Fantasmas de la tumba antigua

Capítulo 1

Heart Dust, by Xiaolong

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It's time for horror, Hu Jiujiu

Has anyone ever had a near-death experience? You mean that incredibly desperate feeling? A near-death experience is actually a kind of climax, similar to sexual climax. Some people with deviant tendencies put plastic bags over their heads to seek the euphoric feeling of suffocation. Medical experts analyze that this "sexual asphyxiation," due to oxygen deprivation and alkalosis, can produce symptoms of excitement and unparalleled pleasure. Therefore, many people actually suffocate to death from this, often mistaken for suicide. Those in the know understand that it's actually death from exhaustion.

Horror is a near-death experience. Good horror novels can also make people feel suffocated, but it's a "pseudo-suffocation." After the terror, you can still come back to life; you won't actually die. Stephen King's horror novels have remained bestsellers precisely because horror is a shadow over the entire human psyche. This global specter wanders everywhere, creating oxygen deprivation and alkalinity, causing widespread panic, thereby alleviating (or deepening) the inherent loneliness and isolation of humankind.

Therefore, the feeling of terror is a scarce resource; it needs to be artificially created. This makes good terror (perhaps this is grammatically incorrect; terror itself has no good or bad, only different levels) exceptionally rare. It is far more terrifying than bad terror, terror that is easily understood, or terror that evokes no terror at all. However, the problem is that good terror is always in short supply, while terror that evokes no terror at all, though highly sought after but rarely available, always floods the market.

This time, however, I was so terrified that it took me several days to recover, and I even developed a cough—I used coughing to bolster my courage. The reason was this: I studied medicine in university, which meant going to the anatomy lab, and in the anatomy lab, I would face mummies. Since starting university, I haven't eaten cured meat because its color and smell are just like a mummie. After starting university, many terrifying stories about the anatomy lab circulated, the kind that would scare you to death. In May 2005, the "Anatomy Classroom Series" of horror novels was published, a total of 12 books, released at a rate of about one every two months. The first book was called *Heart Dust*. I wasn't the author, but I'm proud to say that the book is entirely based on my medical school.

The horror in *Heart's Dust* can also be described as "born from the heart." It first introduces a terrifying scene, then reveals the terrifying emotion, and finally unveils the truth: the horror stems from unresolved worldly desires within. Interspersed throughout are Otaki-esque elements: hypnosis, the path to monastic life, chanting, and numerous convincing medical facts. All the characters are beautiful female classmates, and all the lovers are quirky boys. After a love triangle, the male protagonist dies unexpectedly, his body donated to the anatomy department. However, though he is dead, his heart is broken, and he lingers in the world, possessing another boy who enters the school three years later, thus enacting a series of terrifying campus horror dramas. Ordinary horror would be one thing, but Otaki also forces romance into the narrative, making it not only terrifying but also heartbreaking. Therefore, the book shamelessly proclaims itself "fantasy-cool." It is recommended that naive young girls not read it lightly, lest they risk double the oxygen deprivation and alkalosis.

The book, originally published online, has already garnered countless clicks and positive reviews. Compared to Stephen King's "The Shining," "Heart Dust" may be more suited to the tastes of Chinese readers. It is a rare gem among domestic horror novels, leaving readers in awe. It also breaks the monopoly of a small group on the discourse of Chinese horror novel creation. Within the broad basket of horror, it simultaneously incorporates both intellectual and emotional elements, and enhances the realism of horror with realistic depictions. This is truly an anomaly in recent years.

The up-and-coming author Kotaki has quietly arrived with his groundbreaking horror masterpiece, "Heart Dust." In the title page, he quotes a Buddhist scripture: "The past mind is unattainable, the present mind is unattainable, the future mind is unattainable." "The mind is without hindrance; because there is no hindrance, there is no fear."

The reason why Xiaolong's horror aesthetics are so unique is precisely because of his life experience and knowledge accumulation. His complex simplicity and simple complexity permeate and subvert each other to achieve a first-class level. In reality, he is also an unfathomable person. I have known him for ten years, and after reading his "Heart Dust", I can't help but feel more and more unfamiliar with him.

In his Duino Elegies, written 70 years ago, Rilke wrote: "If I cry out, who among the angels of every rank will hear me? Even if one of them suddenly embraces me in his heart, I will perish because of his stronger presence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terrors that we just happen to be able to endure, and we admire it only because it is too serene to deign to destroy us. Every angel is terrifying." Yes, every angel is terrifying, including Xiaolong, including each and every one of us.

