Grandma died.
She had a smile on her face when she passed.
She left me one sentence: “Don't open the basement door.”
I've lived in this old house for twelve years, and never knew there was a basement.
On the night I returned to our old home in western Hunan for her funeral, something beneath the floor started knocking on the door.
I should have listened to Grandma.
But I didn't.
Only after I opened the door did I learn that everyone in this alley was hiding the same thing from me. The fire thirty years ago burned down more than just a house. And Grandma's death was no accident.
The thing beneath the ground has awakened.
