolate Village was just a fictional setting in the novel, yet she told me that the Desolate Village did exist, and that it was located between the sea and the cemetery. Although I couldn't quite believe it, I was still stunned by her, and her charming eyes, like a lost fawn in the dark, made me feel a certain fondness for her.

In an instant, I made a decision: I would ask Xiaozhi to take me to the deserted village to see what the fictional place in my novel was really like in reality. After waiting anxiously for several weeks, Xiaozhi finally agreed to my request and took me on a long-distance bus to the deserted village. Xiaozhi told me that the deserted village was located in Xiling Town, K City, on the eastern coast of Zhejiang Province. Eight hundred years ago, after the Jingkang Incident in the Song Dynasty, the remnants of the Central Plains fled to this desolate coast and settled there, thus giving rise to the deserted village. Xiaozhi was born and raised in the deserted village and was admitted to a prestigious university in Shanghai two years ago. She was currently home for winter vacation. After a long and winding journey, Xiaozhi and I finally arrived at the deserted village. It was indeed situated between the sea and a cemetery, with desolate mountains and cliffs everywhere. Time seemed to have stood still here.

The abandoned village apartment dates back to a desolate era hundreds of years ago. At the village entrance stands a massive stone archway inscribed with the four characters "贞烈阴阳" (Chaste and Virtuous, Yin and Yang). Legend has it that during the Jiajing era of the Ming Dynasty, a scholar from this village passed the imperial examinations, and the emperor bestowed this archway upon his mother to honor her. Xiaozhi led me into the village to an ancient house with the inscription "进士第" (Jinshi Di, Residence of a Scholar). This was Xiaozhi's home, and the grand archway at the village entrance was a gift from her ancestors. The Jinshi Di house was dark and somber, with several courtyards. The main hall, called "仁爱堂" (Ren'ai Tang, Hall of Benevolence and Love), displayed an ancient scroll portrait. The large house was deserted; only Xiaozhi's father still lived there. He was a pale, thin middle-aged man who called himself Mr. Ouyang, speaking in a cold, indifferent tone, like a zombie. Naturally, there were no inns in this abandoned village, so after nightfall, I had no choice but to stay in this ancient house. Xiaozhi, carrying a kerosene lamp, led me to the second courtyard, where there was a room upstairs that had been empty for a long time.

I cautiously stepped into the ancient room, only to be surprised to find an old screen inside. It was a four-panel vermilion lacquer screen, likely an antique from before the Qing Dynasty. But what astonished me even more were the scenes depicted on it: the first panel showed a man and a woman gazing at each other with reluctance, seemingly a scene of a couple or lovers parting; the second panel depicted the woman again, appearing to be weeping, with a monk standing before her, offering her a flute; the third panel showed an interior scene where the woman sat alone on a bamboo mat, holding a flute to her lips, with a three-foot-long white silk ribbon hanging from the rafters; the fourth panel depicted the man from the beginning, lying beside a red lacquered coffin, and even more eerily, the coffin lid was open, and the man also held a flute. Looking at these paintings on the screen, I couldn't help but feel a chill run down my spine. Strange dark shadows flickered on the screen, as if the man in the paintings was about to step out from behind it. Xiaozhi told me the story depicted on this ancient screen—during the Jiajing era of the Ming Dynasty, there was a young couple in a deserted village. The wife's name was Rouge. At that time, Japanese pirates frequently roamed the area, and Rouge's husband was forcibly conscripted into the army and forced to fight against the pirates in another province. Before leaving, the husband made a promise to Rouge: three years later, on the Double Ninth Festival, he would definitely return home to meet her. If they could not meet by then, they would commit suicide together on the night of the Double Ninth Festival.

Three years later, the Double Ninth Festival approached, and her husband, still missing, remained unheard of. Rouge waited at the village entrance every day. One day, she met a wandering begging monk who gave her a flute, instructing her to play it on the night of the Double Ninth Festival, and her husband would return as promised. On the night of the Double Ninth Festival, Rouge played the flute, and when the mournful melody ended, her husband indeed returned home. Overjoyed, she removed his armor and gently helped him to bed. After several happy nights together, her husband suddenly disappeared. Soon after, Rouge heard that her husband had already died in battle on the night of the Double Ninth Festival. It turned out that on that night, her husband was fighting a thousand miles away, deliberately charging at the front of the army, and was killed by a hail of arrows. He died in battle, but in reality, he died for love, fulfilling his promise to his wife with his death. His soul flew across mountains and rivers, only to return to his desolate hometown. Just then, Rouge began to play a mysterious flute, its melodious tune guiding her husband's ghost home. That night, I couldn't sleep, thinking about the story all night. In the early hours of the morning, I finally left my room and discovered a sliver of candlelight coming from the next room. Suppressing my fear, I peeked through the window—a candle was burning on an old dressing table, its dim light illuminating a woman dressed in white. I couldn't see her face, only that she was combing her long, black hair.

I immediately recalled a scene from a classic horror movie and hurriedly fled back to my room. This was my first night in the deserted village. The next day, Xiaozhi took me to see the surroundings of the village. It was indeed a desolate and barren place, with barren mountains and a black sea, reminding me of "The Jamaica Inn." Xiaozhi always had that same expression, seemingly never happy, staring blankly at the sea. Watching her gaze at the sea, I suddenly felt a certain impulse, but I restrained myself. In the afternoon, in Xiaozhi's room, I saw a framed photo on the desk, containing a black and white photograph of Xiaozhi. She looked charming in the photo, but her eyes held a hint of melancholy. But Xiaozhi said that the person in the photo had died long ago. It turned out to be a photo of Xiaozhi's mother; the two looked so alike. Xiaozhi's mother had died of illness when she was very young, in the building where I now live. Her father raised her alone. She could only see her mother's face in photographs. At midnight that night, I suddenly heard the sound of a flute, seemingly coming from the mountains behind the village. The sound of the flute in the darkness startled me. I rushed out of the Jinshi Mansion and followed the sound to find the flute player on the mountain. It turned out that the flute player was Xiaozhi's father, Mr. Ouyang.

Section 2: The Descendants of Ghosts

A strange man in a deserted village went up the mountain at night to play the flute, a behavior that piqued my curiosity. The flute he carried was also very special, said to be several hundred years old. Sure enough, this flute must have a story. Sure enough, Mr. Ouyang told me that this was the mysterious flute that Rouge had played years ago, and Rouge's story had another version—hundreds of years ago in a deserted village, Rouge played this flute on the night of the Double Ninth Festival and reunited with her husband's ghost. Three months later, she discovered she was pregnant. It was a miracle. The child in her womb was the seed planted by her husband's spirit, who had died on the battlefield and returned. The villagers began to suspect her of infidelity, but Rouge insisted on her innocence. To protect her unborn child, Rouge endured immense suffering, carrying the pregnancy for ten months before finally giving birth to her son. Rouge raised her child alone, enduring discrimination and humiliation. More than a decade later, Rouge died from overwork, but her son studied diligently and later passed the imperial examinations, becoming a student of the emperor. The story of Rouge reached the emperor's ears, and he was moved by it, bestowing upon her a chastity archway to honor her virtue. It turns out the chastity archway at the village entrance was for Rouge, the Jinshi Mansion was built by her son, and Mr. Ouyang and Xiaozhi are both descendants of Rouge—descendants of a ghost?

