The shadow of the old locust tree stretched long under the moonlight. Grandma, swinging the cattail fan, sat on the bamboo chair, tracing the lines of the old time with her fingertips, and told me bit by bit the scary stories hidden in the night and scattered in the countryside. Those legends about strange shadows in old houses, whimpering in barren tombs, and old things turning into spirits were once frightening on childhood pillows, but now they have become lingering mysterious marks in time. I sorted out these scattered stories in my memory one by one and wrote them into a book - each one is a true anecdote from my grandma's mouth, and each page is soaked in the coolness accumulated by the years. When I opened this book, I walked into a childhood wrapped in horror legends, listening to those supernatural whispers that spanned time, slowly telling the unknown weirdness and weirdness in the world.
