On the day my grandfather was buried, blood rained from the sky.
The moment the coffin was lowered into the ground, I heard three knocks from inside - thump, thump, thump.
The old man in the village said: "The rain hits the coffin, which means it will be sore for ten years. The sound of the coffin means great disaster."
I don't believe it. I study history and am a materialist.
Until the wake night, dark red liquid oozed from the pillars of the old house.
Until my grandfather wrote in his diary: "In the 18th year of the Republic of China, our family owes Yuannao Mountain a life."
Until I went up the mountain and saw the altar, the white bones, and the final painting carved on the cliff——
"This girl has enough flesh and blood to sacrifice two people."
Ninety-eight years ago, my great-aunt was burned to death as a living sacrifice. He died with a child in his belly.
That child is my grandfather.
And now, that thing has come to find me.
