C1 Ghost Festival Burning Paper

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a series of small flames began to twinkle at every crossroad in the village and in front of the graves dotting the mountainside. The cool breeze made them flicker, casting an eerie glow. Today was July 15th, and the villagers were honoring the spirits of the departed by burning ceremonial paper.

The 15th of July marks the Ghost Festival, also known as the Yulanpen Festival. Legend has it that on this day, the gates of the underworld swing wide open, allowing innumerable lost souls to visit the world of the living. They come for two reasons: to revisit their old haunts and alleviate their homesickness, and to partake in the offerings made by their descendants during the autumn harvest, a season of plenty even for the famished spirits who have longed for sustenance.

Despite the festival's benevolent intentions, the elders in our families would always caution us, particularly on this night, to stay indoors. They warned of malevolent spirits on the prowl, eager to snatch away the hearts of the unwary. Indeed, while some benign spirits return to check on their kin, there are also malevolent ones that seize the opportunity to escape from the depths of hell—a place not known for its pleasures.

Even if the spirits harbor no ill will, mere contact with them can bring illness to the living. Hence, on the night of the Ghost Festival, it's imperative to stay inside.

Our family, however, is an exception. My mother prepared a warming bowl of ginger soup for me, which, paradoxically, is also meant to cool and suppress the vital energy within me. After consuming it, I stepped out into the night, my family's anxious gazes following me. This has been our ritual every year since Zhou passed away three years ago.

I made my way to the most notorious crossroad in our village, a place teeming with the dead, shrouded in darkness and malevolence, where no one dares to tread after dark. My purpose was straightforward: I was there to seek out ghosts.

My name is Wang Xu. For reasons I'd rather not disclose, I occasionally need to engage with the spectral world. In our isolated hamlet, even if every soul perished, it would scarcely number over a hundred—making such encounters quite challenging. But on the fifteenth of July, when the spirits roam freely, I always manage to find what I'm looking for.

Please don't get the wrong idea; I'm neither a monk nor a Taoist priest, and certainly not a Feng Shui master. I'm just a regular villager from Toad Village. I don't command the high appearance fees they do; ghost hunting for me is strictly a matter of survival.

Autumn nights can be bitterly cold, and that night was no exception. I warmed my hands and rubbed my eyes, and that's when I saw it—a wavering green light approaching. Most people would be scared half to death if they encountered such a thing on the night of the Ghost Festival, but not me. I was thrilled; my wait was finally over!

Ghosts come in many varieties and colors, with green and white being the most common. The white ones are usually the spirits of beautiful women, while the green ones tend to be, let's say, less savory. But none of that mattered at the moment.

I crouched down and crept up on the unsuspecting green specter. In its drifting state, it was impossible to discern its former appearance; it was merely a glowing orb.

I held my breath, pressing a mirror against my chest, and edged closer. The green spirit was none the wiser. A beating heart is the energy that sustains life, and a ghost can sense a living person's approach from afar. But a mirror has Yin properties, and with it shielding my heart, I was invisible to the ghost.

I snuck up behind the green spirit and grabbed its tail, quickly stuffing it into a pre-prepared mineral water bottle, both my hand and the bottle adorned with pre-drawn talismans.

My ghost-catching technique doesn't belong to Buddhism or Taoism. It's a mix of Wild Fox Zen and a bit of this and that, taught to me by an old scoundrel eight years ago, who's since passed away.

He once told me that our profession, known as 'Sorcery,' doesn't adhere to any particular religious doctrine, but that doesn't stop us from learning what the monks and priests know. We just 'borrow' their methods. Sorcerers are feared across all sects—not because we're powerful, but because we have a knack for appropriating their secrets.

Our penchant for pilfering means our spells tend to be straightforward and potent, unbound by convention, and surprisingly effective—like using a mineral water bottle to contain a ghost.

Of course, such practices don't come without their own costs.

I brought along ten mineral water bottles, each capable of holding five to six ghosts. I hopped around the grassy knolls like catching dragonflies, and in no time, I had filled six or seven bottles.

I was much more efficient than I had been three years ago, so I took a moment to revel in my success. However, just as I was about to resume my joyful ghost-catching, I noticed someone burning paper at the village's most remote and sinister crossroads.

The person was a young woman dressed in a clean, trendy white top and jeans, sporting a pair of sneakers that hadn't yet become popular in our village. She was likely a granddaughter visiting from out of town to honor her ancestors.

A few years back, the village's economy had picked up, and the wealthier families had moved to the town. My family was among those who hadn't struck it rich, so I continued to enjoy a carefree existence in the village.

The girl had fair skin and delicate features that spoke of a life unmarred by the harshness of the elements. From a distance, her appearance made me flush with a mix of admiration and embarrassment.

But no matter how attractive she was, burning paper at this crossroads was inviting trouble; the place was thick with malice.

She had drawn a circle and was burning joss paper and paper gold ingots within it. This ritual was meant to ensure that the offerings reached only her ancestors; the circle was a barrier no other spirit could cross. Her choice of location was bold, to say the least.

"Wuwu, Grandpa, are you okay over there? Lele is so distressed..." she sobbed as she tended to the flames. It was a pitiable scene.

This beautiful girl was in danger tonight, and had it not been for me, she might have been in serious trouble. She had unknowingly committed a grave error in her paper-burning ritual.

The mistake, or taboo, was to burn offerings solely for one's ancestors without regard for the wandering spirits. Normally, when burning paper at a crossroads, one should scatter a few extra sheets beyond the circle for the passing spirits. This serves a dual purpose: to clear a path for the ancestors to collect the offerings and to pacify any restless spirits with the currency of the underworld.

In our village, when a child inadvertently offends the spirits and falls ill, the local wise men often advise burning paper as an act of appeasement. It's not that the spirits are inherently greedy; rather, it's a matter of resolving misunderstandings among us villagers.

This young woman was only known within her own circle, which is why the ghosts gathered around her could have easily made up an entire exhibition. Oblivious to their presence, she continued to weep as she burned the ritual paper.

The cries of the living are said to draw the spirits of the departed, so it wasn't long before her deceased grandfather appeared. He had the appearance of a kindly old gentleman, likely from our village... But I must admit, I'm terrible with faces. Despite living here for years, I can hardly recognize anyone apart from the young brides and widows.

As the girl sobbed, I pulled a willow leaf from my pocket to wipe my eyes, allowing me to see the encircling spirits more clearly. That's when I noticed something quite peculiar.

Her grandfather was being forcibly held by seven or eight malevolent ghosts, their faces green and their teeth sharp like fangs. He watched his granddaughter, who continued to burn paper offerings, with a pained expression, his face etched with reluctance and helplessness.