Chapter Nine: The Tower of Children

Ordinary people fear the supernatural because they believe humans cannot overcome evil spirits. But in truth, there are far more things in the folk tradition capable of warding off such entities than one might imagine—most people simply do not know how to use them. Some, who do know, are unaware whether what they possess is truly effective.

Take a simple example: the old weights and steelyards used by merchants, tools that can strike against ghosts. These objects symbolize fairness and justice. Yet, new weights and rods are useless; only the ones that have seen use are effective. More crucially, they must be accurate, and the person wielding them must never have committed deceitful acts like shortchanging others. Otherwise, if the object has lost its fairness, it is powerless before spirits.

Thus, many old steelyards are already spent. If you attempt to use them against ghosts, you will surely suffer the consequences yourself.

What Hu Sanqi found for me, he could only guarantee was “not a fake.” As for its potency, he could not say—after all, no fox spirit ever wielded a steelyard against a ghost.

I jumped in through the back window, grabbed the yellow cloth satchel full of tools, and prepared next to siphon gasoline from the car—my plan was to burn down the Child Tower!

Though I had never been to the Child Tower, I knew there was little there to ignite. Without gasoline, setting the tower ablaze would be impossible.

After emptying my grandfather’s plastic wine barrel, I unscrewed the gas cap, shoved a plastic tube into the tank, took a deep breath to start the siphon, and quickly connected the tube to the barrel. All that remained was to fill it.

I had no idea how safe home was at this moment, so I pressed myself against the car wheel, trying to stay hidden.

Before I managed to fill half the barrel, a sound came from behind the van—a sharp scraping of fingernails against metal. The shrill noise felt as if a hand were scraping across my heart; it could not harm me, but it sent chills from within.

Someone was behind the car, deliberately making sure I heard the noise.

I gripped the bayonet, intending to quietly lower my head and peer beneath the vehicle. That’s when I saw my mother, lying flat on the ground, her head tilted as she looked in my direction.

My heart tightened. She raised her finger to her lips in a “shush” gesture, whispering, “Don’t make a sound. I won’t touch you. Soon, someone will bring you to me.”

In an instant, I realized that whoever would hand me over to her was not her accomplice—but villagers.

I looked up abruptly; nearby, the beams of flashlights were already sweeping over.

Villagers who had gone up the mountain to search for me were now returning, heading toward my house.

Before I could stand, my mother shrieked, “Xie Yun, don’t run!”

I didn’t care how much gasoline was in the barrel; I grabbed it and dashed toward the backyard.

I’d barely taken a few steps when my mother caught up, her speed almost matching mine.

I heard footsteps closing in behind me and glanced at the wall’s shadow. There it was—a silhouette of someone carrying another, the figure reaching out to grab my collar.

I instantly reached into my yellow satchel, pulling out an iron plowshare.

According to folk tales, a plowshare that has tilled earth can strike ghosts—the longer it’s been used, the stronger its effect. As for the origin of this belief, it comes from “The Investiture of the Gods”: Yin Jiao was buried in the earth with only his head exposed, and the Daoist Lantern Master ordered him to be killed with a plow. After his death, he was canonized as the star of the God of the Earth, hence the saying that spirits of the earth fear the plow.

The plowshare is the sharpest part of the plow, but it cannot be cut with a welding torch; once exposed to fire, it loses its effect. To obtain one, you must hammer it off, but the fragments vary in size. I managed to knock off a dozen, each about the size of a walnut.

If thrown and it hits someone’s face, it will surely cause blood and injury. But it’s still better than stabbing someone with a knife.

I grabbed a plowshare and flung it backward. A scream followed, and my pursuer tumbled to the ground.

As I vaulted the wall, I glanced back. My mother was crouched on the ground, hands pressed to her face, blood streaming through her fingers—she’d been badly injured by the plowshare.

Yet between her hands, she raised a childlike head, its mouth opening and closing, mouthing toward me. I could read her lips: “I will find you.”

When I wanted to retrieve the plowshare, the villagers had already burst into the yard. I could not delay further, and immediately scaled the wall and fled.

The first group to return were the elderly and weak—those who hadn’t searched deep into the mountains, thus arriving early. As long as I wasn’t cornered, they couldn’t catch me.

Finally, I could catch my breath and relax a little.

Sitting on the ground, I found my back drenched and my legs trembling.

But it was not yet time for true relief. I ran another three or four miles in one stretch before heading toward the Child Tower.

Though closest to our village, the Child Tower was not ours alone; in the past, many came to bury children there.

Some children were buried after death, others abandoned alive. Not everyone who left a child there intended for them to die—there were cases where someone mourning the loss of their own child would find another at the tower and take them home to raise, though such instances were rare.

The Child Tower was so saturated with yin energy that it became notorious as a place of evil.

Back then, villagers claimed not to believe in superstitions, but few dared venture to the tower on a dark night to search for someone.

Entering the Child Tower’s domain, I felt safer.

Despite its name, the Child Tower was only two stories tall, barely over two meters in height. Its octagonal structure had eight doors—four below for placing infant corpses, four above for offerings.

Though not tall, its area was comparable to a typical Buddhist pagoda; were it not for the small lower doors, an adult could walk inside.

When I arrived, it was already deep into the night. Aside from my flashlight, there was not a glimmer of light near the tower. When the mountain wind blew, a moaning sound issued from the doors, resembling the hoarse cries of infants.

Holding the barrel in one hand and the flashlight in the other, I walked step by step toward the Child Tower.

Initially, my flashlight illuminated the tower. Before long, a shadow shaped like a human hand appeared within the beam, as if someone had deliberately reached out to block the light. And that person stood not far ahead of me.