Volume One: The Graveyard of Eight Coffins Chapter One: Courting Calamity

Do you know what a haunted house is?

A haunted house, as the name suggests, is a place where someone once died an unnatural death. Such deaths—be it by accident, suicide, or murder—are said to leave behind restless spirits, for their lifespans were cut short and they died with regret. Their souls are rumored to linger in their former homes, making these houses notorious for strange happenings.

Because of this, owners usually sell these properties at a loss. Back then, pressed by financial hardship and by a twist of fate, I stumbled into the business of flipping haunted houses—buying them at rock-bottom prices, ‘dealing’ with them, then selling them for a profit.

The income from flipping haunted houses was indeed substantial. I made a fair amount during those years. But the bizarre and uncanny events I encountered have haunted me like nightmares long after I left the business. Even now, the memory chills my spine and makes cold sweat break out on my skin.

Today, I have finally summoned the courage to recount my story, hoping, perhaps, that in the telling I can draw a line under my past.

My name is Li Yang. I had just graduated from university that year. For reasons I could never quite grasp, I’d always been dogged by bad luck during my university years—whatever I tried, I failed. After graduation, I was repeatedly rejected in my job search. Not only did I fail to earn any money, I actually racked up considerable debt.

I came from a rural village. Back then, I was the only one who had made it to university; the villagers had sent me off with great fanfare, and for a time I basked in that glory. But now, I was the worst off among my peers. Those childhood friends who had failed to get into university had started working early and were now doing well, each more successful than the last.

My pride kept me from returning home; I didn’t want my parents to worry about me.

But pride doesn’t put food on the table. Just as I was at my lowest, barely holding my life together, I received a phone call from my third uncle.

My third uncle was quite the character. The word “character” doesn’t begin to cover it—more like an eccentric, really. In his youth, he was a bit of a ne’er-do-well, drinking and gambling every day, until my grandfather finally threw him out. No one knew where he went, but when he returned years later, he was dressed in a filthy, tattered Taoist robe, having become a half-baked priest. When he walked in the door, instead of calling my grandfather “Dad,” he greeted him as “Benefactor,” nearly sending my grandfather into a rage. He was chased out of the house with a stick.

Unable to go home, he set up a fortune-telling stall in town.

Odd as he was, I owe my life to my unreliable third uncle.

One year, while I was away at school, I received a call that my grandfather was gravely ill. I took leave and rushed home at once. When I arrived, I found a crowd gathered in front of our old house.

My aunt, eyes red from crying, told me my grandfather was near death, but he was holding on, refusing to go, because he wanted to see me one last time.

I hurried to my grandfather’s bedside, tears streaming down my face. The once robust and spirited old man was now almost unrecognizable—lying weakly with his eyes closed, whispering my name.

When he heard I had returned, his eyelids fluttered and he opened his eyes. With difficulty, he raised his hand and pointed to the door. Everyone understood; they quietly left, leaving just the two of us.

I noticed the skin on his forehead shifting, revealing pale lines—skin usually hidden beneath the wrinkles, untouched by the passage of time.

My grandfather’s eyes locked onto mine. His Adam’s apple bobbed as if he wanted to speak. I leaned in, straining to catch his words.

His face twisted in pain; his throat made a strange hissing sound, like air leaking from a tire. His face flushed red, his chest heaving.

I had never witnessed anything like this—was this what dying looked like? I wanted to ask if he was all right.

But just as I opened my mouth, a breath escaped from his throat—unlike the foul last breaths of the dying, it was fragrant, almost sweet. I was caught off guard, mouth open, and inhaled that breath. A surge of icy air shot down my throat and flooded my body. Instantly, I felt as if I’d plunged into an ice pit; my head grew heavy, my body leaden, and I collapsed to the floor, unable to stand.

Hearing the commotion, the others rushed in. My grandfather had passed, but although I could see everyone, I seemed to have lost all sensation—I couldn’t even summon the strength to speak.

At that moment, my third uncle—who hadn’t been home in ages—suddenly appeared, shouting, “Yangzi’s been hit by the Doom Breath! Don’t touch him!”

Seeing the urgency, and with the house thrown into chaos by my grandfather’s death, my family could only let my uncle take charge.

