Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

Once we started chatting, I learned the corpse carrier's real name was Zhao Dadan. He was from Xingtai, Hebei, and often worked in the Beijing-Tianjin-Shanghai area. This time, he was hired because a man cleaning silt from the moat in Beijing had accidentally fallen into the river and drowned.

The deceased's son pulled some strings to find Zhao, hoping to bring his father's body home for burial. Due to funeral reforms, bodies are required to be cremated immediately—moving them otherwise is illegal—which made Zhao's line of work more lucrative. This job alone started at 40,000 yuan, with half paid upfront.

Despite his rough appearance, Zhao Dadan was chatty. He asked, "Where are you headed? You don't see many practitioners of the occult these days. I thought you might have skills, but judging from your earlier performance, you nearly killed a man over a small issue."

His words made my face burn with embarrassment—it was truly humiliating. Sure, our talismans impress ordinary people, but in front of real masters, my skills looked amateurish.

Zhao burst out laughing: "Damn it all, I stuck my nose in your business. Anyway, it's about dinner time—let's go grab a drink?"

He seemed like a decent person, and I agreed. After all, in an unfamiliar place, tagging along with a streetwise veteran like him would save a lot of trouble. We left the train station and found a small restaurant about 60 square meters in size. The owner, judging by his accent, was from Northeast China. We ordered a few affordable dishes; the tables were a bit greasy, but for folks like us who traveled all over, that didn't matter.

When Zhao learned I was also headed to Jilin, he stomped on his giant luggage bag, took a swig of liquor, and chuckled: "See? It's fate. Not gonna lie—once you reach Changsong Ridge, you're practically at Changbai Mountain." Then he lowered his voice, curiosity gleaming in his eyes: "I've met other priests like you on my jobs—they go deep into the mountains, and that's never for anything good. Come on, which big shot's tomb are you targeting this time?"

"Watch your mouth. Tomb raiding is illegal. I'm just going to gather some medicinal herbs," I replied quietly. I was on an official mission and had to find an excuse.

Zhao didn't press the issue. I noticed that since I started wearing my Taoist robes, I'd become more withdrawn, and idled away time smoking. That made it hard to get a lively atmosphere going, and before we knew it, night had fallen. A few long-haul drivers drifted into the restaurant for dinner.

Suddenly, I felt a chilling gust of yin wind sweep over me. A middle-aged woman entered—and floating behind her was a man in his forties, clearly a ghost.

Zhao and I exchanged a look; he sensed something was wrong, too. The woman greeted the owner: "How was business today?"

"Not bad," he replied with concern. "You haven't been feeling well. Stay home and rest, okay? If it gets worse, I'll hire someone."

"No need," she said weakly. "Hiring help is expensive, better to save money for new clothes for our daughters for the New Year."

I sighed. Ghosts don't attach themselves to innocent people—like the saying goes, "He who does no evil need fear no ghosts." The ghost glared at the woman, full of rage. Sometimes he hovered over her head, sometimes behind her—a classic sign of "ghost riding the head," which, in the occult, means deep karmic entanglement. Without some unresolved cause, a ghost standing on someone's head would be instantly struck down by divine retribution.

I hesitated about getting involved. But then the woman continued, "My mom called today. Our younger daughter's been sick with a fever, crying for me. Maybe I'm just stressed out."

Her words stirred my compassion. Life is a struggle; she wasn't a bad person—just a worried mother. Her husband looked honest, too. So I stood up. Zhao took a swig of liquor and shook his head helplessly: "Busybody."

"You're one to talk," I said, pointing at the broken chopstick in his hand. Bamboo wards off evil; the sharp tips of bamboo chopsticks are lethal to ghosts—he'd been on the verge of acting, too.

I walked over to the couple. They smiled politely: "What can we get you?"

"Just taking a look." I squinted at the ghost behind the woman. He glared at me in warning, but I ignored him and addressed the woman: "Big sister, haven't you been sleeping badly? Spine pain, stiff neck, trouble sitting up in bed, chest tightness, shortness of breath, and frequent fevers?"