I was so frightened that I ran back to the Jinshi Mansion. In the courtyard, I was surprised to find Xiaozhi dressed in white, wandering alone in the moonlight. She didn't say a word, her eyes seemingly sleepwalking. I immediately vanished without a trace. On the third day after arriving in the deserted village, I finally couldn't bear it any longer and decided to leave immediately. Before leaving, I said goodbye to Mr. Ouyang and Xiaozhi. They didn't try to stop me, but their words seemed to conceal something. I looked at Xiaozhi at the gate of the Jinshi Mansion. Although we had only met briefly, her pitiful gaze still made me feel a little bitter. I didn't know what to say, so I resolutely left the deserted village. Back in Xiling Town, I didn't immediately return to Shanghai. Instead, I went to the local cultural center director to ask him about the legend of the rouge in the deserted village. The cultural center director told me that twenty years ago, an ancient tomb from the Ming Dynasty near the deserted village was looted by tomb robbers. Mr. Ouyang reported the case, and the archaeological team immediately rushed to carry out a rescue excavation. They discovered that the tomb contained the skeletons of a man and a woman, as well as a relatively well-preserved epitaph that recorded the life and deeds of the tomb's occupants.

It turned out that this ancient tomb contained the remains of Rouge and her husband. The epitaph explained that during the Jiajing era of the Ming Dynasty, the southeastern region was plagued by Japanese pirates. Ouyang An, a villager from a remote village, was forcibly conscripted into the army. Before leaving, he made a promise with his wife that they would return home for the Double Ninth Festival three years later, or they would commit suicide together. Three years later, the Double Ninth Festival arrived, but Ouyang An was still fighting far away. Knowing he could not keep his promise, he resolved to die on the battlefield. On the night of the Double Ninth Festival, Ouyang An charged at the forefront of the army, struck by several arrows and collapsed. However, he was only seriously wounded and unconscious. He later recovered, and several months later, when he returned to his hometown in the remote village, he discovered that his wife had hanged herself on the night of the Double Ninth Festival.

Ouyang An was devastated. He longed to see his wife one last time, so he secretly opened her coffin and found her body intact, with a flute beside her. He carried the coffin home, and every year around the Double Ninth Festival and the Spring Festival, he would play the flute he had taken from the coffin at midnight. Several years later, one winter night, Ouyang An played the flute again, and his wife truly awoke from the coffin. Overjoyed, Ouyang An fed her thin porridge daily, and she finally recovered her health. His resurrected wife was still young and beautiful, and they lived a peaceful life, even having a son. Later, their son passed the imperial examination, ranking highly in the palace examination in the capital. The emperor, deeply moved upon hearing this, bestowed upon him a memorial archway honoring his wife's chastity. After hearing this version of the Rouge story, I was almost overwhelmed—was the story told by Xiaozhi and Mr. Ouyang true or false? But the grave doesn't lie. Suddenly, I felt as if I had fallen into an abyss reminiscent of Akira Kurosawa's *Rashomon*. What secrets is the Ouyang family hiding in this deserted village?

In an instant, I made a decision—to return to the deserted village immediately and unravel this secret. On that cold winter night, I traversed the steep hillside back to the village and heard a strange flute melody. Nothing could stop me then. I rushed into the mansion and found a faint light shining from the small building where I had once lived. I rushed into the room and found Xiaozhi dressed in white, staring blankly at the screen. Her face was so pale, her dark eyes staring blankly ahead, still in that sleepwalking state. I spoke loudly to her, but she didn't respond. Only then did I realize with astonishment—she wasn't Xiaozhi at all! Just as I felt a chilling fear, Mr. Ouyang suddenly appeared behind me and told me an unbelievable answer—she was Xiaozhi's mother. But I clearly remembered Xiaozhi telling me that her mother had died long ago.

Mr. Ouyang, from the abandoned apartment building, recounted his story. Twenty years ago, shortly after Xiaozhi was born, her mother passed away from illness. Mr. Ouyang was devastated and didn't want to live alone anymore. Soon after, his family's ancestral graves were robbed, and he saw the epitaph. His ancestor's story gave him a profound insight—if he followed the instructions in the epitaph, his wife would surely return to him. So, he often went up the mountain at midnight to play his flute, because this ancient flute possessed a mysterious magic that could bring your loved one back—and yes, she returned. I then remembered the photograph of Xiaozhi's mother in her room; she looked exactly like Xiaozhi. No wonder I mistook her for Xiaozhi. I realized that the woman combing her hair in the room next to mine on the first night was also her, and the woman wandering in the courtyard on the second night was also her. This was a couple, one human and one ghost. The still young and beautiful wife looked up at her now haggard and aged husband—he loved her deeply, whether she was dead or alive, even though they were separated by the realms of the living and the dead, he longed for his beloved to return home. But then I heard a strange flute melody, which hypnotically made me faint… When I woke up the next morning, the Jinshi Mansion was completely deserted.

I searched every room, finding only a thin layer of dust, as if no one had lived there for a long time. Anxious, I rushed out of the Jinshi Mansion and found the village chief of the deserted village, inquiring about the Ouyang family. The chief's answer terrified me even more. It turned out Mr. Ouyang was long dead! He had died of cancer three years ago, right there in the Jinshi Mansion. His wife had died of illness at home twenty years ago when he went to work in another city. As for Xiaozhi, she had been studying in Shanghai, but about a year ago, she died in an accident on the Shanghai subway. If the entire family of three in the Jinshi Mansion had long since perished, then who were Xiaozhi and Mr. Ouyang that I had seen? I couldn't stay in the deserted village any longer; perhaps this place belonged only to another era, to the strange tales in thread-bound books. Xiaozhi—I thought of her, but my body hastily left the deserted village. The imperial chastity archway still standing at the village entrance resembled a giant tombstone. Back in Shanghai, I asked a friend who worked for the subway company.

He told me that a year earlier, in the winter, at the very subway station where I was signing books, a serious accident had occurred: as the train was about to enter the station, a twenty-year-old female college student slipped and fell onto the tracks, and was run over and killed instantly. -- Her name was Ouyang Xiaozhi. The original text is over 20,000 words long, but due to space limitations, I can only give a brief summary here. In that rainy spring, after the novella "The Deserted Village" was published, hundreds of thousands of readers across the country read it, immediately sparking much controversy and numerous comments online. I hadn't expected so many readers to be so deeply immersed in the world of the deserted village; it seemed that this 20,000-word novel had a fulcrum that inadvertently triggered a soft spot in their hearts. However, what was more prevalent were the readers' various speculations about the "deserted village." Over a month, I received many emails, mostly inquiring about several unsolved mysteries in "The Deserted Village." I apologize for not answering them all, because at the time, I myself was also eager to know the answers. To my utter surprise, one day in early May, several uninvited guests knocked on my door.

Section 3: Unsolved Mysteries

I remember it was a rainy afternoon. The misty rain outside blurred my vision, as if everything was being seen through a filter. Only the plants greedily drank in the rainwater, their dark green leaves quietly spreading. At that moment, the room was also filled with damp air, raindrops constantly pattering against the windowpane. I was alone in front of the computer screen, contemplating the opening of my next novel. Suddenly, the doorbell rang urgently, as unsettling as the sudden downpour outside. I always hated being disturbed at times like this, but I could only suppress my annoyance and open the door—to find four unfamiliar faces. The young man at the head of the group was robust, with dark skin, seemingly someone who frequently engaged in outdoor sports; raindrops still clung to his hair. He cautiously asked my name, and after learning that I was the author of *The Deserted Village*, they all breathed a sigh of relief.

A petite girl with fair skin murmured, "Wow, I never expected this!" "Didn't expect what?" "I never expected the legendary author to be so young." I scratched my head, unsure if this counted as a compliment. The girl excitedly said, "Hmm, this place looks really nice. Was 'The Deserted Village' written here?" The boy in the lead glared at her, then smiled and said to me, "Excuse me, we are all your loyal readers and fans, especially after reading 'The Deserted Village' in 'Sprout' magazine. We have many questions we'd like to ask you in person." Oh, I see. But I still hesitated a bit; I never usually receive readers in person—but I let them in anyway.

