Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Vengeful Spirit Reveals Its True Form

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Zhang Chuanshi’s expression changed. He hunched his head and shoulders, beginning to tremble again.

Zhao Fusheng had already grasped many clues and was closing in on the truth behind the ghost case. When she saw the human-skin quilt inscribed, seemingly in Wu Liren’s own hand, with the words “There’s a ghost in my home,” she was only slightly startled before regaining her composure.

“Could it be that Wu Liren sensed something was wrong when he was alive?” she mused, then shook her head. “But the rules by which the vengeful ghost kills include erasing memories—”

Under the influence of the ghost’s power, Wu Liren’s perception should have been compromised. How could he have discovered a ghost in his home?

Unless this quilt didn’t belong to him?

As soon as this thought emerged, Zhao Fusheng dismissed it. The villagers had identified the innermost main house of the Wu family estate as Wu Liren’s residence—there was no mistake. Since it was his room, no one else would have used the bedding.

That left only one final possibility.

With this in mind, Zhao Fusheng turned and called out to Zhang Chuanshi, “Fetch me some ink and brushes.”

Zhang Chuanshi was holding a lantern when he suddenly heard her ask for writing materials. He couldn’t discern her intentions. However, the difference in status between them was vast, and his life was now in Zhao Fusheng’s hands. He dared not question her but nodded repeatedly. “Yes.”

He forced himself to look back at the human-skin quilt on the bed, feigning concern: “But that thing is evil. Will it not be dangerous for you to be alone with it, sir? Perhaps we should—”

“The fact that we’re still alive doesn’t mean the ghost isn’t beside us. We haven’t died yet only because we haven’t violated its killing rules,” Zhao Fusheng saw through his ploy at once and smiled. “Our names are already on its list. Escaping or acting with others doesn’t guarantee safety.”

Wu Dajing had been killed by the vengeful spirit in full view of everyone, yet the crowd’s memories were wiped away in an instant.

Zhao Fusheng surmised that this ghost’s method of killing was based on marking and perceiving its victims. In other words, anyone who mentioned it or became aware of its existence would be sensed by it—and anyone it sensed would inevitably die.

This trait meant that such a ghost operated as a group threat, but its killing power in a single instance was comparatively weak. Thus, whether it was Wu Dajing’s mother, the villagers, or Wu Dajing himself, all suffered a slow “bleeding death” over time—at least as perceived by those around them.

This realization reassured Zhao Fusheng. To her, it meant she could afford to make mistakes—she could test the ghost’s rules, identify its characteristics, and ultimately resolve the calamity.

“So you mean—” Zhang Chuanshi’s eyes brightened as her words suggested she now understood the ghost.

“Acting alone this time may actually increase our chances of survival,” Zhao Fusheng hinted.

With her reassurance, Zhang Chuanshi straightened his back, losing some of his usual cringing demeanor. “I’ll go find Wu Liyou and ask him to bring the writing materials.”

With that, he slipped out.

Zhao Fusheng knew the old man would no longer cling to her. Yet, knowing his fear of death and the influence of the soul registry, he wouldn’t go far. If necessary, she could summon him.

She carefully folded up the human-skin quilt. Though it appeared large when spread across the bed, it was incredibly thin and light. Once folded, it was barely the size of two palms pressed together. She didn’t know its exact use, but Wu Liren had lived with the ghost for years and was the last to die, evidence of his formidable luck or tenacity. The quilt had accompanied him for so long—if nothing else, it carried a trace of special “fortune.”

But perhaps because of its ghostly association, the touch of the human skin was icy cold. In the empty room, Zhao Fusheng’s shadow, stretched by the lamplight, slanted across the bed as if “lying” atop the opened quilt, creating an eerie scene.

Within the darkness, a pair of invisible “eyes” watched her—the gaze of the unseen ghost.

Now that her memories had returned, Zhao Fusheng knew she had long been marked. Yet, though the scene was chilling, she simply turned her attention to the human-skin parchment, holding it up to the light for a closer look.

