Tales of Folk Feng Shui Mysteries

The moment Mao Shi's words landed, chaos erupted.

Chen Tiebao's second daughter lunged at him, finger jabbing like a dagger. "You liar! My sister's eleven! What kinda danger could she be in?!"

The eldest yanked her back before she could claw Mao Shi's eyes out—spitting mad, a younger version of her mother's temper. The commotion brought Mrs. Chen charging in, rolling pin raised. "I'll wallop you senseless, you little—!"

I studied the girl quietly. Her forehead was smooth, eyes clear as springwater—but the shadows beneath them? Blue tinged with red. A sure sign of looming disaster.

In our line of work, you see the storm coming, but you don't shout it from the rooftops. So I kept my mouth shut. For now.

But here's what really set off alarms: her parents didn't react.

No parent hears their child might die and just… sits there smoking. Chen Tiebao puffed his pipe like Mao Shi had predicted rain. His wife, after whacking the second girl, just went back to frying pork belly.

Weird.

I slipped Chen Tiebao 500 yuan. "For your hospitality. We'd be frozen corpses without you."

He shoved it back. "Keep your city money! Old Chen's got pride! You boys stay till the snow stops, or that bear'll snack on your bones!"

Genuine warmth. No greed. So I played my card: "Let me check your feng shui. Professional courtesy."

His eyes lit up. "Finally! Four daughters, no son—four! Tell me it's not hopeless!"

I dragged Mao Shi outside, claiming "family secrets." The blizzard had worsened; snowflakes lashed like razor blades.

"You felt it too?" I muttered.

Mao Shi nodded. "The girls were crying when we arrived. That's why I read their faces." He kicked a snowdrift. "Parents though? Cold as this damn weather."

"Too cold." My breath fogged the air. "That kid won't survive unless we step in."

"Damn right we step in."

Their house's layout was textbook disaster.

Feng shui 101: A home's wǔ huáng (five yellows) zone must be protected. Doors and windows? Balanced proportions. Too narrow an entrance? Chaos. (Ancient carpenters cursed houses that way—shaving inches off doorframes.)

But Chen's real issue? The fishponds out back.

Dug near the Yalu River's tributaries, they drowned the kǎn (water) trigram's energy. No wonder he's got no son. Worse, those trapped fish symbolized his daughters—destined to rot in this village.

The fix? Simple: Dig a channel come spring, let four fish escape (two tiles at the exit for luck). They'd thrive… but never return. No kids to care for the old folks.

So I prescribed a loophole: Keep one fish. Boil it into soup (don't eat the flesh), then rebury the remains. A thread of connection.

Back inside, Chen groaned, "A son? My wife's dried up!"

"Fate finds a way," I lied smoothly.

Dinner was a feast—stewed chicken, sour cabbage with goose, farm eggs, peanuts. But the women? Banished to the kitchen. The little one stared at our plates, eyes huge with hunger.

"Let them join us," I urged.

Chen scoffed. "Tradition! Guests eat first!" He poured baijiu like liquid fire. "Sleep in the east wing. Rest easy!"

I pocketed a goose leg. Outside, the girl hunched on the doorstep, crying silently.

"Hey." I crouched beside her, offering the meat. "Eat up."

She sniffled. "Am I really gonna die?"

"No." I ruffled her hair. "Study hard. Get out of these mountains."

But when I returned, the eldest daughter—Xiaomei—was waiting in our room. The second the door shut, she collapsed at our feet.

"Please," she sobbed. "Take my sister. Anywhere. If she stays… they'll kill her!"

Mao Shi hauled her up. "Who? Why?"

"Tomorrow—the drawing!" Her nails bit into her palms. "Every full moon, the village picks a child to drown in the well. It's her turn!"