Chapter One: Earth of the Dead, Breath of the Living

My name is Xie Yun, and my story begins with the "Ghost-Barricaded Door" that haunted my birth.

When I was born, my mother had only just entered the east room of our house when the waiting relatives outside heard the cry of a newborn from within. Someone even wondered aloud, “The child’s born already? That was awfully quick! How long could it have taken?” Before that person could finish, the sound of crying came again from the room—and not just a single child, but the wailing of many, as though a dozen infants were sobbing at once, their voices echoing from the beams, the floor, the kang, everywhere.

My grandfather’s face changed immediately. He no longer cared about what was happening inside—he rushed to the door, trying to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge, as if something from within was holding it shut. Growing frantic, he stomped his feet outside, shouting, “Woman, what are you doing in there? What’s that racket?” My grandmother, her voice hoarse, called back, “Don’t interfere!” Then she fell silent, but inside, the children’s cries only grew louder.

My grandfather hurried away, grabbing my father by the collar. “Tell me—while I was gone, what did your mother do?” My father stammered, “I—I don’t know!” With a slap, my grandfather cut him off. “Now’s no time for lies! The ghosts have barred the door and you’re still keeping secrets?” My father, near tears, replied, “I really don’t know what she did! Just that… just that…” My grandfather grew even more agitated. “Speak! If you don’t tell me everything today, I’ll break your legs.”

My father said, “For a while now, every night, my mother would light two sticks of incense—one left in the house, the other she’d take outside. When she returned, she always brought back a copper basin filled with earth. She’d dig out a clump from the middle, mix it with water, shape it into a three-inch-tall clay figure, and place it on my wife’s belly. Then she’d drip chicken blood onto the clay figure’s head. Once the blood dissolved the figure, she’d wrap the mud in white cloth and have my wife sleep with it on her all night. The next day, she’d have us…” At these words, my grandfather nearly collapsed in fright. After a long silence, he slapped his thigh and cursed, “You wretched woman! How dare you dig earth from a grave! Are you trying to doom our Xie family?”

The “grave earth” he spoke of was soil from an unmarked tomb—old superstition held that wandering spirits who couldn’t reincarnate could be summoned this way, by pressing grave earth onto a woman’s belly and inviting them to be reborn.

My father’s words not only terrified my grandfather, but sent friends and relatives fleeing from the courtyard. Forcing himself to stand, my grandfather decided to seek black dog’s blood from a neighbor who kept dogs, but before he could leave, the crying inside ceased. A moment later, my grandmother’s wailing erupted.

My grandfather, trembling, pushed open the door. The child was born, but covered with a dozen walnut-sized tumors—there wasn’t a patch of healthy skin from head to toe. The patterns on those tumors resembled faces—some weeping, some laughing, some glaring wide-eyed at onlookers.

Consumed with rage, my grandfather slapped my grandmother twice. “Look what you’ve done! Are you trying to kill us all?” Still weeping, she wiped her tears. “What did I do wrong? I only wanted a grandson for the Xie family’s legacy!” “Old man, what do we do now?” “How should I know? First, tend to the daughter-in-law!” My grandfather stomped his foot, cradled the child, and sat outside, puffing furiously on his pipe.

My father whispered, “Dad, the child’s barely breathing. You have to do something. Don’t you know a spirit medium? Maybe they can help…” “A spirit medium—” My grandfather suddenly slapped his thigh and jumped up. “There’s a master who can save lives. Wait here.” He wrapped me in a quilt and dashed up the mountain.

But before he’d gone far, he realized he was circling the same yellow-brick pagoda again and again. Cold dread filled him. He shut his eyes and ran the opposite direction. After a dozen paces, he opened them—only to find himself before the yellow-brick pagoda once more.

In that instant, he nearly broke down. “That wretched woman! How could she dare dig grave earth from anywhere? She’ll be the death of us!” In his haste, he’d forgotten to ask where exactly she’d taken the grave soil from. But thinking it over, the only place near our village with such earth was the “Children’s Pagoda.”

By the time of my birth, the world was no longer in turmoil. Where would there be so many unclaimed graves? The only source of “grave earth” was the Children’s Pagoda, an old structure built years before. In the past, many infants died young. According to tradition, such children couldn’t be buried in the ancestral tombs, but in hastily chosen spots. For reasons lost to time, villagers had buried all these children in one place. As the years passed, the site became haunted; only after a passing Taoist advised them to build a yellow-brick pagoda did the evil subside.

My grandfather had set out to save a life, only to stumble straight into the heart of the Children’s Pagoda.

By then, it was too late to leave. My grandfather felt as though his shoulders and back were being crushed by an invisible weight; his legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees. The child in his arms began to cry—not just one voice, but a chorus of wails, as if a dozen children were sobbing together, each cry chilling him to the marrow.

He clung to me, not daring to let go, muttering desperately, “Old Immortal, save us… save us!” Time seemed to stretch; the weight on him grew heavier, the child nearly slipping from his grasp.

Just when my grandfather thought all was lost, the crying abruptly stopped, and the oppressive weight faded away. Lifting his head, he saw, not far off, a middle-aged man dressed in white, handsome as jade. The man nodded at my grandfather and said, “Follow me.” Then he turned and headed up the mountain.

My grandfather hurried after him, clutching the child, until they reached a temple. There, the man lit three sticks of incense and placed them in the censer. My grandfather glanced at the altar, and shuddered in terror—the fox immortal’s image on the wall looked exactly like the man who had led him in.

So unnerved, my grandfather could barely speak. “Master… you… what…” The man smiled. “Rather than beg others, rely on yourself. I know what’s happening in your family. If you want to save your grandson, you must cut the flesh from his body. Are you willing?”

My grandfather was stunned. The child was only a newborn—if he cut away those dozen tumors, more than half the flesh would be gone. How could the child survive? But if he didn’t act, he could only watch me die…