She had come to Doghead Village to handle this ghost case for the sake of merit, but it required her to risk her life. “The people here are so poor that there’s no fat to scrape from a chicken’s claw. I’ve come all this way, risked my life, even promised tax relief, and all I get is a human-skin quilt. Isn’t that fair?”

Murmuring to herself, she unceremoniously tucked the quilt into her robes.

Soon, Wu Liyou arrived, awkwardly presenting the four treasures of study. Under Zhao Fusheng’s direction, he arranged the items and remained in the room.

Tea, brewed in advance, sat on the cabinet. It was still warm, as the weather hadn’t turned cold. Wu Liyou poured some into the inkstone and, clumsily, began grinding the ink stick.

“Sir—” He had just heard the woman’s desperate words and knew what had happened in the room. Anxious and uneasy, he had come to apologize.

“No need to worry. Nothing was damaged,” Zhao Fusheng cut him off. The human-skin quilt was intact—a single word from her could decide the fate of a country woman. The Wu family, tormented by the ghost, had already suffered enough; there was no need to add more.

“Just tell her to be more careful next time. Grind the ink properly.”

Wu Liyou paused, uncertain whether Zhao Fusheng had noticed the woman’s furtive action or was deliberately being magnanimous. Either way, the Wu family’s crisis was resolved.

He let out a long breath and said gratefully, “Yes, yes! I’ll teach her a lesson next time.” Then, focusing on grinding the ink, he fell silent.

Once the ink was ready, Zhao Fusheng signaled for him to leave. He backed out and, just before closing the door, thanked her sincerely: “Thank you, sir.”

Zhao Fusheng replied indifferently, accepting his gratitude. Wu Liyou, no fool, smiled and gently closed the door, then stood by it himself.

Peace returned to the room.

Zhao Fusheng sat at the simple table, drew the lamp closer, and spread out her case notes from within her sleeve.

She picked up the brush, dipped it in ink, and wrote in large characters at the top of the dossier: “The Ghost of Forgetting!”

The moment the words were written, they covered the original contents of the dossier. Zhao Fusheng was not accustomed to the brush and her handwriting lacked elegance, but the three words “Ghost of Forgetting” were bold and eye-catching.

Beneath the heading, she annotated: “Abilities: Invisible, impossible to capture, without physical form; mentioning its name triggers a taboo. M.O.: Scratching, each itch sheds large amounts of skin, ultimately causing the body to rupture?”

As she wrote, Zhao Fusheng began to doubt the death scene of Wu Dajing she had witnessed. Since the ghost could manipulate memories, was what she saw truly real?

This thought sent a chill down her spine.

She glanced around the room. The place was exceedingly shabby, with earthen walls cracked in many places. A square skylight, one foot across, was cut high in the wall, facing the bed. On the bed lay a disassembled quilt, exposing the mattress beneath.

The room exuded a tranquil gloom—but was this scene real?

Zhao Fusheng forced herself not to dwell on it and continued writing.

“So far, known victims of the ghost: Wu Dajing’s mother, Wu Datong? Wu Liren’s family, Wu Dajing.”

These words almost filled the available space outside the pasted “skin” on the dossier.

She scratched her head, then wrote on one of the pasted skin fragments: “July 31st.”

This was the birthday of Wu Datong’s eldest son, and the precious clue Wu Dajing traded his life for. After entering the village, Old Wu Jiu had insisted Wu Liren was born on July 31st, but he had not been deeply affected by the ghost—just itchy, not yet violating the taboo.

Yet, in his panic, Wu Dajing also mentioned Wu Datong’s eldest son was born on July 31st, and was then gruesomely killed. The ghost’s murders followed a process; Wu Dajing’s swift and brutal end meant he had said something forbidden.

Comparing the two, Old Wu Jiu’s memory may have been unreliable due to the ghost’s influence, but Wu Dajing, though he could be affected, might also lie. The ghost, however, could not lie—its rules were the simplest and truest test.

Thus, Zhao Fusheng was certain: Wu Datong’s eldest son was born on July 31st!

She recalled Wu Dajing’s final argument with his father and, before the date, added: “Year 205 of the Han Dynasty.”

