At my grandfather's funeral, a green and black hand suddenly stretched out from the coffin and grasped my ankle tightly. All the relatives and friends in the hall were frightened and fainted on the spot, but I clasped the wrist with my backhand. My Yin and Yang eyes opened, and I caught a glimpse of the last words my grandpa left for me - there were ninety-nine evil spirits locked on the third floor underground of the funeral home, asking God not to leave. On the day I inherited the inheritance, the owner of the paper-making shop next door sent a wreath with a note: "Within three days, the evil spirit will break through the shop and the whole town will die." I smiled, burned three sticks of soul-defying incense, and pulled out my ancestor who had been dead for a hundred years from the freezer. Thirty-six interpretations of folklore, every word is murderous. Want to learn? I'll teach you.