He carried me to another room, found a battered bowl, and took a handful of beans from his satchel—I could make out some glutinous rice and black beans among them, but not much else. He put the beans in the bowl, poured in half a bowl of liquor from my grandfather’s gourd, then chanted over the bowl for some time. Finally, he struck a match and set the liquor alight, filling the room with the scent of grain and wine. Unbothered by the heat, he stirred the mixture with his hand, then pinched my earlobes and the soles of my feet with his wine-soaked fingers. He pried open my mouth and poured the still-flaming liquor down my throat.

The bowl of liquor, after being handled by his grubby hands, disgusted me, but I was too weak to protest. As I swallowed, a warm current spread through me, bringing relief.

My uncle fumbled around inside his clothes, as if digging through mud, for a good five minutes before producing a needle—fine as a hair, pitch black, who knows if from dirt or by design.

He pinched the needle, eyes closed as if summoning his strength, sweat dripping from his brow. My parents crowded in, anxious but unwilling to interrupt.

At last, my uncle’s eyes snapped open; he stabbed his own left middle finger with the needle, then pressed it to my forehead between the brows, gritting his teeth as if extracting something.

I felt nothing as the needle pierced my skin. My uncle seemed to pour his whole strength into that single motion—bracing himself with one hand on the bed, the other gripping the needle, his face flushed with effort—until finally, he drew out a fine black-green thread. As soon as it left my body, it dissipated into white mist and vanished, and the needle snapped in two.

Only later did we learn that the last breath a person exhales before death is called the “Doom Breath”—the most toxic and impure thing accumulated in a lifetime. If it lands on a flower, the flower withers; if it clings to clothes, one falls ill; if it strikes the face, it can sap your vitality for years. That’s the real meaning behind the phrase “to suffer misfortune.” If someone were to swallow it as I had, without my uncle’s intervention, I would surely have died.

Even so, it took me half a year to fully recover.

After this incident, my family’s view of my third uncle changed, and the villagers came to see that he did possess some skill. Whenever there were weddings or funerals, families would ask him to help. Still, his peculiar nature kept him on the fringes, and no one truly welcomed him—except for me, when I came home on holiday. I was the only one who’d chat with him.

One time, as soon as I arrived home, my uncle approached me mysteriously. “Nephew, do me a favor,” he said. “There’ll be something in it for you.”

When he finished explaining, I nearly lost my temper. That wretched uncle of mine wanted me to climb into a coffin meant for the dead!

We were only eight years apart, and with his unruly temperament, I often spoke to him with little regard for seniority. So I retorted, “A favor? Are you mad? You know I’m your nephew, right? You want to bury me alive?”

Seeing I was upset, my uncle hurried to explain. Old Liang, the wealthiest man in the surrounding villages, had suddenly fallen ill and was unconscious, on the verge of death. He had three sons, and with his passing, there would be no clear way to divide the family’s considerable fortune. So his sons came to my uncle to find a way to prolong their father’s life for three more days.

My uncle devised a ruse and wanted my help. He assured me I’d only be pretending—the coffin was made of paper, with a thin layer of dirt on top. I just had to lie inside for one night, and he’d let me out at dawn.

Still, I snapped, “No way. Lying in a coffin? That’s bad luck.”

But my uncle insisted, “You silly boy, you’re still worried about luck? That ‘Doom Breath’ from your grandfather—I got it out, but your bad luck hasn’t lifted yet. You might be plagued by misfortune your whole life. My plan kills two birds with one stone: we help the Liang family and, by spending a night in the coffin—half in the world of the dead, half in the living—you’ll be as good as reborn. Your bad luck will be gone. When you come out in the morning, you’ll be radiant, your fortune will turn, you’ll rise to riches and success…”

He counted the benefits on his fingers, saliva flying, and then pressed two thousand yuan into my hand as a down payment, promising even more when it was done.

Knowing the Liang family would pay well, and swayed by my uncle’s earnestness, I was tempted—and, in a moment of weakness, agreed.

Everything went according to my uncle’s plan. That night, I crawled into the coffin he’d prepared, which was set in a freshly dug grave behind the hill. Everything but the coffin and myself was authentic—real funeral rites. Lying inside, I heard the three sons wailing like fools, calling out “Father” to me. I nearly burst out laughing.

But as soon as they sealed the coffin and covered it with soil, I began to regret it. Once the lid was shut, I was plunged into utter darkness. When the soil went on top, the silence was absolute. I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat...