Wandering from Village to Village, Hearing Tales of Ghosts

The ghosts in the old alley blend in with the bustle of everyday life.

Someone is always sitting on the empty stool at the shoe-repair stall. Behind the broken wall, a children’s rhyme counts fingernails. At three in the morning, the bowls and chopsticks at the wonton stall clatter by themselves.

The sugar-painting seller, the night watchman, the people sunning themselves, they tell these stories with shining eyes, as if they happened yesterday:

The white shirt on the clothesline runs away. The hallway light always goes out on the third step. The stopped old clock waits until a stormy night to chime in a sobbing voice.

What ghosts? They’re just unfinished attachments, obsessions that haven’t been let go.

The wind is cool at the alley entrance tonight. Want to hear a story that can creep into your very bones?