Chapter 78: The Person in the Photograph

Zhou Bocai’s body had already been placed in the coffin, though the lid was left ajar. With the chaos of that night, who had time to pay attention to such details? It was only this morning that someone managed to arrange for the body to be properly set aside. By family seniority, Zhou Bocai was not entitled to rest in the ancestral hall, yet somehow his corpse had appeared there. In a society where atheism was promoted everywhere, people could only associate this incident with tales of the undead.

“Shall we go have a look?” the fat man asked me.

I teased him on purpose, “Aren’t you scared?”

He slapped the pocket of his jacket. “Under the bright sun in broad daylight, I’ve got the Red Treasure Book right here in my pocket. If he really gets up, I’ll make him recite a passage from the Quotations!”

But as soon as he turned, he hurried over to Chen Wenbin and whispered, “Master Chen, can we have a peek?”

Seeing how quickly his bravado had vanished, Chen Wenbin joked, “Of course you can! Who knows, maybe he’ll even have a chat with you.”

“Then I’m not going.” He immediately went to pull my father’s hand. “Uncle, let’s go outside and have a smoke. Everything here’s made of wood—we have to watch out for fire hazards…”

There’s no harm in seeing a corpse by daylight; all unclean things share a common weakness—they cannot stand sunlight. Ghostly encounters in broad daylight are rare and usually only happen during overcast or rainy weather. Why can’t spirits bear the light? Perhaps it’s because their souls are incomplete; in the end, it’s hard to explain, but the old rule stands: ghosts don’t stir in daylight, and you’d best stay inside after dark.

Zhou Bocai, my maternal aunt’s husband, lay inside, face down, one foot still hanging over the coffin’s edge—a clear sign that he’d been placed there in a hurry. No matter how brave you are, you’re still only human. I wouldn’t have dared touch him myself. He was clad in an old blue burial robe, his hat missing, and even before I got close, a stench assaulted my nose—an unbearable, nauseating reek, as if rotten eggs, spoiled pork, and sewage had been boiled together. I gagged repeatedly; even the most seasoned medical examiner would have been defeated by that smell.

Clutching my nose, I retreated rapidly. Chen Wenbin stepped back too, apparently overwhelmed.

“How can it smell this bad!” I exclaimed.

Chen Wenbin agreed, “Something’s not right. Even in the heat of July or August, a body doesn’t rot to this extent in ten days. We need to take a closer look.”

I glanced around—the place was shrouded in an eerie gloom. Frankly, leaving the body where it was seemed safest; where else could we put it?

“What about his family?” I asked.

A neighbor answered, “They’ve all left. His old father was taken away by his daughter. Who would dare meddle in this mess? I reckon they’ll wait until a new clan leader is chosen before dealing with it. For now, just let him rot here. If his family really won’t take responsibility, they’ll just burn the place down. What else could they do?”

After thinking for a moment, Chen Wenbin said, “My advice is not to touch anything yet. There’s more going on here than it seems. I took a close look just now—there are several black spots on the back of his neck. Those aren’t postmortem lividity, but more like a kind of Gu curse. My master once told me that in the Miao regions, such curses were common, sometimes used with evil intent. There’s a kind that controls the human soul; victims develop black spots. If he really was cursed, then this wasn’t an accident—this was murder!”

The neighbor, always eager for drama, gasped, “Murder? Good heavens, that’s serious! I can’t make that call. You’ll have to talk to the others.”

“To whom?” we asked.

“With the clan leader away, there are still several elders who handle all matters—our village’s old hands. You’ll have to find them.”

Led by the neighbor, we met those elders—three men and one woman, all in their sixties or seventies. In Scholar Village, seniority was strictly observed. Besides the standard village committee, there was also a clan-based authority—this was the true seat of power in the village.

This power center consisted of one clan leader and four elders, all from the Zhou family. In effect, this organization held sway over the local government; all matters, big or small, were theirs to decide. When we arrived, they were in the midst of discussing the selection of a new clan leader.

After explaining our purpose, Chen Wenbin shared his suspicions, but they cut us short: “Who are you people? What right have you to interfere in our affairs? If you’re mourning, come back another day—we’re busy.”

And so we were shown out. Thinking back, who were we indeed? What right did we have to meddle in their business?