The four of them carefully placed their umbrellas at the door. Although they were a little wet, I didn't mind much and poured drinks for these uninvited visitors. All four were carrying backpacks, two boys and two girls, young people like me, probably freshmen or sophomores in college. My guess was confirmed by them. Another tall girl said, "Let me introduce myself first. My name is Han Xiaofeng." Then, she introduced each person in turn: the tall boy in the lead was named Huo Qiang, the short girl was named Chunyu, and the last boy was named Su Tianping. They were all sophomores who participated in the famous "Robin's College Student Adventure Club." Huo Qiang got straight to the point: "We've read all your books and novels. After reading your novella 'The Deserted Village,' we were all deeply moved and read it over and over again."

"We really couldn't hold back any longer, so we came to visit you specifically to ask you to answer some questions for us." I shook my head helplessly; this was the thing I was most worried about after the novel was published. "Excuse me, how did you know my address?" "Well..." Huo Qiang scratched his head awkwardly, then said a name. So it was that guy! He actually revealed my address to these college students. I'll definitely give him a piece of my mind next time I see him. The girl named Chunyu spoke up: "Sorry, we pestered him so much that he had no choice but to tell us." "Forget it, that guy must have seen some pretty female students and couldn't resist the temptation, so he betrayed his friends." "Okay, what exactly are your questions?" The silent boy named Su Tianping finally spoke up: "First of all, I really like your novel. I think 'The Deserted Village' is really unique; even every word is a trap, a mystery to be solved. Beneath the surface of the story of the deserted village, there must be other secrets hidden, right? Is it because of the length? I think you still have many stories to tell us." "Are you planning to write a long novel about the deserted village?" "Han Xiaofeng suddenly interjected. I really didn't know how to answer their questions, so I could only give a few more perfunctory replies."

But these college students wouldn't let it go, bombarding me with questions like machine guns. The rain outside was pouring down harder, and the dim light of the sky enveloped the room, easily creating the illusion that these four people had come from another time and space. Finally, Huo Qiang couldn't hold back any longer and said, "Okay, now answer one question: Does the abandoned village really exist?" "I've said it several times, this is just a novel, please don't take it too seriously." Chunyu suddenly became agitated: "No, you're lying, the abandoned village definitely exists, it definitely exists!" Looking at her pitiful appearance, even the hardest heart couldn't withstand it. Perhaps my friend had also "betrayed" me for this reason, after all, we are both soft-hearted. I gritted my teeth and reluctantly nodded: "Okay, I admit it, the abandoned village does exist." The moment I finished speaking, a dazzling bolt of lightning suddenly flashed across the sky, followed by a deafening clap of thunder, as if even the windowpanes were trembling. Was this an ominous sign? My heart sank—no, I can't say that, the abandoned village shouldn't exist. Unfortunately, the words were already spoken and couldn't be taken back; now I deeply regret it. When they heard what I said, the college students were all extremely excited, but Su Tianping remained calm. He asked, "Then please tell me, where exactly is the abandoned village?" "I've already mentioned it in the novel; the abandoned village is between the sea and the cemetery." "We all know that."

"Now, what we want to know is the exact address of the abandoned village. You said in the novel that the abandoned village is in Xiling Town, K City, Zhejiang Province. So where is K City?" "What exactly do you want to do?" Huo Qiang said decisively, "We want to go to the abandoned village." Before he finished saying "to go to the abandoned village," another deafening clap of thunder sounded outside the window. The girl named Chunyu instinctively hugged Han Xiaofeng tightly beside her. I was also stunned. Outside the window, there was a white misty rain. Strange, there shouldn't be such a heavy thunderstorm at this time of year. The four college students stared straight at me, waiting for my answer. This made me even more uneasy. A strange premonition pounded in my heart like raindrops, and repeated in my mind like a curse. I must not let them open the gates of Satan. I answered resolutely, "No, I can't tell you!" The four college students, who had been waiting for so long, immediately deflated like punctured balloons, especially the girl named Chunyu, who was almost in tears.

"Why?" Han Xiaofeng, clearly impatient, immediately asked me. "No reason, you just can't go to the deserted village." Huo Qiang shook his head: "No, we're all prepared. All the equipment for wilderness travel and exploration is in place, except for the detailed address. Whether you support it or not, our plan to explore the deserted village will not change." "Cancel the plan. Such a plan is meaningless. I suggest you pay more attention to UFOs or the Bermuda Triangle. Don't let fantasy overwhelm reason." "Bermuda is too far away, while the deserted village is right next to us." It was Su Tianping who spoke, and he was also a little excited. "Do you know? Chunyu and I joined the adventure club after reading your novel and becoming fascinated by your writing. Do you know how much effort we put into finding your first deserted village apartment?"

"You've come to visit again today, braving such a heavy thunderstorm. You absolutely can't let your loyal readers down." "My dear readers, how could I disappoint you? But on the matter of the abandoned village, there's no room for compromise. I have to bite the bullet and say, 'Go back. I won't reveal where the abandoned village is.'" Huo Qiang said coldly, "It's truly a pity. However, even if you don't tell me, it doesn't matter, because as long as the abandoned village truly exists, we will definitely find out." With that, he got up and hurriedly left, the other college students following behind him. The girl named Chunyu was the last to leave. She turned back at the door and glanced at me again, saying softly, "I'm really disappointed." I could only helplessly say, "It's thundering outside, be careful." Watching the four uninvited guests disappear into the stairwell, a wave of guilt washed over me. Should I have done this? They were all my loyal readers, and I should have done my best to help them, but the deserted village… no, let’s not talk about the deserted village anymore. I thought that was the end of it. However, on the very night the four college students left, something even stranger entered my life.

Late at night, the thunder and lightning had stopped, and the rain pattered against the window like a woman's fingers tapping. As usual, I checked my email, and naturally, I received many emails about the deserted village, mostly from admirers and critics. But one email's subject caught my attention—"You've Leaked That Well." The moment I saw this title, my eyelid twitched, and the image of that deep, round hole—a well—appeared before my eyes again. My mouse seemed to be struck by the title, disappearing in the blink of an eye. I quickly waved my right hand a few times, finally finding the timid mouse. Was it frightened by the title? Clicking on "You've Leaked That Well," a paragraph of text jumped into my view.

Section 4: Strange e-mail

Hello:

You must be the author of *The Deserted Village*. If you consider this email spam, please delete it now. This afternoon, I finished reading your novella *The Deserted Village*. Please forgive me, but I am now commenting on your novel as someone with inside knowledge, not as a reader. I want to tell you that you omitted something important in the novel. I don't know if you deliberately concealed it or if you have a bad memory, but assuming you actually visited the old house in the deserted village and didn't just hear about it, do you remember the well in the backyard of the old house? You don't have to reply. Sorry for bothering you. A reader

After reading this strange email, I stood there stunned for several minutes. The words on the computer screen seemed to skip over my eyes and go straight into my brain. My hand hesitated for a few moments, still holding the mouse, but I didn't press the delete key. I slowly closed my eyes. A well? The moment I closed my eyes, the dark opening reappeared—I carefully peered into the well. The narrow, ancient well was bottomless, seemingly immersed in the darkness of time. Suddenly, a few ripples appeared at the bottom of the well, the gently rippling water reflecting the light from the opening. Instantly, I saw my own reflection in the water at the bottom of the well. I trembled as I looked at myself at the bottom of the well, as if facing Einstein's hypothetical "black hole," that cosmic black hole billions of light-years away, absorbing all matter with infinite power, while time itself was distorted and deformed around it. Yes, standing before this ancient well, I seemed to sense a breath rising slowly from its bottom, flowing through the narrow, damp walls like a baby's birth canal, surging forth from the narrow opening, spraying onto my face, my nostrils, and filling my chest with each breath. I couldn't touch it, but I could greedily inhale it; I knew it was here. Now, it had escaped from the well…

Who is this "Abandoned Village Apartment"? I suddenly opened my eyes; the deep, ancient well vanished instantly, replaced by my computer screensaver. I let out a long sigh. The scene that had just flashed before my eyes was so unforgettable; I didn't even know whether to describe my feelings as fear or sorrow. But I knew I shouldn't have opened that well, because I didn't know what would happen next. All I could do was keep its existence a secret. That strange email was right; the ancient well did exist in the abandoned village, in the backyard of the old mansion, the Jinshi Mansion, but I hadn't included it in my novel, *The Abandoned Village*.

