Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

The police were immediately flustered: "Are you kidding me? You look young and educated—don't you think this fortune-telling nonsense is ridiculous?"

I stayed completely serious and insisted: once I finished the reading, I'd let it go. In truth, all yin-yang masters share a common flaw: meddling in others' business. In this line of work, if you see something, it becomes your karmic responsibility—if you ignore it, it's as if you're creating bad karma for yourself.

It's like if you saw an old lady fall in the street: if you just walked past without helping, the universe might one day repay you with your own misfortune, like finding yourself in desperate need but getting no help.

The police pressed the old woman: "This is absurd! Didn't he steal it? You must know!"

The old lady was at a loss, and the others watching looked at me with disbelief. I stood firm: let me do the reading, then I'd drop it. The young man hesitated, but surprisingly ended up giving me his birthdate and time.

Taking his Eight Characters (Ba Zi), I also asked for a strand of his hair. The onlookers gathered, eager for the spectacle. I smoothed out his hair, pulled a talisman from my green pouch, and wrote his name and Ba Zi on it. I tied his hair into three sections, wrapped them in the talisman, and sealed it with a vermilion pen. Then I drew a "Heart-Linking Talisman," placed it under my foot, and stomped three times.

I chanted: "Heaven and earth, heed my call; by the Five Ghosts' divine power, under the command of Yin Gong—by the urgent decree of the law!"

As I stomped the third time, the young man suddenly struck his own chest three times, then coughed up three mouthfuls of blood. The onlookers gasped in shock. His eyes turned vacant as he stared at the police: "I stole it—3,800 yuan. I deserve to die." He began throwing wads of cash to the floor, eventually stripping to his underwear, retrieving money hidden in his briefs and shoe soles. Everyone stood stunned.

He then started confessing other sins: coming to Beijing behind his current girlfriend's back to meet his ex, getting her pregnant, and helping her get an abortion—crying and kneeling, he poured out every bad thing he'd ever done.

I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. The police were dumbfounded: "Are you two messing with me?!"

As he kept throwing money and wailing, the old lady pointed to a gold necklace on the floor: "Oh my God—that's mine! I hid it in my wallet when I boarded the train!" She excitedly picked it up.

But then things took a terrifying turn. The young man began smashing his head into the floor with a loud bang bang, as if trying to break through the train car. Blood streamed from his forehead.

"I deserve to die! I'm not human—just let me die!" He continued smashing his head. Everyone rushed to pull him away, but he seemed glued to the floor, impossible to move. His head collided with the floor in sync with the rattling of the train, creating a horrifying scene. His forehead was soon a bloody mess.

"Pull harder! Is he going crazy?" the police shouted, joining in. But no matter how they tugged, he wouldn't budge. His nose bent, his teeth shattered.

I was stunned. This wasn't right—Heart-Linking Talismans only made people feel guilty and confess, not self-harm like this. What went wrong?

The police put seat cushions under his head for cushioning. Still dazed, I bent to pick up the talisman. When I lifted it, the cause became clear: by sheer bad luck, a caterpillar had been crushed under the talisman when I stomped, and a rusty nail had embedded itself in my shoe sole. Combined with the talisman, the hair, the caterpillar's poisonous blood, and the nail—it had turned a Heart-Linking Talisman into a deadly "Heart-Cursing Spell!"

Once he finished confessing his life's sins, he'd likely die. The curse had begun—and in folk magic, there's no turning back once a spell starts. It was clear the young man wouldn't survive.

He had been greedy and committed theft, but that alone wasn't a death sentence. Yet he'd also committed sexual sins by forcing his ex into an abortion—an act of killing. Was the universe using my hands for justice?

Remembering Yuan Beitang's caution, I wondered if what I did was right.

The young man kept smashing his head—his nose askew, teeth gone, eyes swollen, forehead a pulp, pupils glassy. He could die at any moment. Just as he vomited another three mouthfuls of blood, I heard a sigh. The burly, dark-faced man stepped up, patted the young man's back six times, then tapped three acupoints: heart, lower abdomen, throat.

