CORPSE WHISPERER

Grandfather walked slowly into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "What were you two discussing?"

I shot Detective Sun desperate, pleading looks. Oblivious, the big man not only recounted everything but showered me with extravagant praise. "Lao Song! Your grandson is something else! That case had us stumped for weeks. We turned the place inside out, found nothing. Yet this kid," he jabbed a thumb at me, "took one look at a photo and cracked it. He's got a gift! Honestly, after high school, skip university. Degrees are a dime a dozen these days, just leads to unemployment. Let me write him a recommendation for the police academy! True talent should shine, right?"

Grandfather waved a dismissive hand, his voice icy. "You flatter him. He's merely parroting words from some dusty family tomes, playing at expertise before the master. Moreover, the Song family has an ancestral prohibition: 'Serve no office, hold no post. Preserve wisdom, preserve life.' Put away your schemes. I will not hand this child over to you." His cold gaze swept over me, forcing my head down.

Detective Sun sighed heavily. "Lao Song, you're impossibly stubborn! Still hung up on those three years you spent sleeping in a stable? Wasn't that cleared long ago? It's the 21st century! Forget your ancestral edicts, you old mule!" He turned to me, clapping my shoulder conspiratorially. "Kid, tell me. When you grow up, don't you want to be a cop? Catch the bad guys with Uncle?"

Under Grandfather's stare, I didn't dare breathe wrong. I shook my head vehemently.

"Sun Tihu," Grandfather said, his voice low and final, "The Song family's path is not yours to understand. I seek nothing else in this life but peace and safety for my descendants. These dangerous professions end here."

Detective Sun opened his mouth to argue, but Grandfather raised a single hand. It was a command. "If you have no further business, leave. Or consider this door closed to you henceforth."

Detective Sun swallowed his words. He picked up his briefcase. "Alright, Lao Song. I'll go. Next case, I'll be back." He offered me a final, encouraging nod before striding out.

As the sound of his car faded, the air in the living room thickened like tar. Grandfather settled into his high-backed chair, cradling a teacup. I stood before him, trembling.

"Yang'er," he began, his voice deceptively calm. "How much of those two books have you read?"

I stammered, "A-all of them." The truth was deeper – starved of other reading, I'd devoured those forbidden texts until their spines threatened to give way.

Grandfather took a slow sip of tea. Then, his voice took on a strange, rhythmic cadence: "Yù shì mò zhòng yú dà pì, dà pì mò zhòng yú chū qíng, chū qíng mò zhòng yú jiǎnyàn." (No duty in the law is graver than the death penalty; no aspect of the death penalty is more crucial than the initial circumstances; no part of the initial circumstances is more vital than the examination.)

My mind snapped to attention. I recited the next line, my voice surprisingly steady: "Gài sǐshēng chūrù zhī quányú, yōu wǎng qūshēn zhī jī kuò, yúshì hū jué." (For upon this hinges the boundary between life and death, the mechanism that rights wrongful bends and extensions.)

He continued, his eyes fixed on me: "Huái tāi yī yuè rú bái lù; èr yuè rú táohuā…" (In the first month of pregnancy, the embryo is like white dew; in the second month, like a peach blossom…)

I met his challenge: "Sān yuè nánnǚ fēn; sì yuè xíngxiàng jù; wǔ yuè jīngǔ chéng, liù yuè máofà shēng; qī yuè dòng yòushǒu, shì nán yú mǔ zuǒ; bā yuè dòng zuǒshǒu, shì nǚ yú mǔ yòu." (In the third month, male and female differentiate; in the fourth, form takes shape; in the fifth, bones and sinews form; in the sixth, hair grows; in the seventh, movement of the right hand signifies a boy, on the mother's left; movement of the left hand in the eighth month signifies a girl, on the mother's right.)

Both passages were from Washing Away of Wrongs: The Original Manuscript. He was testing me. As my last word hung in the air, the teacup slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor.

"Yang'er," he breathed, astonishment widening his eyes, "You've memorized the entire book?"

"M-more or less," I admitted, flushing.

"Truly, a son of the Song bloodline." Pride flickered in his eyes, then vanished, replaced by a profound shake of his head. The conflicting reaction terrified me. I braced for fury, but none came. Only later would I understand the war within him: elation that the family's legacy lived on, warred against dread that I would walk his shadowed, perilous path.

"Heaven toys with us!" The lament escaped him in a long sigh. He rose, his gaze deliberately avoiding mine, and walked towards his study, hands clasped behind his back. I stood rooted, a tumult of shock and uneasy relief washing over me. Was I… spared the rod?

Deep in the night, Grandfather woke me. "Dress. We go." Bewildered, I pulled on clothes and met him in the courtyard. Without a word, he thrust a pickaxe into my hands and strode out into the darkness. I hurried after him.

Our town was small; heading south quickly led to wild, untamed hills. The moon was absent, the stars sparse pinpricks. We walked through a silent chestnut grove. The only sounds were the crunch of dry leaves underfoot and the unnerving, mournful cries of unseen creatures deep in the woods. Fear prickled my skin.

Soon, we emerged into open wasteland. My foot kicked something hard. I looked down. A human leg bone, weathered black by sun and rain. Memory struck: this was the unhallowed burial ground. Legends spoke of Ming dynasty bandits who'd slaughtered here, dumping their victims. The land had festered with ill luck ever since. Strange happenings were common. Nearby villagers refused to face their doors this way. Unclaimed corpses, the disgraced unfit for ancestral graves – all ended here, rolled in straw mats.

Ghostly, pale-green flames danced in the gloom, swirling around me like wraiths. Fireflies? Impossible. This blighted ground choked life; nothing thrived. These were the 'lí hái zhī huǒ' – corpse candles – the 'ghost fire' recorded in the Manuscript. Phosphorus from rotting bones, ignited in the air. Knowing the science didn't stop the chill crawling up my spine.

Just as my heart hammered against my ribs, a dark shape exploded from the mound! It froze ten meters away, eyes blazing emerald fire, fixed on me. A scream tore from my throat.

Grandfather scooped up a stone and hurled it. The shape yelped – a sharp, canine sound – and vanished into the undergrowth. "A dog," he said calmly. "Don't be afraid."

I swallowed hard. "Grandfather… why are we here?"

"You'll see."

He led me to a pile of stones. "Dig."

"Dig?" Shock jolted me. "Grandfather… is this a grave?"

"What else would be buried here?" he replied flatly.

"But… grave robbing is illegal!"

"This isn't robbing. It's opening the coffin to examine the corpse. No more talk. Dig." His tone brooked no argument.

Resigned, I swung the pickaxe. It was a stone cairn, punishingly hard work. City-raised and bookish, my hands were soft. Blisters screamed into life almost immediately.

Grandfather stood nearby, lighting his long-stemmed pipe. The pungent smoke drifted over. It was acrid, yet somehow… calming. It pushed back the graveyard's clinging, supernatural chill.

I lost track of time. Sweat stung my eyes, soaked my shirt. Then – thunk. The unmistakable sound of metal hitting something solid beneath the stones. Wood? Bone? I dropped the pickaxe and began clawing rocks away with my hands. Soon, blackened bones emerged.

I glanced at Grandfather. He puffed his pipe, silent. I kept digging, pulling bones from the rocky tomb. Finding a clear patch, I began arranging them into the shape of a man. Though I'd never touched a corpse, the Examining Bones chapter in the Manuscript described each skeletal piece meticulously. Assembling the puzzle wasn't difficult.

Bone met bone. Joint slotted against joint. But as the form took shape beneath the cold stars, a cold certainty seeped into me.

Something felt wrong.