When I stood in front of the old house, my phone showed exactly three in the afternoon. The blazing July sun hung overhead, but the blue-brick, gray-tiled house before me seemed to be steeped in icy water. Even the moss on the doorstep glimmered a ghastly green. The moment I slid the key into the brass lock, a chill wind suddenly slipped through the crack in the door. It felt as if it carried countless tiny shards of ice, crawling up the back of my neck and spreading down my spine. I instinctively reached for the jade Buddha against my chest. It was the last thing my father had sent me before he disappeared. The moment I pushed open the door, a heavy scent of sandalwood mixed with mildew rushed toward me. On the Eight Immortals table in the main hall