The boy cried wolf

A shadow swept through the jungle, followed by a sigh.

It is fear, oh little hunter, it is fear!

—Kipling, "The Little Hunter's Song"

Chen Bing

"Heart Dust" is marketed as a "super popular online youth fantasy novel," which is as nonsensical as calling Foucault's theory "queer theory." Only after reading it did I realize that "fantasy and cool" is horror plus heartbreak—a sharp eye that almost hit my sweet spot, even for an old-timer like me.

Today I mainly want to talk about the age-old topic of fear. From a medical perspective, fear originates from tiny fiber chains between nerve cells in a small almond-shaped tissue (the amygdala). This is a product of our ancestors' evolution to guard against wolves and tigers. Modern youth are no longer concerned with this; their worries are mainly about three things: academic performance, personal relationships, and living expenses. However, the amygdala, which controls fear, has existed since the day it appeared in the primitive brain, and continues to exist as a high-level trigger for human behavioral responses. Why? Because regardless of whether the wolf is coming or not, Little Taki is here!

The eerie cover of *Heart Dust* made me hesitate for a long time. I was terrified that opening the title page would reveal a disheveled female ghost slowly crawling out of the book, scaring me to death. But after finishing it, I found I wasn't scared to death; in fact, I felt a strange sense of camaraderie, like "after the ordeal, we're all brothers." Paul Newman believed that fear can cause three definable reactions: the feeling of fear and the urge to run; sudden anger or intense dissatisfaction; and a light, ethereal feeling or "boundless" pleasure. And so, Kotaki succeeded. Ah, humans!

Paul Newman also said that fear and curiosity are chemically similar. That's incredibly insightful. The scene in the book where Yan Hao, Shen Zihan, and Ren Xuefei break into the dissection room at night is strikingly similar to a scene in a horror movie where someone hears a strange noise behind the door but insists on opening it—it truly evokes both pity and anger at their lack of resolve. Afterwards, the captivating drama of wandering souls, possession, hypnosis and being hypnotized, a gentleman's pursuit, unrequited love, and ultimately, a lingering love story between a human and a ghost unfolds naturally, scene after scene.

It's impossible not to mention the author, Xiaolong. He was once a vegetarian, meditator, hypnotist, writer, and musician—a veritable master. Four years later, he's produced "Fantasy Cool," making one wonder about his motives. Regarding the dissection room, Xiaolong once wrote "The Mystery of the Dissection Room," a Baroque work with elaborate rhetoric. In his writing, the dissection room is like Foucault's prison, bathroom, and library—"sites"—possessing unique aesthetic value. Why would such a profound, even bittersweet, person now offer "light, boundless pleasure"? I think this reflects the growing pains contemporary people (or contemporary intellectuals) are experiencing: first, learning knowledge; then, observing the world; finding it unclear; then, learning culture, trying to find suitable tools for dissecting the world. Some find them, achieving a peaceful end; others don't, like Jiang Boyu, who, three years after his death, remains in the "intermediate state" (bardo) and hasn't entered reincarnation. Kotaki, with his profound understanding of Buddhism, naturally knew the difference between Hinayana and Mahayana. Hinayana advocates that there is only one Buddha in the world, and that one must renounce worldly life and practice asceticism to attain Arhatship, emphasizing personal perfection; Mahayana, on the other hand, advocates that all beings in the world are Buddhas, and that one can attain Buddhahood through lay practice, emphasizing the salvation of all sentient beings. His shift from profound theoretical and complex debates to popularization and accessibility has a strong implication of transforming Hinayana into Mahayana, though this is merely my presumptuous conjecture, which only elicits a smirk from Kotaki.

On the title page, Xiaolong boldly copied the Heart Sutra: "The mind is without hindrance; because there is no hindrance, there is no fear." He seemed to be detached from terror, yet his inner fear was still discernible. The writing in *Heart Dust* flows smoothly, the language fresh and natural, making it a satisfying read (it can be finished in half a day). However, once the story shifts to the anatomy lab setting, Xiaolong becomes serious, even reverent. A gothic, eerie atmosphere sends my adrenaline soaring, making my heart pound. This change in writing style shows that Xiaolong still experiences fear, "attachment." Actually, it's a good thing: today's good young people are like the sun at eight or nine in the morning, roaming freely in this bright world, but fear reminds us that we should still maintain reverence for certain deities in this world, such as Xiaolong's medical school anatomy lab.

