Born with Yin-Yang Eyes: If Buddha Won't Save You, I Will

Lin Mo first clearly saw a "thing" on a summer night when he was three.

A draft crept through the main room of his family's old home. The dim kerosene lamp stretched his grandmother's shadow long across the mottled earthen wall. Wrapped in a thin quilt, he huddled in her arms. He should have been growing drowsy, but his gaze was caught by a hazy gray shape in the corner.

It looked neither like a person nor like the old locust tree in the courtyard. It hunched over, its head tilted to one side, and there seemed to be a dark mark around its neck, as if something had strangled it. It clung to the corner, motionless, "watching" the kerosene lamp, or rather, watching his grandmother beside it.

"Grandma, there's a grandpa by the wall," Lin Mo said softly, tugging at her sleeve.