Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

The ghost insisted he never intended to take the woman's life—just to scare her a bit. But even so, a ghost riding someone's head could leave them crippled or worse: the "heavenly lantern" at the crown of the head represents a person's life force, and if it's extinguished, they're as good as dead.

I decided not to quibble over his intentions. I told the husband to go out and buy some ritual supplies while Zhao Dadan and I continued our meal—and even cleared a seat for the ghost. But as we were eating, I got an unexpected phone call; few people ever called me directly.

It was a woman on the other end, sobbing uncontrollably: "Hao Zhuang is dead—it's your fault! Why didn't you persuade him harder? You killed him!"

I couldn't make sense of her crying at first, but then I realized: Hao Zhuang had died in a car accident. I didn't talk with her much, but from what little I knew of the driver, he was a decent, superstitious man. If anyone was to blame, I suspected it was his wife pushing him too hard to keep driving his taxi.

I'd told him before—he'd exhausted his lifetime of good fortune. As the saying goes: "Those who live by the sword, die by the sword." It was a harsh but straightforward lesson in karma.

Soon, the husband returned with joss paper, spirit money, and a bowl of rice with three chopsticks stuck upright in it—an offering for the ghost (as sticking chopsticks in rice symbolizes food for the dead). We burned the paper and prepared a small paper carriage. The autumn breeze blew cool as the ghost sat on the carriage packed with offerings, a small horse pulling it. Though the bell on the horse's neck jingled, we couldn't hear a sound.

"Brother, has he left?" the restaurant owner asked nervously.

I watched the ghost fade into the darkness and nodded. I turned back and warned them: "Don't act rashly again. Not every misdeed is obvious—sometimes, a small careless act brings hidden consequences. If you hadn't thrown that garbage, none of this would have happened."

The couple nodded repeatedly, grateful. The man tried to pay me, but I refused. They also wouldn't accept money for the meal, no matter what I said. By the time we finished, it was almost 9 p.m., so Zhao Dadan and I looked for a place to stay.

Though called Yang Village, it was actually a prosperous town—one of the wealthiest in the country, full of chain hotels, clean streets, and banners on utility poles urging people to follow government policies. As we approached a hostel, a man in his thirties suddenly stepped into our path.

He startled me for two reasons: first, he appeared out of nowhere; second, he had enormous, frightening buck teeth.

"Damn it!" Zhao Dadan swore, ready to punch him on the spot.

"Wait, don't hit me!" the man cried, retreating quickly. "I was at that restaurant too. I heard you talking about going to Jilin—why not let me give you a ride? I'm the driver of that big truck over there." He pointed to a large freight truck parked in the distance.

"No way," I said immediately.

Zhao looked at me like I was crazy: "You idiot—why wouldn't you take a free ride?"

I pointed at the man's face: "You can read a man's heart through his eyes and mouth. Look at him—shifty eyes, upper lip can't cover the lower, and those huge buck teeth. His words aren't trustworthy."

"Come on, how could I not be trustworthy?" the man protested, forcing a smile. "Besides, I won't even charge you."

I just smirked. As a feng shui master, reading people's faces was second nature—just as nose shape can reveal wealth potential in feng shui, facial features reveal character. And this man's crooked eyes and twisted mouth screamed treachery.

"You expect us to believe you'd offer us a ride out of pure kindness? In the middle of the night?" I asked pointedly.

The man laughed awkwardly, but Zhao wasn't having it. He grabbed the man by the collar and lifted him clear off the ground—Zhao's sheer size made him look like he was built in a factory for giants.

"I-I-I just admire your skills," the man stammered, eyes darting wildly, "and thought I could join you on your journey."

"Hit him—he's lying," I told Zhao. His eyes betrayed hesitation; Zhao's huge fist was already cocked, making the man beg desperately for mercy.

By my estimate, Zhao stood around 192–195 cm tall, built like a Western strongman, with massive back muscles. Only my old friend Yicheng ever matched his physical presence. The temperament of corpse carriers like Zhao was naturally fierce: their job required intense yang energy to ward off the corpse's yin, and that constant aggression hardened their bodies and minds.

"Okay, okay! I'll talk—just don't hit me!" the man pleaded. "I'm scared, that's why I approached you. I have to take a shortcut to save money and pick up a load near Qinhuangdao, but I've heard that shortcut is haunted. A few drivers died there recently. Seeing your skills earlier, I hoped you'd come along."

Hearing his story, I began to understand. He was desperate, and time was tight. We couldn't get tickets easily, so after conferring with Zhao, we decided to ride with him.

The man was ecstatic, rushing to carry Zhao's luggage—though if he knew there was a corpse inside, he might not have been so eager.

We boarded his truck, heading straight for National Highway 102. Most truckers drove at night to avoid inspections. The driver played loud music, chatting casually, but didn't pry.

Rocking along the dark highway, I dozed off. When I awoke, Zhao's snores thundered through the cabin. I rubbed my eyes and asked, "Where are we? Don't you need a break?"

"Almost to Qinhuangdao," he replied with a laugh. "We truckers drive all night—it's no big deal."

"Your life is your own. Don't push yourself too hard," I warned.

He shrugged it off, explaining that hiring an extra driver was too expensive, and driving alone saved money. We chatted idly, and I brought up the rumored haunting.

He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "Out with it," I said impatiently. "We're already here—what am I going to do, jump out of a moving truck?"

He sighed. "I won't lie. The last driver who died was my partner. We were driving together. I lived—he didn't."

Then he told me the story:

One night, they were on Highway 102, hungry. They pulled into a village after crossing Longhai Bridge, but the truck suddenly stalled. They spotted a small restaurant by the road, so they decided to eat. His partner even ordered drinks.

As soon as the food arrived, the driver felt sudden stomach cramps. He asked to use the bathroom, but the owner said there wasn't one—he'd have to go outside. He didn't think twice and left.

When he returned, he felt uneasy. Standing outside the restaurant, he realized something was off: why hadn't he heard the sound of cooking? And why wasn't there any steam from the hot dishes they ordered?

He didn't go back inside. Instead, he peeked through the window—and saw the owner and waiters sitting at the table, eating with his partner. But when his partner turned around, his face was that of a woman with no eyes, blood oozing from empty sockets, her face covered in festering sores. The driver fainted in terror.

When he woke up the next day, he found his partner dead, his face torn apart as if mauled by an animal. The restaurant itself had vanished, replaced by an empty lot. If his friend hadn't died, he would have thought it was all a nightmare.

Months passed, but fear kept him from that road. Yet he couldn't avoid it forever: his main contracts in Qinhuangdao required passing through "Ma Village." He sighed, saying he had debts to pay by the New Year—if he missed his chance to earn, he'd lose everything. Seeing my ghost-busting skills earlier, he decided to take a chance, gambling on the saying: "Fortune favors the bold."

His story made me suspicious. If it really was an evil spirit killing indiscriminately, I'd have to intervene. But could it have been wild animals attacking? His description of the injuries suggested something savage.

Lost in thought, I glanced at Zhao, still snoring loudly, and felt reassured. Two were better than one in a dangerous situation.

We reached the port, finished unloading and reloading by midnight. After a brief rest, we set off again. The highway was pitch black, our headlights the only light piercing the darkness.

The driver downed several cans of energy drink. About an hour later, as I smoked a cigarette, he pointed ahead, his face pale with fear: "Th-th-there! That's the place!"