Xiaolong, who is "troubled," repeatedly mentioned "the anatomy room on the left side of the first floor of the Basic Medical Sciences Building" in the article, a place where I spent five years of my youth, which made me feel like I was in a dream.

Writing book reviews seems like a good thing: how impressive, I'm reviewing other people's books! But actually, it's a trap, especially when writing for acquaintances. An old flame suddenly pulls out something incredibly impressive, creating a kind of estranged comedic effect: out of nowhere, he irresponsibly deconstructs himself right in front of you, leaving you with the arduous task of reconstruction. That's all I have to say. The wolf hasn't come, the little dragon hasn't come, but terror has.

I've heard that Xiaolong has signed a 12-book contract with the publisher, which will take more than two years to complete. A friend commented, "Wow, by the time he finishes writing, he'll be like a Qiong Yao novel!" With such a great reputation, I'm eagerly awaiting his return.

The perfect balance of terror is a matter of degree.

Text by: Li Chuchu

Real-world horror often evokes disgust and aversion, while virtual horror, on the contrary, brings us excitement and exhilaration. Around the end of my student years, in the makeshift dormitory arranged by my internship, I began my obsession with horror movies. Back then, a film like *The Ring* would often leave people trembling with fear late at night; some timid individuals even couldn't sleep, and eventually, several grown men would squeeze together to sleep on a shared bed. Extreme psychological terror, yet an unending fascination—this self-indulgent masochism was often labeled as mentally ill, but it didn't stop the "horror fans" from continuing every night.

Nowadays, seasoned "terrorism enthusiasts" are a dime a dozen. The young women in the office get all excited talking about horror novels, as if anyone not involved is seriously out of touch. One has to admire the magical allure of horror. It's said that the origins of horror novels can be traced back to the Gothic novels popular in late 18th and early 19th century England. Stephen King, in particular, made horror novels bestsellers worldwide. Actually, the Chinese have a very long history of appreciating horror novels. Leaving aside the distant past, almost everyone knows the stories from *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, right? When I was a child, I always hoped that movies would show more ghost stories about fox spirits and painted skins, but after watching them, I was so scared that I had to crawl under the covers with my parents to sleep at night.

Horror novels are currently selling well, eliciting mixed reactions from society. Horror fans are happy, but some are reportedly quite worried and even critical. In reality, horror is a paradox; it's not a matter of good or bad, right or wrong. People both desire no horror directed at them and yet create horror to deal with themselves. Therefore, from a need perspective, horror isn't pathological; rather, it's like a threshold—necessary, but too high, too deep. Two stories are said to have occurred at a university in Hunan: one involves a female student, quite brave, who often went for walks alone on Yuelu Mountain in the evenings. One day, after hearing a ghost story from her roommate, she was too afraid to go alone again. The other story involves a female student who often walked alone at night, quite brave, who, one night, couldn't sleep and went to the playground for some fresh air. She was then frightened to death by a couple dressed as ghosts, clearly upset that they had disturbed their rendezvous. This shows that horror, which people both fear and love, isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Speaking of which, I personally believe there's no inherent hierarchy of horror; what matters to readers is the quality of the horror work itself. I believe those so-called horror works that aim to attract attention with gore and violence are nothing but garbage masquerading as horror. Now, I need to mention an excellent domestic horror novel, Xiao Long's *Heart Dust*, published by China Film Press in May 2005. This is the first book in his "Anatomy Classroom Series," a total of 12 books. Before this, I had read many horror books from both China and abroad, and frankly, some gave me nightmares, while others were so bizarre they were incomprehensible—clearly not good things. Therefore, I spent the entire first half of the night anxiously preparing to read this domestic horror novel, because I was terrified that reading this book in the latter half of my single life would leave me both scared and emotionally drained. Fortunately, the book's cover proclaimed: "A perfect blend of beauty, romance, and suspense!" It seems this isn't just a book about horror; it also contains deep affection and love, joy and emotion. So I opened the book completely and continued the horror of the second half of the night.