Because I have a peculiar fear of this well, I can't imagine what the consequences would be if it were to appear in a novel and be presented to countless readers. No! I can't imagine. Now, facing this strange email, I wonder how the sender knows about the well, or perhaps it's just hearsay? Although the sender said I didn't have to reply, I think it's better to reply anyway, at least I want to know who the sender is? Is it just a bored person who imagined an ancient well to scare me, or is there really some connection to the deserted village? After thinking it over, I still replied to the email. Hello: I don't know how to address you, nor do I know who you are. But now I must admit that there is indeed an ancient well in the backyard of the Jinshi Mansion. How did you know about that well? You must reply. After sending this email, I shut down my computer and finally breathed a sigh of relief. The raindrops continued to patter, like the receding tide on the shore of the deserted village. That night, I didn't realize that my life would be drastically changed by these two emails.

Sure enough, around midnight the next day, I received a reply in my email: "Hello: I told you you didn't have to reply. But since you acknowledged the existence of the well, why did you omit it from the novel? As for how I knew about the well, I'm sorry, I can't answer that question. Frankly speaking, after reading your *The Abandoned Village*, I had a feeling—"

If you're not deliberately hiding something, then you've never actually been to the deserted village. There are just too many errors in your novel; I'll point them out to you one by one when I remember them. If I don't, consider yourself lucky. Tell me, have you really been to the deserted village? This time, there's no signature. Looking at the aggressive words in this email, I really can't imagine what the other person is like. After hesitating for a moment, I replied—Hello: Who are you? I feel our current communication is like children playing hide-and-seek in a big house; both believe the other can't guess their hiding place, while they can accurately guess where the other is hiding. Let me repeat, "The Deserted Village" is just a novel of a little over 20,000 words. What is a novel? I think a novel is a dream; all novels are the dream talk of novelists. And whether it's a beautiful dream or a nightmare, no matter how real the dream seems, there's always a distance between dreams and our reality. That's why we like to dream, and that's why we like novels. Okay, whether you believe it or not, I have indeed been to the deserted village. However, the deserted village in the novel and the deserted village in reality are two completely different worlds; otherwise, it wouldn't be called a novel. Finally, I have a small request: could you please leave your signature?

Section 5: The Madman of the Deserted Village

After sending the reply, I turned off my computer and sat in my chair, thinking for a long time. Ever since my novella "The Deserted Village" was published in the magazine, my mind has been in turmoil. Strangely, I can't remember what I was thinking a few months ago when I decided to write this novella. My memory has shattered into fragments, impossible to piece back together. I searched my memory desperately until I remembered that cold winter afternoon—yes, I remember it was supposed to snow that day, and I looked up at the sky, anticipating the moment the snowflakes would fall. The surroundings were filled with the noise of people, and there was a musty smell that seemed to come from hundreds of years ago. Right, that day I went to the used book market, standing in the middle of the aisle, with stalls on both sides that looked like they were collecting junk. Let me tell you, I've always loved collecting, especially thread-bound old books. It's not about collecting or investing; it's purely a fondness for antiques, or, to put it nicely, "rescuing cultural heritage." The snow was slow to fall, so I lowered my head and walked to the side, stopping in front of a stall specializing in Qing dynasty thread-bound books. Among a thick stack of thread-bound books was an old book titled "The Ghostly Tale of the Ancient Mirror." The peculiar title immediately drew me to open its title page.

The author's pen name was "Wild Village Madman," and the book was printed by the Gushan Bookstore in Hangzhou in the 43rd year of the Qianlong Emperor's reign. Several collector's seals were found inside the pages. Aside from some yellowing, there were no signs of damage or insect infestation, and the cover and back cover were relatively intact. Over two hundred years have passed since the 43rd year of Qianlong's reign, so the book's preservation is quite remarkable. The stall owner's asking price was far too high; he genuinely considered it an antique. Even at auction, it would only fetch a few hundred yuan. But the book was indeed excellent, not only well-preserved but, more importantly, the text itself. I felt a special connection after just a few pages. While I was hesitating over the book, something wet suddenly landed in my palm and slowly melted into water—it was snowflakes! I looked up in surprise; it was indeed snowing lightly. Unable to contain my excitement, I seized the opportunity and readily paid the stall owner. With this unexpected treasure, *The Ghostly Chronicles of the Ancient Mirror*, I excitedly rushed home.

When I got home, the snow had stopped. Although I still felt a little heartache about the money, at least I was the new owner of this thread-bound book. I patiently waited until evening, with only a dim yellow lamp lit in the room, its effect resembling an ancient candle. Finally, I respectfully opened "The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror." It turned out to be a notebook-style book, divided into dozens of short articles. It was hard to tell whether it was fiction or just a record of strange tales from the Jiangnan region. The style felt somewhat similar to Ji Xiaolan's "Notes from the Thatched Cottage of Close Observation." The first entry was also titled "The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror," telling the story of a woman who died unjustly in the Ming Dynasty. Her ghost lingered in an ancient mirror, and later generations could often see her alluring face reflected in it. This story made me gasp. What was even more unsettling was the accompanying illustration—an ancient bronze mirror in a boudoir, with no one in front of it, yet reflecting a woman combing her hair. The vertically formatted classical Chinese was very difficult to read, and it took me a long time to finish this first entry.

But I couldn't stop reading. In the dim light, I continued reading, one story after another, completely immersed in the strange world woven by this "madman of the desolate village," until the last entry in the notebook—"Tales of the Desolate Village." The last story was quite peculiar. It told of a scholar from Fujian who was traveling to the capital for the imperial examinations. That winter, a heavy snowfall blanketed the official roads in the mountainous region of eastern Zhejiang. The scholar unfortunately took a wrong turn and ended up in a place called "Desolate Village" by the sea. By this time, the scholar was starving and freezing. He stumbled upon the largest house in the desolate village. The owner of the house, who called himself "madman of the desolate village," was a middle-aged man in his forties. The owner was unexpectedly friendly to the scholar, arranging a sumptuous meal for him and a spacious, comfortable room.

That night in the deserted village, snow fell heavily and waves crashed. A scholar was discussing philosophy with his master in the old house when suddenly a woman's shadow flashed past the door. Startled, the scholar went outside, but saw no one. He then went back to his room to sleep. In the middle of the night, the scholar was awakened by a strange sound. He followed the sound to the door of the next room, licked a hole in the window paper with his saliva, and discovered a beautiful woman combing her hair. The young scholar was astonished; he had never seen such a beautiful woman in his life. Unable to contain himself, he quietly entered the woman's boudoir. The woman was not surprised but instead invited the scholar to drink tea. Standing before the beauty, the scholar, his heart filled with longing, confessed his love to her, saying that he was unmarried. The beauty did not refuse, saying that she had overheard the scholar's conversation with his master and felt that the scholar possessed great talent for governing the country and the world; she also secretly admired him. The scholar was overjoyed, and that very night, the beauty served him in bed. The next day, the scholar awoke to find that the beauty had vanished without a trace, and even the owner of the mansion was nowhere to be found. By then, the heavy snow had stopped, and the scholar had no choice but to leave the deserted village with utter despair.

