My grandma died.
That night, as I kept vigil, something scratched inside the coffin.
The whole village heard it, but no one dared make a sound. I was the only one who patted the lid and said, “Grandma, settle down.”
The coffin fell silent.
But a bloody mark appeared in my palm, scratched there from the inside.
My grandma was the only spirit medium for miles around. Before she passed, she left me three things: a spirit altar, a wild fox, and a red cord that could never be severed.
She told me, “Sui’er, don’t touch them.”
I didn’t listen.
Only after I touched them did I learn that the Jiang family’s three generations of spirit mediums weren’t doing good deeds to build up merit. They were guarding a door for something.
The thing behind that door had been hungry for a hundred years.
And my blood was the key it had waited a century for.
