My name is Wang Miao. I was born in a drafty mud-brick house at the head of the village. For generations, my family has been made up of farmers scratching a living from the soil.
Ghosts are real. I’ve known that since I was little. At midnight, the old well west of the village echoes with the sound of water being drawn, though no one is ever there. In the graveyard on the back hill, ghostly flames drift about like tiny stars. When the wind blows, they wail like women crying.
I’m terrified of ghosts. Scared out of my wits.
I don’t know a single spell or art of the Dao. I’ve only heard the old village shamaness talk about drawing talismans, chanting incantations, and walking ritual steps. When I spot a hungry ghost crouching in a corner, I don’t dare make a sound. I can only hold my breath and hurry along the wall. At night, when I hear fingernails scratching at the door outside my window, I shake beneath the covers, too afraid even to cry out.
The villagers say I’m as timid as a mouse, but they don’t know that those blue-faced, fanged shadows and those chilling sighs really can latch onto people.
All I want is to quietly farm my land and spend my life tending my half-acre of poor soil. But then, one day, while gathering firewood in the mountains, I came across a girl in a white dress. She floated in midair, with no shadow beneath her feet, and smiled at me.
My legs went weak with terror, and I collapsed on the spot.
Who could have guessed that someone as terrified of ghosts as I was would end up haunted by one, and set out on the path of a Daoist priest?
The writing is good, food and supplies