The Art of a Hundred Ghosts

The night before, someone in the village had died. He was a middle-aged hunter, skilled at his trade and known to everyone in the village. The animals he caught cried out miserably as they struggled, but his cries that night were even worse. When the villagers rushed over, the entire thatched hut reeked of blood so foul it made them sick. The steady drip, drip, drip of blood seemed to hold a strange power, drowning out every other sound. That night, every child in the village was frightened. It seemed they had all had the same terrible nightmare. At dawn the next day, Wang Youcai jolted awake from his nightmare...