The Yin Land Deed

My name is Chen Xuan. I rent a shop in a corner of Panjiayuan, selling paper offerings, but business is dismal.

Three days ago, a hunched old man in a black padded jacket brought me a yellowed old deed to settle a debt. He said it was the title to his ancestral home. It read: "Third year of the Jiaqing reign, Liujia Gou, one yin dwelling, covering half a mu."

I thought it was just scrap paper and casually tossed it into the counter.

That night, I had a strange dream.

In the dream, I was dressed in a burial shroud, carried by four paper figures as I swayed into an underground residence. White lanterns hung on the vermilion gates, and four characters were written above them: Liu Family Villa.

The moment I pushed the doors open, a faceless woman sat in the middle of the main hall. Holding my deed, she laughed hoarsely:

"Chen Xuan, since you've accepted the deed, you're the new owner of this yin dwelling. Remember to come collect the rent at midnight tonight."

I jolted awake, ice-cold all over. My phone screen was lit up, showing the time: 11:57 p.m.

On the deed atop the counter, a line of vivid red brush-written characters had appeared in the previously blank "Tenant" section:

"A hundred years of unpaid rent, due today. Liujia Gou, beneath the old locust tree at the east end of the village, there is a door."

Without thinking, I reached into my pocket and felt a freezing cold copper key. I swear, I'd never bought the thing.

Outside, all the streetlights in Panjiayuan suddenly went out. In the distance, I heard chains dragging along the ground, drawing nearer and nearer