When the scholar reached Xiling Town, dozens of miles from the deserted village, he paused for a moment before an unfrozen pond. "Ah!" the scholar cried out. He saw his reflection in the water, a terrifying sight—a bloodless face, like that of a zombie. The scholar was terrified. Then he noticed a small wound on his neck, like a bat bite. He hurriedly cut his skin with a knife, but no blood flowed—his blood had been drained. Realizing this, the scholar immediately died. Later, some residents of Xiling Town, passing by the pond, found a young man resembling the scholar lying by the roadside, now a zombie. The story ends here. On the last page is an illustration of the young scholar lying in bed with a small wound on his neck, while a stunningly beautiful woman sits beside him, seemingly with blood at the corner of her mouth. Suddenly, I felt as if the last page had turned color, and the bright red blood at the corner of her mouth seemed about to flow from the book. I quickly closed the book, a chill running down my spine. It was already past midnight when I finally finished this strange book called *The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror*. The one that left the deepest impression on me was naturally the last story, "Tales of the Desolate Village." The most intriguing part was that the author of this book, "The Madman of the Desolate Village," actually appeared in the story of "Tales of the Desolate Village," and was even the owner of that terrifying mansion. I don't know if the stories in this notebook are true or false, nor do I know who this "Madman of the Desolate Village" really is, but judging solely from his writing, I think it's no less impressive than Pu Songling's *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*.

Clearly, this "madman of the deserted village" came from a deserted village. But does the deserted village really exist? In that instant, I resolved to find it. The book, *The Ghostly Chronicles of the Ancient Mirror*, still lay in my drawer. I dared not look at it again, hoping only to slowly forget it. Looking back now, if I hadn't gone to the used book market that day, if I hadn't discovered this "madman of the deserted village's" ghostly notebook, would those incredible things have happened later, would so many people's fates have been changed? Perhaps life is shaped by countless "probabilities." The next morning, I received an email reply from that mysterious figure—"Hello: You are a little smarter than I thought. 'Children playing hide-and-seek in a big house'? Your analogy is interesting, but not quite accurate. More precisely, it's a cat and a mouse playing hide-and-seek in a big house. I am the cat, and you are the mouse. Okay, I said there are many errors in your novel. Now I remember some, such as those three ancient stories about Rouge. In the first story, you said Rouge's husband, Ouyang An, left the deserted village because of war." Actually, that wasn't the case. The abandoned village had been attacked by Japanese pirates, and Ouyang An had been kidnapped and taken to sea. From then on, Yan Zhi could only wait alone in her empty room for her husband's return. Years later, people discovered a pirate ship floating on the sea. Everyone on board was dead, reduced to skeletons—this is what people commonly call a "ghost ship." These were the same pirates who had plundered the abandoned village. The inscription on the ship indicated that shortly after the pirates left the village, they died one by one, until only one remained: their captive, Ouyang An. However, no remains or clothes of Ouyang An were found on the ship; he vanished like a mystery onto the ghost ship.

The second story: you said that Rouge and Ouyang An's ghost met on the Double Ninth Festival and she gave birth to a son. You're wrong. Three years after Rouge separated from her husband, she found a drowned man on the beach; it was her husband, Ouyang An. Rouge brought her husband's body home and smeared her own blood on his lips every night, eventually bringing him back to life. However, everyone believed Ouyang An was dead, so he had to hide secretly, like a ghost husband, and later had a son with Rouge. The third story: you said it was about epitaphs unearthed from tombs. Do you know the fate of those tomb raiders? They were carrying artifacts stolen from tombs, boarding a bus to leave Zhejiang, when they had an accident at the border. Incredibly, all the other passengers on the bus escaped unharmed, but the three tomb raiders all died. You must be very surprised after hearing so many stories, right? However, you yourself didn't realize that you had already made a mistake. You shouldn't have written the novel "The Abandoned Village," much less published it in a magazine, letting so many people know about its existence. You're probably wondering why, and unfortunately, I don't know either. In short, neither you nor I can imagine the consequences this novel will have.

If you insist I leave a signature, mine would be—Nie Xiaoqian, Nie Xiaoqian? I suddenly chuckled to myself. How did the beautiful ghost from *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio* suddenly appear and email me? Also, why do I always feel that the three stories she (or he) told seem more like fiction than my *The Desolate Village*? Perhaps she (or he) is also making up stories with me. I once posted online about those three ancient stories of the desolate village—is the world we see and the things we hear the truth or an illusion? How many "mirrors" of the same thing appear in different people's mouths? The stories we hear are not actually the entities themselves, but rather the images reflected in mirrors. Different mirrors may reflect different images. For example, the letters we see in a mirror are all reversed. If the letters of the actual entity were reversed, then the mirror would show them upright. Would we then believe that what we see is the actual entity? In this way, the entity and the mirror image become blurred, and none of us can clearly distinguish them. I mentioned three different versions of the story, and each version is closely related to the storyteller.

Section 6: Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio

Of course, the last version is the epitaph of the dead.

Although I said in the novel that "the dead don't lie," if we think about it more deeply, do the dead really never lie? Here we discover that perhaps there are fourth, fifth, or even Nth versions of the story, and we, the readers, are like standing in a maze filled with countless mirrors. Standing before each individual mirror, we believe we see the truth, but if we see all the mirrors, perhaps we'll go mad. Perhaps there will be even more, more bizarre versions. However, I'm becoming increasingly interested in this person who calls themselves "Nie Xiaoqian." I immediately replied to her (him) with an email.

Nie Xiaoqian:

Even though I call you that, I don't believe you ran away from Lanruo Temple. You see, I'm not Ning Caichen, but Yan Chixia, the demon-slaying hero! Besides, I don't object to you saying cat and mouse, but why must you be the cat and I the mouse?

I think it should be the other way around. I hope you're just making up a story or writing a novel; if so, I think I can support you. But if you continue to try to scare me with these mystical tricks, then I'll add your email to my blocked address. Whether you reply or not is up to you.

After sending this email, I felt a bit more relaxed than a few days ago. You know, I don't usually talk like this. Nie Xiaoqian? I suddenly chuckled softly.

That day, as soon as I opened my email, I started looking for "Nie Xiaoqian's" email. However, I didn't find any reply from her (him). Oh well, maybe she was just joking with me. I mentioned that I was writing a new novel. Every time I write a novel, I have to do a lot of research, so much so that I learn a lot more with each novel I write. Fortunately, I'm good at using Google, so most of the information can be found online. That evening, just as I was frantically searching on Google, someone suddenly called my QQ. It was a completely unfamiliar QQ number, and the nickname startled me even more: "Nie Xiaoqian." Could it be another ghost?

I saw "Nie Xiaoqian" on the other end of the network say to me: I know you're here, hurry up and show yourself.

I shook my head and had no choice but to obediently "reveal" myself: You ran away from Lanruo Temple?

Nie Xiaoqian: Don't mention Lanruo Temple to me. Let's talk about the deserted village now.

Me: How did you find my QQ number? I rarely chat online.

Nie Xiaoqian: That's none of your business.

Me: Why are you always staring at me?

Nie Xiaoqian: Since you wrote "The Deserted Village," the one who tied the knot must untie it.

Me: What do you mean by that?

Nie Xiaoqian: You will understand.

Me: Did you receive the email I sent you?

Nie Xiaoqian: Received. You'll see who the cat is and who the mouse really is. Also, I didn't make up any stories or write any novels. If anyone is "playing tricks," then that person is you.

