My grandfather was a master of the esoteric arts. His world was filled with feng shui, face reading, Taoist magic, and yin-yang arts. After he died, I inherited his legacy, along with all the trouble that came with it. It was as if every paranormal incident in the world had found a new target.
Were the sobs heard late at night on campus the cries of restless souls, or did they hide a deeper secret?
Why did the zombie hesitate before the feng shui master? Was it a thousand-year-old curse, or an unfinished bond?
Was the shadow of death hanging over the hospital just a part of nature, or the work of supernatural forces?
Was the phantom in the theater an echo of history, or a crossing of reality and illusion?
Were the whispers from the ancient tomb a warning from the dead, or a summons from another world?
Behind every incident lurked a host of mysterious faces, and I seemed to be the only one who could set them free. But the truth was far more elusive than it appeared.
