Chapter Seventeen: The Haunted House

Just as that thing was about to fly straight at me, I heard a sharp smack by my ear, and then a dark shadow was sent hurtling backward, scattering the mist in the courtyard in all directions. Focusing my eyes, I saw a black, indistinct object roll twice on the ground before it suddenly took off into the air. In Old Miao’s hand appeared a stick, and a few feathers drifted down. He called Stone, and, by the light of the torch, we could see three bloody scratches on the back of Stone’s hand, so deep in places that the bone was nearly visible.

Old Miao carried medicinal herbs with him; as he applied them to Stone’s wounds, he said, “It was a great owl. If it had scratched your eyes, that would’ve been a disaster.” Stone bore the pain stoically, letting Old Miao tend to him without so much as a frown. Instead, he snapped, “Damn it, I’m going to kill that thing!” His eyes shifted toward the hunting rifle slung over Old Miao’s back, and he grinned, asking, “Grandpa, is that gun of yours any good?”

Old Miao tied off the bandage with a sharp tug, making Stone’s mouth twist in pain. At the mention of guns, Old Miao couldn’t help but talk: “It’s not bad at all—when winter comes, we rely on it. In these mountains, there’s no grain; we have to hunt before the snows seal us in. Our little village can’t compare with the big farms out on the plains, where there’s white bread every day, but we have plenty of game—roe deer, sika deer, pheasants, wild boar, you name it. Every household must have a good gun; it’s our lifeblood.”

Stone put on a sycophantic smile. “How about letting me have a look at it?”

Old Miao eyed him suspiciously. “You know how to shoot?”

“Of course I do. My grandpa taught me to shoot when I was five.” That much was true—Stone came from a military family and had an innate passion for firearms, indulged at every turn by his doting grandfather. While other kids played at war with wooden guns in the courtyard, he’d steal his grandfather’s service pistol during afternoon naps and play for real—once, a bullet whizzed so close to the son of the district chief of staff that to this day, that boy’s knees knock whenever he sees Stone. Stone, as people say nowadays, was a little tyrant, but he only threw his weight around among his own kind, and his rule was simple: he only picked fights with those tougher than himself, never bullied the weak.

Old Miao, seeing that grinning face, answered firmly, “No. I can’t just let you use the gun.”

Stone was not so easily discouraged. He tried a different tack. “Grandpa Miao, it looks to me like your gun’s front sight is a bit off.” Stroking his chin and circling behind Old Miao, he said, “Yep, it’s off by a couple degrees. At close range, it’s fine, but over fifty meters, the shot will be way off.”

Old Miao was a man whose love for his gun was second only to his own life. After a lifetime as a soldier, it was his very soul. He was meticulous in cleaning and oiling it. At Stone’s words, he immediately took it down to check, squinting through the sights and muttering, “Doesn’t look off to me.”

Stone sidled up and pointed at the barrel. “Right there—see? And here. Oh dear, your gun’s no good. The barrel’s got a crack—might blow up in your hands.”

Old Miao went pale. “A crack? Where? Show me.”

“Here, and there…” Stone gestured wildly, then seized the gun. “Let me show you.”

By then, Old Miao had fallen squarely into Stone’s trap. He never expected that the chubby kid—still a child in his eyes—could change face so quickly. As soon as he handed over the gun, Stone dashed into the courtyard with it.

Holding his breath and closing his eyes, Stone listened carefully. From the western corner, he heard the faint flutter of wings. Without aiming, he lifted the gun, pulled the trigger, and fired. The boom was deafening, much louder than a rifle’s crack. None of us kids had ever experienced such a thing; we were startled and at a loss, while Stone cursed under his breath, expertly ejecting the spent shell and readying for the next shot.

Seeing that things were getting out of hand, Old Miao rushed forward and snatched the gun away—if anything happened, as the host, he’d be held responsible. Stone, meanwhile, grabbed my torch and leaped into the courtyard. Soon he emerged, holding a black, basin-sized owl.