Me: Since you want me to believe you, then please tell me, who exactly are you?

Nie Xiaoqian: Why are you asking when you already know the answer? Didn't I already tell you?

Me: You mean "Nie Xiaoqian"? Forget it, what does Nie Xiaoqian have to do with the deserted village?

Nie Xiaoqian: I'd like to know that too.

Me: I can't stand you anymore, I feel like you're playing a prank on me.

Nie Xiaoqian: No, I promise you'll believe me soon.

Me: Stop it, I never want to see "Nie Xiaoqian" again. Sorry, I'm logging off.

Nie Xiaoqian: You can't escape.

I logged off as if my life depended on it, and then simply shut down the computer. I never imagined this "Nie Xiaoqian" would actually follow me onto QQ. Whether it was a prank or not, just thinking about chatting with "Nie Xiaoqian" was enough to remind me of *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*. It seems even going online isn't safe anymore; this is really troublesome. At that moment, I thought of Ye Xiao—no, it's not time to bother him yet. I closed my eyes and lay there for a while, when suddenly my heart started racing inexplicably—my phone rang. A midnight ringtone always makes me uneasy. I slowly picked up my phone and saw an unfamiliar number. Could it be that the all-powerful "Nie Xiaoqian" even know my phone number? I hesitated for a long time. The "Phantom of the Opera" ringtone kept playing, seemingly desperately urging me on. Finally, I couldn't resist answering. A strange sound came from the phone, slightly jarring, then calmed down, like some kind of eerie breathing.

"Hello! Say something!" I called out into the phone a few times, but all I heard was that strange voice. Just as I was about to end the call, a loud noise reached my ears: "Hello. This is Huo Qiang." The phone signal was very poor, with a lot of static I'd never heard before hissing and crackling through it. "Huo Qiang?" The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. "He's the college student who came to visit you a few days ago. There were four of us." "Yes, I remember now. It's the middle of the night. What's up?" "We wanted to tell you that we've arrived." I didn't quite grasp it at first: "Arrived? Where?" "The deserted village—" His voice sounded unusually excited on the phone, "We've arrived at the deserted village!" I heard that clearly. My phone nearly slipped from my hand. My mind went blank for a moment, and I didn't know what to say. I stammered, "We're here? Did you dream about it?" "No, we really are here!" This time, it was a girl's voice. "This is Han Xiaofeng. We've indeed arrived at the deserted village. We just got here a few minutes ago, and we're right here under the stone archway at the village entrance. We shone our flashlights on the words on the archway, and it's just like in your novel: 'Chaste and Fierce, Yin and Yang,' right?"

Section 7: The Omnipresent Ghost

The howling sea wind seemed to linger on the phone; was it high tide or low tide? I could only mechanically answer, "Yes. How did you find the deserted village?" "Don't worry, we found it ourselves. Okay, now we're going into the deserted village." "Don't be in such a hurry, you can wait." "Wait? It's the dead of night, do you want us to camp out on the mountain?" "This—" I wanted to say something more, but she interrupted me: "Okay, we'll contact you again. We're really sorry to bother you so late. Bye." The other person hung up. I held the phone, stunned for a long time, the terrifying wind of the deserted village still seeming to echo in my ears. My breathing became more and more rapid, so I went to the window for some fresh air, hoping to alleviate the immense oppressive feeling from the call. They really reached the deserted village? No! The nightmare began.

Yes, my nightmare was beginning. When I wrote "The Deserted Village," I didn't realize it would have such power, making those four college students, as if bewitched, actually find the deserted village. Knowing they had arrived, I couldn't predict what would happen next. Reality is never as romantic as fiction; if the Jamaica Inn really existed, it would be a million times more terrifying than du Maurier's novel. That morning, I received a multimedia message on my phone. The sender was the same college student who had called me in the middle of the night. I opened the image. It was taken with the phone's camera, the background being the stone archway at the entrance of the deserted village. The four college students were standing under the archway, their expressions unusually excited, making "V" signs. All four were in the photo, so who took it? Perhaps a local villager held the phone for them. Last night, the four college students must have entered the deserted village; I wondered where they spent the night. Looking at their faces in the image, I felt a special sense of responsibility for them, even though I'm young myself.

Yes, if it weren't for my novel *The Deserted Village*, how could they have possibly gone to such a place? If something had happened to them in the deserted village, I would at least be morally responsible. But how did they find the deserted village? Now I can tell you how I discovered it. A few months ago, I finished reading the thread-bound book *The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror* in one night and made up my mind to find the deserted village. So, I went to the Shanghai Library, where there was an internal reading room. That was a place I frequented. However, finding a Qing Dynasty author called "The Madman of the Deserted Village" was like finding a needle in a haystack. In that era, every writer had several strange pseudonyms, and many famous Qing Dynasty articles and works were only known to posterity by their pen names; their actual identities were impossible to verify. So, I first looked up the publisher of *The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror*: the Gushan Bookstore in Hangzhou, and the publication date was the 43rd year of the Qianlong Emperor's reign. I spent a whole day finally finding the Gushan Bookstore in Hangzhou. According to historical records, this bookstore was founded in the nineteenth year of the Kangxi Emperor's reign and operated until the sixth year of the Xianfeng Emperor's reign before closing down.

Back then, a "bookstore" was equivalent to a publishing house today. There were many bookstores at that time, but most were small and constantly at risk of bankruptcy. The exact number of books printed by the Hangzhou Gushan Bookstore is not recorded in the materials. Furthermore, *The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror* is not mentioned in any other documents, suggesting that the copy I have is a rare, out-of-print book. This breaks the trail again. Without corroborating evidence, how can I find out where the abandoned village is? Perhaps it's just a place imagined by the author? At this moment, I suddenly thought of local gazetteers. Yes, if the abandoned village and Xiling Town actually existed, they should be reflected in local gazetteers. The reading room happens to have a large collection of local histories from the Ming and Qing dynasties. I only need to check the Zhejiang region. Since the abandoned village in *The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror* is located by the sea, my search area is even smaller; I only need to consult the prefectural and county gazetteers of the coastal prefectures and counties of Zhejiang from the mid-to-late Qing dynasty. But that was easier said than done. A county gazetteer from the Qing Dynasty alone could take several days and nights to read. So I mainly started with the table of contents and index to see if there were any entries about Xiling Town.

Finally, at 5 PM, just as the reading room was about to close, I found Xiling Town in a local gazetteer. Sure enough, the annotations in that ancient book about Xiling Town mentioned "Huangcun" (荒村, meaning "deserted village"). I immediately wrote down the passage: "Huangcun, the present-day place name, is located twenty li east of Xiling and forty li southeast of Chengxiang. It borders the blue sea to the east, leans against the Cangshan Mountains to the west, is nestled against a cemetery to the south, and overlooks a deep ravine to the north. The land is barren, hence the name Huangcun. Huangcun has been isolated from the outside world since ancient times. It is said that the place is inauspicious and the people are wicked. No one from the surrounding villages dares to enter. Hearing the name Huangcun fills them with fear. Even a mischievous child would be sent to Huangcun with a single shout: 'I'll send you to Huangcun!' and the child would tremble with fear. Only during the Jiajing era of the previous dynasty did a scholar from Huangcun achieve the highest rank in the imperial examinations. Emperor Shizong of the Ming Dynasty bestowed a memorial archway upon his mother to commemorate her chastity." (The classical Chinese text in the ancient book lacks punctuation, so I have added punctuation myself for the reader's convenience.) It seems this abandoned village truly exists, and Xiling Town is certainly not a fabrication by the author. I copied a few more pages of the local gazetteer, finally clarifying the specific prefecture and county where Xiling Town and the abandoned village were located, and hurriedly left the library. The rest was much easier. Based on the names and locations of prefectures and counties in the Qing Dynasty, I quickly found today's K City, and sure enough, I found Xiling Town on the K City map. (I also checked the Zhejiang Province map, but Xiling Town wasn't listed there.) Finally, I knew where the abandoned village was. I immediately made some travel preparations, took the book *The Ghostly Tale of the Ancient Mirror*, and boarded a long-distance bus from Shanghai to K City alone. After a bumpy six or seven-hour journey, I arrived in K City. Then I transferred to a minibus to reach Xiling Town.