As these words were written, shadows thickened in the room. The two oil lamps flickered, shrinking to half their size as darkness pressed in. A piercing itch erupted on Zhao Fusheng’s body.

The ghost had arrived!

Zhao Fusheng had already anticipated the ghost’s rules, so she was not overly frightened. The ghost of Doghead Village was different from the one in Beggar’s Alley—it could not kill her in a single blow. As long as she survived, she still had a chance.

With this thought, she began frantically scratching herself, clouds of fine skin flakes flying. Yet she kept her wits about her—not scratching blindly, but gathering the skin she shed, trying not to tear it apart.

Amid the “drip drip” of a viscous liquid from her nose, she reached up to scratch her nose, peeling off another large patch of skin.

Her vision blurred; acting on instinct alone, she groped for the dossier on the table.

In her confusion, she knocked something over; hot oil splashed onto her hand, burning her and jolting her thoughts into brief clarity.

Taking advantage of this, she saw, by the weak light, that an oil lamp had toppled, its wick fallen onto the table, and oil soaking into the dossier. Bead-like flames spread quickly along the oil.

She snatched up the dossier, haphazardly stuck the pieces of her shed skin onto it.

As soon as the skin touched the dossier, something strange happened. All the skin fragments seemed animated by some mysterious force. Like the ghost returning to life, the scabs stretched and extended, quickly covering the size of a dossier page, then shrank back—first to the size of a longan, then to that of a soybean.

The fragments assembled themselves, forming the outline of a tattered paper figure. The figure emanated an ominous and eerie aura that inspired fear.

But Zhao Fusheng had no time to care.

The itching grew unbearable; ordinary scratching did nothing. It felt as if a seed had lodged between her bones, drinking blood and sprouting, squeezing her bones, its leaves unfurling wildly.

She suffered exquisite pain and torment, desperate to tear the growth out by the root.

Her body convulsed and curled, banging against the wooden table with a “bang bang” sound. The dossier fell to the floor, but she didn’t notice.

Fortunately, the torment was brief. As soon as the misshapen paper figure on the dossier took shape, the piercing itch ceased.

She stopped scratching, collapsed onto the table, drenched in sweat.

The ghostly chill in the room faded; with the oddness gone, the suppressed lamp flames flared back to life, burning brightly with a humming sound.

All was calm, as if nothing had happened.

Blinking her sore eyes, Zhao Fusheng looked around in confusion.

Then she noticed the burning tabletop.

It wasn’t easy to put out the fire, but as the flames were not large, she pressed her sleeve onto them. With a hiss, the fire went out, but oil soaked her sleeve, and sparks caught on the fabric. She shook her arm to extinguish the flames, then righted the fallen lamp and dropped the oil-soaked wick back inside.

Only then did she notice that the tabletop was spattered with blood.

What had just happened here? Why was there so much blood on the table?

“Blood?” Her voice was hoarse.

She tasted thick blood in her mouth. Alarmed, she reached up to touch her face.

Her chin, lips, and nose were wet and slippery. She had a vague suspicion and, raising her hand, saw it stained with fresh blood.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.

“Sir, are you all right?” Wu Liyou’s uneasy voice came through. “Do you need me to call someone to attend you?”

Still shaken by her unexplained bleeding and the apparent gap in her memory, Zhao Fusheng realized she could not recall what had happened moments before.

She only remembered accompanying the others to Wu Liren’s house, obtaining the quilt, discovering the human skin, then Wu Liyou entering to grind the ink and leaving.

After that, her memory was blank.

[Author’s Note: I want to explain to everyone. Unfortunately, at the end of September, I caught COVID for a second time. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but the aftereffects were severe. This month, a follow-up CT scan showed shadows and effusion in my lungs—pneumonia, very serious, with persistent fever. I was hospitalized from November 2nd. Every day, I get permission from the doctor morning, afternoon, and evening to rush home and write as much as I can, but my efficiency is low and it’s hard to write. So, after today’s update, I’ll need to take the day off tomorrow, and resume normal updates the day after. I just want to rest and recover. If I need more time off, I’ll let you know in advance.]