As soon as he finished, the young man's eyes rolled back and he passed out. I had seen it clearly: six and three make nine—representing yin six and yang three, classic I Ching numerology. By striking six times, he sealed six meridians, leaving only two open; then tapping three points redirected the curse's energy, releasing life-threatening qi. He had smoothly and subtly broken the curse.

One word described the man: master.

He acted so covertly that no one else noticed—he saved the young man before anyone realized what had happened. The police called for medical staff; bystanders tended the young man's wounds.

The burly man turned to leave. He passed right by me, his towering figure making my 1.8-meter frame seem small. The faint scent he carried made my hair stand on end—I realized the strange smell I'd detected earlier was… calming incense.

Recalling the giant black bag under his seat, I guessed he was one of China's folk specialists: a corpse carrier.

People know about the corpse drivers of Xiangxi, but few realize that in eastern Hebei there's a mysterious profession: the corpse carrier. If that sounds unfamiliar, think of the film Getting Home starring Zhao Benshan.

In remote areas, migrant workers often die far from home. Since ancient times, there's been a trade: corpse carriers, who transport the dead back to their hometowns.

Among corpse carriers, it's taboo to say "dead," "corpse," or "carry." Clients instead say, "Master, please help walk a journey." If you said directly, "Someone died, carry them back," you'd probably get slapped—these men are strong and skilled, and you'd just have to take it.

China's folk traditions are rich with hidden trades and stories. Corpse carriers usually inherit the craft from father to son. They must master corpse-taming methods: a corpse reanimating mid-journey could be fatal. Calming incense locks the three souls and seven spirits, keeps the body supple and unrotten, and allows easy transport in a suitcase or bag.

So, yes—sometimes those big suitcases you see on a train might not hold luggage, but a body.

The train's speaker crackled: "Yangcun Station approaching. Passengers alighting, please prepare."

I knew the burly man wanted to leave quietly. After such a bizarre incident, the police would investigate; if they discovered his bag held a corpse, it'd cause huge trouble. As for me, I'd just injured someone with a curse in front of dozens of witnesses—explaining wouldn't help if they didn't believe me.

So I slipped away too. As the train stopped, the burly man, carrying his massive black bag, loomed like a wall before me. The faint calming incense and his earlier rescue confirmed my suspicion: he was definitely carrying a corpse.

We exited together. Yangcun's small station was nearly empty, the platform eerily spacious. The burly man stopped abruptly, so I did too. Without looking back, he rasped: "Kid, I can see you're from the occult world too. When you wander these roads, it's good to have a kind heart—but don't rush to take lives over small matters. Mind yourself."

I wanted to explain it was an accident, but he'd already walked off. Lighting a cigarette, I realized I'd need a new ticket to Jilin. As I left the station, his imposing figure stood out among the sparse crowd.

We ended up at the ticket hall together. At the window, we were both told: no tickets today! He also needed to go to Jilin. We stared at each other until he cursed: "All your damn fault—if we're late, I'm screwed. Might lose tens of thousands!"

I bristled at his swearing: "It's not like I asked you to get off the train—don't blame me."

"Oh, come on—I just saved your ass back there. Can't I curse you a bit?" he retorted, stepping menacingly toward me.

His size was intimidating, but I wasn't about to back down—I was ready to fight if it came to it. But before we could go at it, station security arrived, waving us off: "Hey! Don't cause trouble here. Out—both of you!"

About five or six guards hustled us outside. Squatting outside Yangcun's small station, we glared at each other before I offered him a cigarette. He took it, lit up, and asked, "You one of the shod or the barefoot?" [In the trade: shod = Taoist priests, barefoot = folk sorcerers.]

"I wear cloth shoes," I answered, then asked back: "Are you one of the Hebei Jin Masters?" [Corpse carriers are called Jin Masters; female spirit guides are called Yin Mistresses.]

He slapped his big bag and said with a wry grin: "Yeah. Got a job—gotta get to Changsong Village near Jilin in seven days for a burial. If I'm late, it'll screw everything up. All your damn fault—could cost me tens of thousands."