After my grandfather passed away, I returned to the ancestral home passed down since the Jiaqing era.
Five strange rules, etched into the bones of the family, had been handed down with the old house: At the hour of the dog, only one lamp may be left lit. At the hour of the pig, no one may enter the attic in the west wing. If you see a shadow pass through someone's body, don't look back. If you hear someone calling at night, never answer.
The family all said that a secret chamber in the attic held treasures left by our ancestors. Yet everyone who tried to peek inside met with misfortune. My reckless eldest uncle barged into the attic and has been mentally addled ever since. A Gui burned incense and knelt to pray for help, only to be knocked unconscious by a hard object. Even a young child who wandered close to the attic came down with a high fever and wouldn't wake up.
Was it punishment from our ancestors, or fear born from the delusions of the human heart?
When everyone pried open the sealed door, a centuries-old misunderstanding was revealed in an old notebook.
But how can we explain the figure in an official robe that my uncle spoke of, or the kindly old man seen by the child?
The so-called haunted-house stories of the ancestral home were, in the end, stories of the human heart.
(Short story | Complete)
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