My grandfather was a famous paper maker from all over the country. Before he died, he held my hand tightly and said: "Remember, the eyes of paper figures must not be dotted."
But the next day, I found a paper man with eyes dotted in the corner of his mourning hall.
My name was written in cinnabar on the paper figure.
What's even more weird is that there is a shabby notebook next to the paper man, with various taboos densely recorded on it.
Turning to the last page, it read: "If you see a paper man with eye-drying eyes, quickly cut out the paper soldiers to protect him, and dot the eyes with blood and ink to ward off three disasters."
Trembling, I picked up the scissors and cut out two paper guards.
The moment I lit the paper man's eyes with blood, the candles in the mourning hall went out with a "pop".
In the darkness, I heard two cold voices ringing in my ears: "Master, please give the order."
They stand beside me on the left and right, like the most loyal guards.
But when I saw their faces clearly through the moonlight, I found that they looked exactly like my grandfather.
