Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

I gave the village head a list of items to prepare. In the countryside, stories of people encountering giant snakes are surprisingly easy for folks to accept—after all, legends of spirits and monsters have been passed down in rural areas since ancient times.

When we headed to the shadow temple, it was already two in the afternoon. Nearly half the village had gathered. Those with weaker nerves stood further back, while the more curious stood closer to me.

The village head asked, "Master, we've prepared everything you requested. What should we do now?" He glanced around nervously before lowering his voice, "We can pay more if needed, but nobody dares touch this—what can we do?"

Looking at the sack full of supplies I'd asked for, I could tell by the quality that the village head was a straightforward, generous man. For example, he'd even bought sturdy cardboard prints, and the images were crystal clear.

I took out a portrait of Chairman Mao and climbed onto the bulldozer, slapping the great leader's portrait directly onto the windshield.

Some villagers chuckled—why put Chairman Mao's picture there? Would it really work? Wouldn't Sun Wukong be more effective?

Those who thought that simply didn't understand. Chairman Mao is a figure revered by hundreds of millions—far surpassing the worship once given to the Jade Emperor or Buddha in terms of sheer number of devotees. In many ways, gods exist because people declare them so. Why else would Jiang Ziya, a mortal, make it onto the Investiture of the Gods?

Anyway, the important thing is: in modern Chinese folk belief, a portrait of Mao is considered the strongest ward against evil. I plastered the portrait firmly to the bulldozer's front glass, then jumped down and pointed to a broken bridge in the distance: "Demolish that."

"You can't tear down the bridge—we're supposed to destroy the temple today, right? Why the bridge? The bridge is convenient for everyone—if we remove it, we'll have to wade through the river," the village head protested, blocking my way.

I paused and asked him one question: "Four people have died on this bridge this year, haven't they?"

The crowd exploded at once. Some women even broke down in tears, clearly having lost loved ones. Hearing their stories, I knew I was right. The village head asked how I knew. He explained that since June, someone had drowned every month, all in inexplicable accidents—despite the water below the bridge never rising above knee height.

Let me describe this bridge: it's made of green bricks, supported by four brick piers, with a bridge deck covered in slippery moss. That alone wouldn't be odd, but the problem is that the water it crosses isn't a river—it's a stagnant pond that reeks of rotting mud.

In feng shui, such a bridge layout is called "Heaven's Twelve Evil Stars Falling into Four Positions." More simply, it's known as a Corpse-Crossing Bridge—destroying the dragon energy, harming the tiger energy, and with the broken bridge pointing at the Black Tortoise direction (north), it creates a killing formation. The four arches beneath resemble ancient crypts used to store corpses. But context is everything—if this same bridge were on dry land, it would be auspicious.

From afar, the bridge looked like a cage. There's an old saying: "A bridge with four arches over water brings illness or funerals."

After I explained this, the village head didn't argue anymore. He waved decisively. "Tear it down!" And the bulldozer rumbled toward the bridge.

The bridge stood not far from the shadow temple, its head pointing directly at the temple entrance. Had the temple housed benevolent spirits, it wouldn't have mattered. But ever since the giant snake had taken over, it transformed the temple into a dark place, combining the killing energy of the bridge with the temple's evil aura—creating a deadly feng shui trap.

How could such a killing formation not claim lives?

While the villagers went to dismantle the bridge, I got busy myself. I circled the temple several times, a few strong villagers following with the sack of supplies. Once I found the right spot, I started hammering wooden stakes into the ground. The choice of wood was crucial: one yang wood stake, one yin wood stake. For example, peachwood for yang, locust wood for yin. The eight types of trees used—peach, cypress, pine, jujube, willow, elm, locust, and pear—represent the balance of yin and yang. I arranged them in a bagua (eight trigrams) formation around the temple.

Each stake was driven six inches deep—every blow struck by me personally. This ritual is called Eight Trigrams Soul-Nailing Stakes and is meant to trap whatever lurks beneath the temple. And what might be below? Perhaps something you've heard of—or even seen.

When the village head first objected to digging, I immediately thought of Tai Sui—the flesh-like spiritual fungus also known as the "Meat Lingzhi." There's an old saying: "Disturbing Tai Sui brings calamity."

This temple was almost certainly built to suppress an evil Tai Sui. Legends say Tai Sui is also an ingredient in elixirs of immortality. Qin Shi Huang sent Xu Fu to find it for his quest for eternal life.

