Paper figures—there's so much lore surrounding them in our trade.
Among funerary officials like us, they're called "soul pouches." Most of the time, they're tied to human souls, serving as a peculiar form of the deceased. They can accompany the dead in the afterlife or act as vessels for stray spirits to linger in the mortal realm.
Legends say that burning a paper figure at a gravesite sends its ashes to the underworld. Once tainted by冥土 (the soil of the dead), it becomes a full-fledged spirit. My father once told me that master paper craftsmen never paint eyes on their figures—a practice called "adding the finishing touch to a dragon." If they did, the paper figure would come alive before reaching the underworld, turning feral and bloodthirsty, snuffing out lives in the blink of an eye.
In short, these were no lucky charms.
I shivered uncontrollably, but the figure in the mirror showed no trace of fear. Its lips curled into a grotesque, chilling grin, and its paper-like skin fluttered as if a rooster's hackles had risen. Dizziness swept over me, and my legs buckled. Becoming a paper figure… in a way, it meant I was already dead.
"It must be that tomb!" I thought instantly. The brine tomb was the only unholy place I'd touched lately. That half-remembered figure in my dreams must have followed me here, somehow tied to that accursed grave.
"How did it do this? Drained my essence? Stolen my soul?" I forced myself to calm down, sifting through ancestral records of spirit tactics. Most ghosts relied on brute force, but the old texts warned that violating the unspoken rules between the living and the dead brought consequences. Most spirits used trickery—"ghostly schemes"—to harm. If I was truly a victim of such schemes, there might still be a way out.
I fumbled for my phone, dialed my father's number. The screen showed a strong signal, but when I pressed call, there was only silence.
"Hehehe…"
A cold, robotic laugh blared from the speaker—a man's voice, stiff and emotionless. "Dead is dead. What's meant to be let go must be let go. The living world is empty now. Why cling to the past? Come to me…"
I hung up instantly. Talking to it would only invite more trouble. I'd made my peace with it: my state now bordered on that of a ghost. Dead men don't call the living. But this… this was different.
"If I can't reach Dad, I'll walk home."
The old neighborhood wasn't far. Even if the dead couldn't reach the living, they could still haunt doorsteps. If I got home, my father would sort this out.
I bolted for the door, ignoring my belongings. The street was swallowed by thick fog, no sign of dawn.
As I pushed open the door, the mist surged inward, and a primal fear coiled in my gut.
Clank-clank-clank.
Metal clinks echoed through the fog. Two shadowy figures emerged, floating as if their feet never touched the ground. Each dragged a chain as thick as a child's arm.
Chains.
These weren't humans. They looked like the yin officers of legend—underworld enforcers.
"They're here so fast? Even if I were dead, I'd need a coffin to go!" I panicked, recalling the man on the phone. The underworld must've declared me dead, breaking protocol by contacting my father. That call… it had probably gone straight to them.
I slammed the door shut. No way I was going with them. Once taken, I'd be gone for good.
Desperation sharpened my mind. I remembered an object my father had left me: a wind chime, to hang above the door during funerals. I'd dismissed it as superstition before, but now… it might be my lifeline.
I dashed to the desk, yanking open the drawer. A blinding golden light erupted. Inside lay a silver wind chime, etched with strange runes. Normally unremarkable, it now glowed fiercely, humming with a clear, ringing sound. The chime seemed to grow before my eyes, morphing into a giant bell. Behind it stood a armored warrior, eyes bulging, roaring "WOO!" so loudly I nearly wet myself. Terror spiked, but so did a flicker of hope.
Knock-knock-knock-knock.
Four deliberate knocks—three for the living, four for the dead. The classic midnight ghost knock.
A hollow voice called from outside: "Dawn's breaking. Come with us."
I hesitated, glancing at the wind chime (now a death omen) and the window, where two shadows lurked.
"Heh, this loser still refuses to accept fate." Another laugh. "Follow the rules: three knocks like a funeral bell. If you don't come out, we break the door."
Knock-knock-knock-knock.
"Screw you guys!"
Adrenaline burned away my doubts. I stomped on the used sanitary pad Zhang Xinya had thrown—red dragon, saturated with yang energy. If the wind chime worked on spirits, maybe this would shield me. The pad seared my foot, smoke curling from my sole, pain radiating through my body. I howled, clutching the chime as the fourth knock echoed.
The yin officers kicked the door open. I flung the wind chime at their faces…