I inquired about the abandoned village in Xiling Town, but none of the local young people seemed to have heard of it. I searched all the bus stations in Xiling Town, but none of the minibuses went there. Later, I asked some elderly people in town and learned that the abandoned village did indeed exist, located about twenty miles east of Xiling Town, on the coast. It was said that the village was very unlucky, and the people of Xiling Town and the surrounding area were very wary of it. No outsider dared to go there, and the villagers rarely came to Xiling Town; it was practically a world isolated from the outside world. To get to the village, one had to walk a long mountain path. The old people kept advising me not to go, and when I asked them why the village was unlucky, they couldn't explain it clearly. However, their words only fueled my curiosity and desire to explore.

So, disregarding everything else, I set off on foot that afternoon, embarking on the mountain path leading to the legendary deserted village. The path was rugged and difficult to traverse, and the surrounding environment was just as I had described in my novel. As evening fell, I finally arrived at the deserted village, and the feelings I had at that moment were truly indescribable. I remember looking up at the grand Ming Dynasty archway at the village entrance; the four large characters "Chaste and Virtuous Yin and Yang" were almost suffocating. I cautiously entered the deserted village, occasionally spotting a few villagers. They all seemed very surprised to see me, as if they had seen a ghost; perhaps I had become an uninvited guest. I wandered around the village, and among the many tiled houses, there was an old house that resembled a grand mansion. I mustered my courage and knocked on the door. A middle-aged man in his fifties opened it. He stared at me for a while, and I truthfully explained my purpose. He was Mr. Ouyang, the owner of this old house, "Jinshi Di" (the Residence of the Imperial Scholar). Mr. Ouyang treated me quite politely. That day, I had traveled more than twenty miles of mountain road and was extremely hungry, so he invited me to stay for dinner. To be honest, I still remember how delicious that dinner was. Mr. Ouyang then offered me a place to stay at Jinshidi Lane. He said that no outsiders had ever come to the deserted village, so there was no inn, while Jinshidi Lane had many empty houses.

Although the house looked somewhat frightening, and only Mr. Ouyang lived in the vast mansion, it perfectly satisfied my adventurous and archaeological curiosity, so I spent the night in the Jinshi Mansion. My first night in the deserted village was uneventful; none of the legendary horrors occurred. The next day, I asked Mr. Ouyang about the history of the ancient Jinshi Mansion, and he recounted the three ancient stories to me. The three stories about the Ouyang family ancestors deeply moved me, so much so that I later wrote them almost verbatim in my novel "The Deserted Village." I also took out the book "The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror," which surprised Mr. Ouyang. He also produced an identical book, which he said was a family heirloom. Clearly, the "Crazy Traveler of the Deserted Village" was an ancestor of the Ouyang family in the Qing Dynasty. As for the life of the author of "The Ghostly Tales of the Ancient Mirror," Mr. Ouyang couldn't say for sure. For the next two days, I walked around the deserted village, carefully observing the surrounding terrain and environment; it truly was a treacherous and barren place. Although the abandoned village faces the sea, it lacks any of the romance of a seaside village. Instead, it evokes a sense of oppressive tension, as if the dark sea might swallow the village at any moment. Perhaps it is precisely because of this environment that the villagers have developed such a silent and conservative character.

Aside from that, I didn't discover anything more in the deserted village. I only felt a peculiar atmosphere permeating the former residence, as if something was hidden there. I tried to ask Mr. Ouyang about it, but he always remained silent, seemingly worried about something. The deserted village held many secrets, but my caution prevented me from delving deeper into the lives of the villagers. I sensed a gloomy aura about them, making me feel intimidated. I must admit, that trip to the deserted village didn't achieve its intended purpose. The former residence, the imperial archway, the seaside cemetery, and the three stories of the Ouyang family all intensified the suspense surrounding the village. However, I couldn't truly delve deeper. The secrets of the deserted village were like a vast labyrinth; I had found the entrance, but not the key to open it. ...Enough. I don't want to recall any more. Let these memories be forgotten forever. The series of bizarre events that have occurred these past few days have left me increasingly exhausted. I didn't go online that night (actually, I was worried that the omnipresent "Nie Xiaoqian" on the internet would bother me again), and went to bed early.

I don't know how much time had passed when a sudden, urgent phone ring pulled me from my dream. I opened my eyes groggily—good heavens, it was three in the morning! I immediately thought of the college students in the deserted village. Trembling, I picked up the phone, but there was no sound on the other end. The call continued. I called out a few times, "Is this Huo Qiang? Or Han Xiaofeng? Are you in the deserted village?" Still no response. I waited several more seconds, and just as I was starting to get impatient, I suddenly heard a faint female voice: "Who are you talking to?" It wasn't them! I froze. The voice was completely unfamiliar, incredibly magnetic, stimulating my eardrums. I tentatively asked, "May I ask who this is?" But the voice disappeared again. I said "hello" several times, only hearing strange static. Who could it be? Instantly, a slight tremor ran through me; it was as if a magical sixth sense was pulling my mind to someone I didn't want to think about. "Nie Xiaoqian? Are you Nie Xiaoqian?" I asked cautiously, but the other person didn't answer. I pressed on, "It's you, it must be you! Why won't you speak?" Just then, the other person ended the call. Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief and threw my phone onto the sofa. Actually, I wasn't sure myself. Was it really that "Nie Xiaoqian"? How did she know my phone number? Was she really an omnipresent ghost? I wondered if she had a mental illness? She woke me from my dream in the early hours of the morning, then vanished like a ghost. That night, I didn't sleep a wink.

Section 8: Stop bothering me.

The mysterious phone call in the early morning left me exhausted, and my eyelids drooped and I couldn't keep them open even after dawn. However, I was supposed to go to the editorial office to discuss the manuscript that day, so I forced myself to leave home in the morning. As I passed through the subway ticket gate, I suddenly felt something behind me. Turning around, I saw a long line of people. But I could feel a pair of eyes staring at me from within the crowd. I stood there for about ten seconds at the ticket gate, until the people behind me started shouting angrily. I had no choice but to shake my head and go in. Entering the subway platform, that strange feeling persisted. I cautiously looked around, and indifferent faces moved through my line of sight, just like the cold platform itself. The subway train roared into the station, and I squeezed into the carriage with the noisy crowd, facing a row of window seats. The train entered the dark tunnel, and my face appeared and disappeared in the window glass. Behind my face were many other faces; the impressions of those eyes and expressions were so strange, like a scene from the French film *Amélie*. Yes, I can see those eyes. I'm sure she's watching me from somewhere, but I can't find her right now. She's like a silent shadow, always keeping a certain distance, yet never letting me escape her gaze. She's following me. Where are you? Come out here—are you a shadow that has intruded into my life, or a sudden ghost?

