Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

This was truly bizarre—sheep are herbivores, so how could they suddenly start eating people?

The news was far more shocking than seeing a giant snake. After all, the temple had already been demolished and no snake was found; although three corpses were uncovered, there was nothing that obviously screamed "ghostly" to the average villager. The villagers who saw the corpses called the police. Everything looked like a lot of noise with little result, and only a handful knew how dangerous things had truly been.

As for the snake, it had already been struck by heavenly lightning and obliterated. I followed the crowd back to the shepherd's house, which was not far from the ruined temple. The moment I stepped into the yard, a wave of thick, bloody stench nearly made me gag.

In the sheep pen lay Big Tooth and his father, soaked in blood, their bodies so mutilated they were hardly recognizable as human. Surrounding the corpses was the ewe with her six lambs. The mother sheep and her young were calmly gnawing on the bodies, their lips moving rhythmically as they tore at the bloody intestines—many young villagers turned pale and vomited on the spot.

The scene before us was even more shocking than the temple's demolition. Six lambs, six souls? Could it be that the six ghosts freed from the soul-nailing stakes had come to take revenge on the father and son? That was one possibility I considered.

Another guess was simpler: since the ewe's first litter, every one of her lambs had been slaughtered by the shepherd—and always right before her eyes. It's said all beings have spirits, and maybe in a past life this ewe owed the shepherd a debt, returning in this life to repay it. But maternal love—whether human or animal—is deep and fierce. After seeing her babies killed again and again, perhaps the ewe sensed the shepherd and his son's doom was near and decided to repay their cruelty with vengeance, feasting on their flesh with her surviving lambs.

As a Daoist, I study cause and effect—so there's no strict rule about whether one should eat meat or not. But I believe that since all life is equal, we should follow the principle of eating "three pure meats": first, not having seen the animal killed; second, not having heard it killed; third, not having it killed specifically for you. Only then is it considered pure.

The incident of sheep eating people caused a huge stir in the area. Later, police officers arrived to collect the bodies, and I gave a statement. Thankfully, the village head vouched that I was his relative, sparing me a lot of hassle.

The next day, the entire flock of sheep was deemed cursed and strangled to death. Meanwhile, as if sniffing out the scent of profit, the provincial archaeological team swarmed in by the afternoon to investigate. Naturally, the gold and silver the shepherd had unearthed were confiscated by the state.

I ended up staying in Ma Village for four full days. Before leaving, I helped the village head with exhuming his family grave. The process wasn't complicated: burn incense, offer prayers to ancestors, and finish before noon; if not done in time, cover the remains with black cloth.

There's a taboo worth sharing: during exhumation, only the bones should be taken—anything else must be left behind. Nine ancient coins are to be tossed into the grave, burned, and then the grave covered with fresh earth. Skipping these steps can negatively affect the descendants.

As for the coffin opening itself, it went exactly as I expected: the inside was crawling with giant white termites, each as big as a mouse. The moment the coffin was cracked open, the village head nearly jumped out of his skin—especially when he saw the termite queen, which was the size of a puppy and horrifyingly ugly.

I acted quickly, grabbing a branch to kill the queen on the spot. Such things left alive would become a plague sooner or later. Given the queen's size, her offspring were already rat-sized—if left alone, they could wreak havoc on the villagers.

I won't go into all the details of the burial rites—they're long and tedious, and anyone interested can research them themselves. Instead, let's talk about my journey to Jilin.

Leaving Ma Village, I thought the road ahead would be rough. But fortune smiled on me—good deeds are rewarded. The village head's nephew worked for the railway, and as luck would have it, he was in charge of the train line to Jilin. He helped me secure a high-speed rail ticket from Qinhuangdao to Yanji.

With the temple business settled, my mind turned to the Night-Wandering God—I wanted to meet him and ask how much lifespan I'd gained. But as always, he was elusive, appearing and disappearing like a dragon in the clouds. I did consider giving the "old Daoist's" corpse a proper burial, but decided against it—without the snake and temple, it no longer mattered.

Old Zhang had told me before that for a snake spirit to take human form, it must coil around a corpse while sleeping. The snake must have wrapped itself around the Daoist's corpse to assume human form and cause harm. But I saw no reason to dig up the grave now, so I left Ma Village.

Sitting on the train from Qinhuangdao to Jilin, I let out a long breath. People's hearts can be twisted by greed; I sighed at the thought. Even ghosts have taboos about killing, but humans often kill without restraint.

I took out the mini replica map I'd gotten from Xingzhan and studied it. My grandfather had never told me what experiment he was conducting there—he only asked me to trace his steps and look for ancient tombs or cities within the marked area.