The whole restaurant fell silent as diners watched, intrigued.

"H-how do you know?" the woman stammered.

"And you've been dreaming of a strange middle-aged man. He's around 45, clean-shaven, deep forehead lines, wearing a gray long shirt, with some white hair—am I right?"

The woman turned pale with terror and nearly collapsed: "Oh my god, you're exactly right! Every night I dream of a man saying I killed him. I've been so scared I can't sleep, and I haven't dared tell my husband!" She burst into tears.

I quickly helped her up: "No need to kneel, big sister."

Other diners were on their feet, whispering excitedly: "Is this real? It's like something out of a movie!"

"Shush, let's see what happens," someone said.

Her husband looked panicked: "Brother, you sound like you're from Shenyang? I'm from Chaoyang—half a hometown connection! What you said is true—she's been out of sorts for days. We run this little restaurant, barely scraping by. She didn't want to spend money on a doctor, but I'm worried sick."

My mother used to work as a restaurant waitress, so I understood how hard this line of work could be.

Meanwhile, the ghost hovered above the woman's head, glaring at me: "Busybody—aren't you afraid I'll haunt you tonight?"

His threat irked me. Did he think I was some amateur? I was the 108th head of the Maoshan Sect—he dared speak to me like that? If I weren't worried about karmic consequences, I'd have exorcised him on the spot.

"You're threatening me?" I sneered. "Do you want me to destroy you right now?"

Ghosts fear ruthless men; he instantly fell silent, glaring venomously but not daring to speak.

The other diners grew nervous, whispering: "Who's he talking to? He's not faking it, is he? This is creepy."

The couple turned pale: "Brother, who are you talking to?"

"Don't worry about it," I said sternly. "I just need to know—have you ever taken a life?"

"Never!" the husband replied, deadly serious.

"Have you ever cheated customers or used bad ingredients?"

"No! We use only quality ingredients—our place is messy now only because my wife's been sick."

I turned to the woman: "Swear you've never done harm or deceit. If you lie, blood will be shed within three days."

Terrified, she sobbed: "I swear! We've never cheated or hurt anyone. We're honest people just trying to get by."

They swore, which was my goal. If they invoked heaven themselves, it freed me from karmic entanglement. I glared at the ghost and said coldly: "Come down now, or I'll destroy you in three breaths! It's not a special day, yet you dare seek a living person's life? I'll go to the Underworld myself and ask the judge what your crime is!"

"You're unreasonable!" the ghost wailed, terrified I might truly be a powerful master able to walk freely into the underworld, where punishment would be inevitable.

Our exchange sent half the restaurant fleeing; only a few brave truck drivers stayed to watch. The couple stood frozen, drenched in sweat.

The night outside was pitch black, adding to the restaurant's already eerie atmosphere.

"Unreasonable?" I scoffed. "Then tell me your reason—or don't blame me!"

I revealed my Celestial Master's Token, its pure yang energy causing the ghost to drop prostrate: "Please don't harm me! It's her fault—she trapped me in a garbage bag for three days. I couldn't let it go without scaring her."

His answer shocked me. The couple seemed like ordinary people—how could they have imprisoned a ghost?

I pressed him for details. He explained he'd slipped out of his grave during a memorial service to see his newborn grandson, but as he passed under the woman's window, she threw a trash bag that landed squarely on his head—inside was a bloody sanitary pad. For ghosts, menstrual blood is highly unclean, binding him instantly. He was trapped in the bag, taken away by garbage collectors, and left to rot in a stinking dumpster for three days. By the time he escaped, he'd missed his grandson's feast—and rage brought him back to seek revenge.

After hearing his story, I turned to the woman: "Throwing garbage like that was wrong, but it wasn't intentional, nor deserving of death. Since it was an accident, kneel and kowtow in apology, and then offer him some paper money and incense. Will you accept this resolution?" I asked the ghost.