Thankfully, this is the kind of novel I like—absolutely captivating, full of mystery, yet utterly devoid of gore and violence. A thick book, I read from night until dawn, from suspense to deep emotion. I never advocate for horror works that are unrestrainedly terrifying or lacking in suspense. To be honest, reading Xiaolong's book late at night in bed might require a bit of courage and courage, and I did break out in a sweat, but it was all reassuringly enjoyable. This is a horror story set in a medical university anatomy lab, and also a romantic love story set on a youthful campus. The journey is filled with twists and turns of crisis, terror, and suspense, yet the details are layered and nuanced, never lacking in gentleness and subtlety. At the same time, it's also a pure horror novel, very gently revealing the love, kindness, and beauty within the hearts of the people on the university campus.

Interestingly, Kotaki fictionalizes the events in the anatomy classroom from both medical and Buddhist perspectives, employing a skillful writing style that almost makes the fictional element disappear. Kotaki, a professor at medical school and also a lay Buddhist, is well-versed in Buddhist scriptures, thus achieving a seamless blend of reality and fiction, truth and falsehood, reason and evidence, keeping the reader captivated. This is exactly the point: not too much horror, just enough depth; not too much suspense, just enough flavor. Finding the perfect balance of terror—just the right amount, the right touch—is a delicate art, a difficult skill to master. Thankfully, *Heart Dust* achieves this, Kotaki has mastered it—it makes you fearful yet captivated; it terrifies yet irresistible!

Author's Note

The Tathagata said, "All minds are not minds; this is what is called mind. Why is this so? Subhuti, the past mind is unattainable, the present mind is unattainable, and the future mind is unattainable."

— Chapter 18, "The Diamond Sutra: The Unity of All Things"

When the mind is free from attachment, there is no fear.

—The Heart Sutra

Heart Dust, Part One

Heart Dust One (1)

With a swift movement, the knife swept across the crisp early spring air, creating a sharp and graceful arc.

This is a movement only a skilled anatomist would make. There was no hesitation, no fear whatsoever.

Because, under the knife, there was only a corpse. Death had once visited its owner, but in this fifty-square-meter specimen preparation room, death had long since become a thing of the past.

This is standard procedure. Every fresh corpse undergoes complete disinfection, and its blood vessels and cavities are filled with 10% formaldehyde. It is then stored in a dark, secluded mortuary and fixed in formalin solution for at least six months. Through these meticulous preservation processes, the proteins will not decompose or rot even when exposed to air.

The specimens that medical students can see are at least six months after death. Only corpses that have been preserved for more than six months are prepared according to their intended use. This may involve taking bones, internal organs, cross-sections, or sectional views.

Moreover, this body had been soaking in the solution for four years.

It was an old corpse. However, the body had been preserved and fixed, and the muscles and facial contours indicated that the owner of the body was just a teenager.

Because of this, the chief surgeon made an exception and bent down to examine the corpse's facial features.

"He's quite handsome," an assistant next to the technician said in a low voice.

After being soaked in formalin for a long time, the body had turned a deep brownish-red. From a distance, it was almost indistinguishable from a plastic model. But his facial features were as lifelike as when he was alive. Especially, especially on this ancient corpse.

Perhaps God foresaw his untimely departure and thus mercifully bestowed upon him the virtue of handsomeness.

"He" or "it"—around twenty years old. A straight nose. A slightly upturned chin. Thin, tightly pursed lips. Though the eyes are closed, judging from the long eyelashes, they must have been bright and sparkling in life.

There was no hair—it had all been shaved off during the body sterilization process. The muscles, though preserved and fixed, still retained some elasticity. The outlines of the pectoralis major and biceps brachii were clearly visible.

"What a pity," the chief surgeon sighed softly. Since he started working, he had dissected and prepared hundreds, even thousands, of corpses. He rarely felt any emotion when facing corpses.

Without the fear of death, there is no terror. For such a skilled anatomist, death means the end. And what difference is there between any corpse and a dead cat or dog?

Besides—they are just specimens.

Specimen! This word is enough to destroy all beautiful memories and fantasies about life. Of course, it can also greatly prevent fear from occurring.

Death has already occurred. The warmth, joy, anger, glory, or shame that once belonged to this body are all gone. Today, it will become a specimen for medical students to study.

The timid female medical students never say that the cadavers they'll be dealing with in their anatomy lab are dead people. They just say they're specimens.