I didn't overthink it. After all, it was military business—secrecy is normal. And if it helped the country, I'd gladly do what I could.

I tried calling my grandfather again, but his phone was still unreachable. I was puzzled—what discovery had made Xingzhan so anxious? And why didn't they dare force me? It seemed they feared my grandfather might hand his research to a foreign country if threatened.

My mind was full of questions. Hopefully, the answers awaited me in Changbai Mountain. I steadied myself and began reading about Yin-Yang secret techniques on the train. The soul-refining method fascinated me: to send one's soul to the underworld, you need to find the Yin path, usually forty-nine steps before a lonely grave. Light the soul-summoning incense, build a bridge with tiles, and cross the Yellow Springs—if your soul is strong enough, it can travel directly to the netherworld, and your own power will grow immensely.

Changbai Mountain lies in Antu County, Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture, Jilin Province. So first I had to get to Yanji to change trains. When I stepped out of the station that night, I was instantly stunned—it was freezing cold!

A biting north wind blew, small snowflakes drifted down, and the streets were nearly empty. I exchanged a look with the train conductor as I exited; he chuckled because I'd arrived in just a single shirt.

My lack of preparation hit me hard. With no time to find a hotel, I had to crash wherever I could near the station for the night. I'll spare you the details of the filth and discomfort—let's just say it was pure misery.

The next day, I headed straight for the mall around noon, buying an autumn tracksuit and dressing like a college tourist.

Fate is a strange thing—like invisible hands pulling two unrelated lines to meet at a single point. My first stop was to visit a travel agency; tourist centers were common here because, first, people came to see Changbai Mountain, and second, some wanted to observe the local Korean communities near the border.

As I strolled toward the tourist center, I noticed many fortune-tellers crouched along the roadside. As a practitioner myself, I couldn't help but glance over them curiously.

A wide variety of characters reminded me of those sketchy fortune-tellers from TV shows—guys in cotton hats, hands stuffed in pockets, cigarettes dangling, calling out to passersby in hopes of earning a few coins.

Most of them were amateurs with only superficial knowledge of fortune-telling, so I wasn't interested. I was about to quicken my pace when, at the far end of the line, a stall caught my eye—right next to a sign advertising phone screen protectors.

The fortune-teller there was a thin, forty-something man with high cheekbones, a calm gaze, and a dark blue padded jacket. He quietly watched the stream of pedestrians.

What really caught my attention was the writing in front of him: "Dragon-Seeking," "Grave-Finding," "Face-Reading," with three wooden boards holding them down, and in chalk at the front, four big characters: "Authentic Maoshan."

That crossed the line for me. Authentic Maoshan? Then what did that make me?

I sat down in front of him. He looked up, smiling as his eyes swept over me, his southern accent clear: "Would you like a fortune?"

"Yes. Will you read my face, feel my bones, or analyze my birth chart?" I smiled outwardly, but inwardly I was determined to defend Maoshan's reputation—today, I would expose him as a fraud.

"Any method you like," he replied.

He sized me up carefully, then chuckled. "Your heavenly court is sunken—your life will be unsteady, you'll clash with your parents early on, and your career will falter. May I see your left hand?"

What he said was true, and combined with his calm, confident smile, I felt a surprising sense of trust—this man was the real deal!

I dropped my earlier disdain. In this line of work, it's common practice to start with flattery to avoid angering a client and losing payment. After all, telling hard truths can offend, and most practitioners are a bit superstitious about revealing secrets of fate.

But he had gone straight to the negative, showing he truly knew his craft. I extended my left hand. He took it and studied it for a long moment before breaking into a hearty laugh: "This morning, I cast a hexagram for myself: the Purple Star rose from the southeast and set in the north—sign of meeting either a noble or a relative."

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused by his delighted laughter.

He continued, "My name is Mao Shi. Do you know me?"

I shook my head. I had never heard of him.

He just smiled. "Looks like Master is still as unreliable as ever." He held out his left hand, its fingers covered in scars, fingertips red—a sign of powerful yang energy from years of casting spells, and the scars were clearly from cutting his fingers to draw blood talismans.

"Master spoke with me by phone some time ago, saying he'd taken a new disciple named Zhang Dabao. A few days ago, I saw my Master's jade talisman shatter in Hong Kong, so I rushed back to find you—but couldn't track you down. Soon after, Senior Brother Yuan found me and asked for help with something, so I came to Yanji three days ago."

He looked at me warmly. "Turns out fate has brought us together today."

"You… you're my second senior brother!" I exclaimed, shocked beyond words.