Chapter 53: The Qipao Woman of the Republic Era

But what I hadn’t expected was that, just a few days later, Old Xie appeared to me in a dream. He was holding a mourner’s staff, wearing gaudy floral shorts, and his big, pale legs showed up right in the midst of my angelic dream.

And he didn’t just walk toward me as usual—instead, he grinned slyly, pointing the mourner’s staff behind me. Suddenly, I caught a whiff of burning paper money. In that instant, I knew something was terribly wrong!

I turned my head and, damn it, Old Xie had brought the paper doll I’d burned for him straight into my dream. He sneered, “Kid, you think you can just burn three and your Old Fan and I won’t fight over them? This one’s Japanese—enjoy yourself.” With that, he clasped his hands behind his back, laughed loudly, and strode out of my dream.

I looked back at the Japanese girl. She wore a coquettish expression. I collapsed right then and there, and after a bout of passionate entanglement, I woke up to find my pants soaked. But honestly, her service was nothing short of extraordinary.

Since it all happened in a dream, in reality it was just a nocturnal emission—nothing major. Still, I was annoyed at Old Xie for pulling such a stunt. There was nothing I could do, though. I could only shake my head with a wry smile, light a cigarette, and sigh, “That old fox is as cunning as ever.”

By then, dawn had broken and I had to go to work at the bakery. I changed clothes and strolled over in good spirits. When I arrived, I didn’t see the same group of girls from the day before. The boss told me that one of them had died from drinking too much. How could I not know? I’d watched her soul be taken away with my own eyes the night before.

But that wasn’t even the strangest thing. Last night, Old Xie had told me something else in my dream: those girls were wayward, addicted to drugs at such a young age. If they lived past twenty, they’d be lucky. He warned me not to get too close to them.

After that, those girls never appeared before me again. Life remained in balance until my job ended and the new semester began.

On the first day of the new term, I went to the bakery to say goodbye to the boss and his wife. They’d treated me well, always looking out for me. I was truly grateful to them. They might have seemed stern, but their hearts were kind. After all, who wouldn’t want their apprentices to be as outstanding as themselves? Perhaps that was why this small store was always so popular.

Senior year felt fresh and new. Stepping into my final year was like entering the campus for the very first time: everything was filled with curiosity.

I arrived at the senior-year teaching building. It was grander than any I’d seen before. Students carrying textbooks bustled through the classrooms and corridors, and the atmosphere was tense with the urgency of this final year.

The senior-year building was situated in the most remote corner of the campus. On ordinary days, no one came here except the teachers and us seniors. This was, after all, the most critical time of our lives.

However, something strange had been happening lately. A student, driven mad by academic pressure, had jumped from the building. She was a review student named Nuolan, a girl who had always kept herself pure and focused, with excellent grades. She had no reason to jump—the grades alone would have guaranteed her graduation.

Her body was quickly dealt with, and after three days of mourning, her family stopped pursuing the matter. Yet every midnight, eerie, chilling laughter echoed through the building, as if mocking the helplessness of the world.

The terror became so great that the college locked the building at night, forbidding any student to approach under penalty of expulsion.

Even so, some still dared to take the risk, until a month into the semester, when a girl was frightened to death in the corridor—blood seeping from her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. After that, no one dared tempt fate again.

But while others were scared off, the twelve bold lads in our dormitory still craved adventure. We voted: ten in favor, two against. The dissenters—Ji Wuli and Ran Lingpeng—had both seen ghosts before, but their opposition was overruled, and they were forced to join us under the weight of our majority.

We decided to sneak into the building the next night. During the day, I asked Wang Sheng for twenty protective talismans—one for each of us, just in case.

Not just talismans; we’d also brought pomelo water. Rumor had it that dabbing pomelo water around one’s eyes could temporarily open a person’s third eye, allowing them to see what was usually hidden.

Night fell swiftly as we prepared. Soon, the academy’s whistle signaled students to leave. In less than ten minutes, thousands had evacuated, leaving only our group of reckless fools behind.

Night invaded like a demon, shrouding everything in darkness. Only the pale moonlight outside illuminated the silent building. But moonlight was nothing like sunlight—it was strangely eerie, heightening the haunted atmosphere.

The clock struck ten. The ghostly laughter started again, melodious yet chilling, echoing from some unknown place, as if from the netherworld.

Just then, I sensed a deathly aura approaching. My corpse-detecting eye opened instantly, and I saw a woman in red standing at the door, watching us.

She was rather beautiful, though her attire was from the Republic era. What did she have to do with Nuolan?

I steadied myself and whispered to the group, “She’s here!” My voice was low, but in the silence it sounded loud enough for the ghost to hear. Her eyes grew sorrowful, as if she’d found what she was looking for.

She entered the room, but none of the others saw her. Ordinary people, full of yang energy, needed help to see into the spirit world.

Erpeng and the others watched me staring at the door, but to them, only a shaft of moonlight was there. Ji Wuli trembled and tugged at my sleeve. “Brother Dong, who’s here? Don’t scare me. I can’t see anything.”

I motioned for them to be quiet and kept my eyes fixed on the woman as she walked over and stopped in front of me. She smiled enchantingly, as if trying to captivate me.

To be honest, in her cheongsam she hardly looked poor, and the thick rouge on her cheeks revealed her vanity, even in death.

Her waist was slender, her movements soft and graceful—almost alive. As she sat next to me, her snow-white thigh peeked through the slit in her dress, momentarily disorienting me.

She gestured for me to sit down, as if she had something to say.

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