But who would believe that some things only begin quietly after death?

The hour hand of the newly bought Citizen watch on Teacher Zheng Dazhi's wrist was pointing exactly to eight o'clock.

The first rays of morning light touched the blade of the scalpel. The indoor lighting was still somewhat dim. The specimen preparation room, which had been closed for the entire winter break, reeked of a suffocatingly strong formalin odor.

The Lantern Festival has just passed, and most people are still immersed in the excitement and laziness of the holiday. But the start of the new semester at medical university is fast approaching. Today is the first day back to work for faculty and staff. Anatomy technicians are beginning to prepare specimens for the students to use in the new semester.

In medical schools, most of the specimens used in systemic anatomy courses are pre-prepared. The heart is the heart, the lungs are the lungs, and the bones are the bones. It's nothing like what outsiders imagine, where students are wielding scalpels and cutting and slicing haphazardly in class.

Even if sold at the market price, each specimen would be exceptionally expensive.

All the students had to do was identify and observe. The actual dissections were performed by anatomical technicians of varying qualifications and titles.

If you've read the story of Butcher Ding dissecting an ox, you can roughly understand what anatomy is all about. It's a completely arduous and technical skill.

Anatomy technicians will remove the human body materials needed for teaching, and then separate, remove, organize, stain, and label them before presenting them as specimens. This process can sometimes take several months.

If it's a skull specimen, they'll use an electric craniotomy saw, an awl, and a file—their skills are no less than those of a machinist or fitter in a machine shop.

If it's a nerve specimen, they will carefully separate it, with trepidation, in a manner as meticulous as Suzhou embroidery.

If it's a skeletal specimen, they will separate all the muscles and carve them meticulously, making the posture comparable to that of a sculptor in the process of creating a sculpture.

In fact, none of the above processes were poetic in the actual scene.

After all, it is the shell of life, one of our kind.

Therefore, psychological qualities are paramount for anatomy technicians.

Today, Zheng Dazhi is facing this ancient corpse. He is one of only two senior technicians in the anatomy department. He is nearing fifty and was among the first batch of university students after the Cultural Revolution. After graduation, he stayed on as an anatomy technician at the university.

Actually, Professor Zheng could have gone to the biochemistry department, but he had absolutely no interest in the invisible and intangible biochemical reactions, such as the tricarboxylic acid cycle of sugars and how fats are converted into calories. Coincidentally, a young teacher in the anatomy department had a skin allergy to formalin, so he took the opportunity to switch jobs and go into that field.

Zheng Dazhi neither believed in gods nor was afraid of ghosts, but he had an old habit—before each work session, he would first light three sticks of incense in front of the Bodhisattva at home.

Zheng Dazhi privately told others that, after all, this involved wielding knives and clamps on a person's body. Maintaining some respect for the deceased might lessen the bad luck.

Today was no exception. Before the three incense sticks had even burned out, he arrived early and opened the door to the specimen preparation room.

Professor Zheng Dazhi needs to prepare a heart specimen for his course on circulatory system this semester.

His choice of this ancient corpse was also accidental.

When he opened the door, he found the body already on the autopsy table.

In addition to the smell of formaldehyde, he also smelled something else in the air. Some of the smells were similar to the three sticks of incense he had burned that morning. However, he couldn't quite put his finger on what those smells meant.

It should be noted that all the doors in the anatomy department were sealed during the holiday. However, when he opened the door to the specimen preparation room, he neglected to check whether the seals had been broken.

Teacher Zheng's assistant is a young teacher surnamed Meng, with a rather artistic name—Meng Qiu. He wears small, round, black-rimmed glasses and seems very honest. He's only been working here for two years since graduating from China Medical University. He's a bit timid, and because he's still inexperienced, he can currently only work as Teacher Zheng's assistant.

After entering the specimen preparation room with Zheng Dazhi, Meng Qiu quickly drew back the curtains to prevent the room from feeling too gloomy. However, since the anatomy teaching and research office was on the first floor of the basic medical sciences building, the garden next to the window was filled with various shrubs such as hibiscus and holly, and a row of lush and vigorous sycamore trees blocked the light. Even during the day, it was generally dark, damp and cold.

Meng Qiu gasped. He had no idea when the corpse had been placed on the autopsy table. Thinking of this, a chill ran down his spine, as if a breeze had swept over him.