Suddenly, I realized everyone in the subway car was staring at me, as if they'd spotted a mental patient. It turned out I'd been talking loudly to myself, and almost everyone in the car had heard me. I lowered my head in shame, thankfully the train had arrived at its stop. I quickly squeezed out, head down. I didn't know if she was following me, but I dared not look back. I hurriedly ran out of the subway station, sprinting like I was trying to shake off a tail, running all the way to Julu Road. At 1:30 PM, I left the editorial office, feeling uneasy, and hailed a taxi home. Once home, I was restless, afraid that "Nie Xiaoqian" would somehow find me again, so I'd turned off my phone before leaving home that morning. That evening, I didn't even turn on my computer. I pulled out my novella "The Deserted Village," published in a magazine, and the two printed words "Xiaozhi" immediately caught my eye.

Xiaozhi? Yes, in the novel *The Deserted Village*, I also wrote about an important character, Mr. Ouyang's daughter, Xiaozhi. She became the novel's heroine and aroused the interest of many readers—however, this is merely fiction. In fact, I have never met Xiaozhi. Several months ago, I came to the deserted village, and in that old house, the Jinshi Mansion, I only saw Mr. Ouyang.

He was a strange man, sometimes silent, sometimes incessantly talkative. I still remember Mr. Ouyang's face, appearing and disappearing in the dim light of the old house's main hall. Like a tragic figure from a Chinese folktale, he kept repeating the same thing to me—he said he had a beautiful daughter named Xiaozhi, who was exceptionally intelligent from a young age, the most outstanding child in the deserted village, and was currently studying Chinese literature at a prestigious university in Shanghai. During those two days in the deserted village, Mr. Ouyang mentioned his daughter at least a dozen times, each time with a hint of sadness. He said he loved his daughter very much, but Xiaozhi hadn't returned to the deserted village in a long time. Mr. Ouyang said he missed Xiaozhi terribly, and sometimes tears would well up in his eyes without him realizing it. After returning to Shanghai, I immediately went to the prestigious university where Xiaozhi was studying to find her. In the Chinese literature department of this prestigious university, there was indeed a girl named Ouyang Xiaozhi, from K City, Zhejiang Province. However, the result shocked me—Ouyang Xiaozhi had died a year earlier in a subway accident. It is said that she fell onto the tracks as the train was pulling into the station and died instantly. Upon hearing this news, my heart sank, and I dared not investigate any further.

I dared not tell Mr. Ouyang this devastating news. He missed his daughter so much; if he knew Xiaozhi had died a year ago—no, remembering Mr. Ouyang's pitiful, almost mournful demeanor, I think he would never be able to bear the news. For the next ten days or so, I was constantly tormented by a strange feeling. Although Xiaozhi and I were complete strangers, having never even met, I felt an indescribable sadness and emotion, as if we had known each other for a long time. So, I decided to write a novel based on the story of the deserted village. In this special novel, Xiaozhi, who had died a year ago, would become the protagonist. In the novel, she also died a year ago, but her spirit lingered, finally returning to the deserted village, back to the parents who gave her birth and raised her, and discovering love. As for the description of Xiaozhi in the novel "The Deserted Village," it is entirely based on my imagination. But I prefer to believe that that is what Xiaozhi was like. Although this approach is highly controversial, I feel it is meaningful to do so in memory of the girl from the deserted village who died in Shanghai. Memories flowed like a stream through my mind until I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. At midnight, the phone rang again. The urgent ringing at this hour easily conjured images of a Japanese horror film.

My heart pounded at the ringing of the phone. I rubbed my eyes and answered, "Hello?" "This is Nie Xiaoqian." At first, I wasn't fully awake, but after a few seconds, I suddenly realized, "Who are you?" "Nie Xiaoqian." This cold yet incredibly magnetic female voice immediately sent a chill down my spine. I quickly calmed myself down: "Was it you who called my phone this morning?" "Yes." "Why are you always bothering me? Were you following me on the subway today? Let me tell you, I can feel your eyes." I felt like I was about to break down. "I turned off my phone today, and now you're calling my landline. You're like a ghost that's everywhere!" "A ghost? I am a ghost." "You're mentally ill." I finally couldn't hold back anymore. But her voice was calm: "It's okay, you'll believe me." "Don't bother me anymore, or you'll regret it." "No, I'll come back to you. Goodbye." She hung up. After hanging up the phone, I realized my vest was soaked with cold sweat. I gasped for breath, as if I had just crawled out of water. Nie Xiaoqian? Was she really a ghost that escaped from Pu Songling's Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio?

Section 9: Falling into deep fear

I didn't sleep well again last night. After struggling to get out of bed this morning, I spent the entire morning trying to figure out how to get rid of this awful harassment. At noon, I finally turned on my phone and immediately received several text messages. To my surprise, one of them was from the deserted village: "I have something important to ask you, please call my cell phone. Huo Qiang." Huo Qiang? I remembered him; he was the leader of the four college students who went to the deserted village. This text message from the deserted village sent a chill down my spine. I checked the time it was sent—10 AM yesterday. I had kept my phone off all day yesterday to avoid the harassment. Maybe something really had happened to them? After pacing around the room for a while, I finally dialed Huo Qiang's cell phone. Huo Qiang's anxious voice came from the other end of the phone: "Hello, is that you? We called your cell phone all day yesterday, but it was always off." His voice was clear now, without the strange static from last time. I asked coldly, "Tell me quickly, what happened?" "We found that old house called Jinshi Mansion. It's exactly as you described in your novel—a deep, secluded courtyard, eerily quiet. But there's no one in the entire mansion. We've searched every room, and they're all empty." "Isn't Mr. Ouyang home?" "What Mr. Ouyang? He's a character you made up in your novel, isn't he?"

I sensed something was wrong: "What do you mean?" "We asked the villagers yesterday, and they said Mr. Ouyang died of cancer eight months ago." "What?" "Mr. Ouyang is dead. He died eight months ago. Everyone in the deserted village says so. We even found his grave on the mountain." Instantly, a chill ran down my spine: "Impossible, absolutely impossible!" "I'm not lying to you. No wonder you wrote in your novel that Mr. Ouyang's entire family died, right?" "No!" I was stunned, unsure how to describe what I had seen to them—suddenly, I had a premonition, as if the aura of the deserted village had entered my room through the radio waves. I immediately shouted: "Huo Qiang, where are you now? How is it?" "We're in Jinshi Mansion. All four of us are here." "Leave quickly! Leave the deserted village immediately and come back to Shanghai." But Huo Qiang stubbornly said on the phone: "No, we don't know the secret of the deserted village yet. We can't leave." He hung up the phone.

After a long while, my thoughts slowly returned from the chaos. I carefully recalled what Huo Qiang had just said—was Mr. Ouyang really dead? He said Mr. Ouyang had died eight months ago, but didn't I see Mr. Ouyang with my own eyes when I arrived at the deserted village four months ago? He even warmly invited me to stay in the old Jinshi Mansion, and he personally told me the three stories about the Ouyang family's ancestors. If, as Huo Qiang said, Mr. Ouyang had died eight months ago, then who was the Mr. Ouyang I saw in the Jinshi Mansion four months ago? Could he be… No, I dared not think any further. Although I had written so many horror novels, I had never truly experienced something so terrifying: seeing a ghost. Unbelievable! I could only describe this as unbelievable. To think that this person I had once met face to face had actually been dead for several months at that time—how could anyone believe it? At this moment, my mind was in turmoil again. Normal logic could no longer explain all of this. Was this also part of the mystery of the deserted village?

Suddenly, I thought of someone. It was Ye Xiao. Those who have read my novels know that Ye Xiao is my cousin, an excellent police officer who has appeared in numerous mysterious cases and has offered me much help. Now that I'm facing such a difficult situation, it seems only Ye Xiao can help me. That evening, I went to Ye Xiao's house. My sudden visit surprised Ye Xiao somewhat; he was still the same as always, his young, cold face exuding a mature air. He said he had recently finished solving a mysterious case and was on vacation these past few days. Moreover, he had also read my novella, "The Deserted Village."