“A gentleman always settles his scores—you scratch me, I shoot you!”

Old Miao glared at him. “You’re out of control, boy. I’ll report this to the team. This kind of mistake must be addressed!”

Yet for all the commotion, I found myself oddly reassured. Stone was truly fearless. Chen Wenbin cast only a glance at the owl and quietly instructed, “Cut off its head. Later, sprinkle its blood outside the gate.”

Stone’s voice shot up several octaves. “Whoa—never would have guessed you had it in you, brother. Were you a butcher in a past life?”

Chen Wenbin glanced at the plaque above the courtyard gate. “If you want to sleep soundly tonight, do as I say. This place isn’t exactly clean.”

“Oh, come on, brother, don’t be so mysterious. This place is obviously haunted—no one’s lived here in who knows how many years. Just say it’s haunted and be done with it. Ghosts? Hah! You ever seen an execution ground? I was seven or eight the first time I went to one. Brains splattered with one shot. Sure, I hid in the carriage on the way there, but on the way back, they forgot me, and I ended up sleeping there till dawn. If anywhere’s haunted, it’s there—someone died there every day, and I still managed to sleep till morning. Who’s afraid of ghosts? Only cowards.”

Old Miao, who shunned all talk of such things, finally lost his patience. He yanked the towel from around his neck and smacked Stone on the forehead. “You talk too much!”

A smirk played at the corner of Chen Wenbin’s mouth; he was growing annoyed with Stone as well. Spending the night in a temple was taboo—his master had always told him, if you have to sleep outdoors, better a grave mound than an abandoned temple. Deciding to teach Stone a lesson and curb his arrogance, he said, “Brother Stone, we’re all cowards here. Why don’t you keep watch outside for us tonight?”

“Keep watch?” Stone hesitated. The execution ground story was just a tale of a lost child with no other choice. In this creepy place, he’d need at least three or five companions. Alone all night? He was genuinely uneasy—those battered temple statues, half their heads missing, looked anything but friendly.

Seeing his reluctance, I chimed in, “Yes, that’s right, Brother Stone. They say there are tigers, leopards, and wolves here. Old Miao didn’t sleep a wink last night—he can’t keep this up. You can shoot, you’re so brave…”

In a flash, Stone was hoisted onto a pedestal he couldn’t easily step down from. Saving face, he forced himself to act unfazed: “Fine, as long as Old Miao lets me have the gun.”

Whether from exhaustion or confidence in Stone’s marksmanship, Old Miao handed him the hunting rifle. “There are five cartridges in there. Lose even one, and I’ll settle accounts when we get back.”

Stone shouldered the gun and entered, but his bravado faded; that cocky grin had turned liver-colored. Still, he had to keep up appearances. Trailing behind, head hanging, owl in hand, he looked utterly dejected.

There was indeed a main hall inside, its door half-shut, thick with dust and cobwebs—a clear sign no one had been there in ages. I circled the entrance with my torch, burning away the webs. Just as I was about to push the door, Chen Wenbin called out, “Wait, Xiaoyi, don’t move.”

“Huh?” I stopped and looked back. He stepped forward, wiped the dust from the door, then asked, “Grandpa Miao, did you enter through this door back in the day?”

Old Miao pondered for a moment. At Chen Wenbin’s question, memories stirred. That day, he’d been chased by collaborators, running along the ridge. He hadn’t taken the path we used now, but had come down from the mountain. Spotting these buildings, he’d rushed inside, found a hole in the wall, and crawled through. The collaborators chased him to the courtyard but, for some reason, circled outside and eventually left. He’d slept for a while, then crawled out the same way.

“I really didn’t come in through this main door. It was a hole on the east side. I always wondered why those collaborators, after chasing me dozens of miles, didn’t follow me in.”

Chen Wenbin, though young, spoke with conviction. “Someone among your pursuers knew their stuff. This door should never be used. It’s what saved your life that day.”