On our way back, the neighbor confided, “Don’t blame them. The village is wealthy now. Whoever becomes clan leader gains control of that mountain mine. See those boats lined up on the river? They’re all here for coal. From this river, you can reach the Yangtze; factories along the banks are desperate for supply. They’re practically hoping for the old clan leader to die.”

“Why? Wasn’t he a good leader?” I asked.

“He was—too good, in fact! Every household with someone over sixty gets a five-hundred-yuan gift each year, and the village covers school fees for kids under sixteen. Our village may be remote, but we were the first in town to get electric lights and tap water, all thanks to the old clan leader. Those elders are all eyeing the position—it’s a cushy job. When the old man was here, no one dared make a move, but now that he’s gone, things are bound to change.”

My father checked his watch and said, “Thank you, brother. We’ll be off now—let’s come back when the funeral is held.”

When we got to the town center to transfer buses, I had just bought our tickets when Chen Wenbin suddenly said, “I’m not leaving. You all go ahead—I need to look into this further.”

The fat man reached out to feel his forehead. “Master Chen, are you out of your mind?”

“I said, you all go. Something’s not right here.”

The fat man stiffened his neck. “Does this have anything to do with you?”

“It didn’t before. Now it does.”

“What do you mean?”

Chen Wenbin opened his palm to reveal a photograph—black and white, its edges cut in a zigzag, a style common back then.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.

“From their meeting room. While you were talking to them, I glanced at a framed photo on the wall and noticed this one.” He handed it to me. It was a group portrait, three rows of people, with an elderly man prominently in the center. The caption read: ‘Commemorating the Inauguration of Scholar Village Coal Mine, March 1980.’

Not understanding his intent, I asked, “Why are you so interested in this photo?”

“There’s someone here I recognize,” he said, pointing to the man standing on the far left of the third row. “I’ll never forget this person.”

“Come on, Master Chen, you’re joking. These faces are all blurry—how could you recognize anyone?”

“It’s a long story, but this man is extremely dangerous. And as far as I know, he died in Gansu back in 1979. I never expected to see him here.”

I knew that for three years, Chen Wenbin had been apart from us, and he never spoke of what happened during that time. But from the bottom of my heart, I considered him a brother, and I truly didn’t want him to leave again.

I tried to reason with him, “If it’s not a big deal, just let it go. The less trouble, the better.”

“You should go. This doesn’t concern you. But I need to get to the bottom of it.”

“If there’s trouble, why take it on alone? Call the police! Look, the station’s right there. If this is a murder, report it. Who knows, you might solve the case and get a banner that says: ‘The People and the Police Are One Family!’”

Chen Wenbin gave an awkward smile. “This is a family matter.”

I noticed that the man he pointed out in the photo wore black sunglasses and, though he stood at the edge of the group, he was unmistakably conspicuous.

Ye Huan! Those two words Chen Wenbin would never forget. Even though Ma Sufeng never named Ye Huan as his killer, Chen Wenbin knew that his master’s death was tied to him. The way Ye Huan acted during the great fire at Yeren Village had astounded him—the skill and fluidity of his methods surpassed even Ma Sufeng at his peak, and that overwhelming stench of death could be sensed from afar.

Later, even when he went to Heilong, he never saw Ye Huan again. He once asked Kuangfeng about him, but Kuangfeng only shook his head, saying he hadn’t seen the man with the black sunglasses since he’d arrived—that was the first and last time.

He had never imagined that Ye Huan would appear here.

“All right,” I said, “if you’re staying, I’ll stay with you. Dad, why don’t you head back first? We’ll stay a couple of days…”

“Wenbin, among you three, you’ve always been the most sensible. Now you’re all grown up and should have your freedom. But remember, when troubles become too great, let others bear them—life’s road is long.” It was the first time my father had spoken so thoughtfully. Watching him board the train alone, I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

Once the train had left the station, the fat man finally burst out, slapping his thigh and laughing. “That’s brilliant! Xiao Yi, your old man’s got some culture, after all!”

I didn’t cover for him and played along, “Of course. He even went abroad back in the day.”

“Really? Where to—Europe or America?”

I replied irritably, “North Korea.”

The fat man was speechless.

And so ends this chapter. Thank you, friends, for your support.