It rained blood from the sky on the day my grandfather was buried.
The moment the coffin was lowered into the earth, I heard three knocks from inside: Thump. Thump. Thump.
The village elders said, “Rain on a coffin brings ten years of sorrow. A coffin that knocks spells disaster.”
I didn’t believe them. I studied history. I believed in materialism.
Not until the night we kept vigil, when dark red liquid seeped from the pillars of the old house.
Not until I read this in my grandfather’s diary: “In the eighteenth year of the Republic, our family owed Yuannaoshan a life.”
Not until I climbed the mountain and saw the altar, the skeleton, and the final words carved into the cliff face:
“This woman carries my child. One sacrifice, two lives.”
Ninety-eight years ago, my great-grand-aunt was burned alive as a human sacrifice. She was carrying a child when she died.
That child was my grandfather.
And now, that thing has come for me.