But why "evil" Tai Sui? Because it likely grew in a place of death, like mass graves. Why else would a temple be built right here? I suspect a wandering geomancer chose the site to keep the Tai Sui suppressed. Without the snake demon's meddling, the Tai Sui would have stayed buried peacefully. Perhaps the snake was trying to borrow its energy to aid its own cultivation?

All this was speculation. But with the Corpse-Crossing Bridge feeding yin energy into the temple, and the Tai Sui below, it was no wonder any digging here led to disaster. By the time the bridge was demolished, I had finished planting the stakes.

I then connected the stakes at each of the eight trigrams with red string, enclosing the entire temple. At the Qian (heaven) and Kun (earth) positions, I tied the string especially tight.

Standing at the Dui position, I gently plucked the string, testing its tension. Then I pulled sharply—causing the string to form a backward bow shape. I flicked a coin along the string, sending it flying to land near the temple entrance.

Using the same technique, I shot out six coins in total, each falling at a precise distance. Looking closely, they formed a perfect hexagon.

An old villager who'd seen geomancers in his youth exclaimed, "This young master is impressive! That's the Yin-Yang Guiding Technique—I saw an old master use it to choose burial sites. Amazing!"

Another scoffed, "What's so special? I was great at flicking marbles as a kid."

The old man tried to explain, but he didn't grasp the five-element theory behind it. The coins represent metal, the red string fire, the stakes wood, the ground earth. Only water was missing—yet the true spiritual point contains water vapor. Metal produces water, creating a hidden harmony, guiding the coins to fall perfectly.

The choice of Qian and Kun (heaven and earth) reflects the principle that an evil Tai Sui must be suppressed by cosmic forces, not by directly placing a temple on its head—this protected the builders from harm.

Six coins reflected the six lines of a hexagram. When everything was in place, I examined the resulting divination: a lower hexagram of pure misfortune. The killing energy had twisted the reading, confirming I'd found the right spot.

I marked the site with wooden stakes and told the village head, "Light a fire here. Keep it burning for three days. Assign someone to watch it. If the fire weakens, add wood or even pour in fuel—no matter what, the fire cannot go out."

I stressed that no villagers should touch the soul-nailing stakes. The firewatcher should add wood and leave at midnight, not return until the evening—coming at night risked ghost encounters.

After giving these instructions, the village head and I left. His nephew was assigned to watch the fire. The villagers, long fed up with the cursed temple, were fully on board.

Back at the village head's home, we found his wife sobbing uncontrollably. We soon learned that his son had woken from his nap as mentally a child—curious about everything, calling me "uncle" with innocent politeness. The village head sighed, "Must've been karma from a past life—how did my good family end up like this?"

The saying goes: when you eat someone's food, you owe them a favor. They'd helped me tear down the bridge and temple, and I felt obliged. Examining the old couple's faces, I saw they weren't ill-fated people—their home was prosperous, yet their children suffered repeated misfortunes.

I offered to check their feng shui. Rural homes often avoid major taboos more carefully than city apartments. Their house's layout was actually auspicious—no sign of the dreaded "Five Yellow" misfortune.

"Elder, I know a bit of feng shui. Your home's good, and you two have strong fortune. But lately, have you felt palpitations or chest discomfort?" I asked.

He slapped his thigh. "Exactly! I went for a checkup last week, but the doctor found nothing—my chest just feels tight. How does that relate to my daughter and son?"

I replied, "Take me to your family grave—I'd like to repay your help."

He agreed immediately, hitching up a horse cart. We set off into the countryside. The air smelled of autumn earth, farmers busied themselves harvesting golden fields, and I marveled at the beauty of nature.

By five o'clock, we reached a mountain hollow. One look and I knew the problem. His ancestral grave lay at the meeting point of three hills—a formation known as "Three Dragons Paying Homage," said to grant children great power. One founding leader of our country's parents were supposedly buried in such a spot, bringing their son to high office. But despite the auspicious location, the old man before me had spent his life as a mere village head.

Good omens aside, the problem was clear: lush vegetation surrounded the grave, but the mound itself was barren. The Classic of Feng Shui warns: "If four sides are green but the grave itself is bare, white ants fill the coffin."

The powerful dragon energy had been sapped dry by termite infestation. These giant termites, each the size of mice, would have devoured the coffin, and the queen would have nested in the corpse. Thus, a fate fit for a general had been reduced to that of a village head—and worse, termites in a coffin curse descendants for three generations, bringing repeated calamities.

So I offered him two words of advice: "Move it."