She was petrified. Anyone would be—pants-wetting terror.
Somehow, she found herself inside the coffin. The lid closed, trapping her in a cramped, pitch-black space.
In her panic, she sensed another presence.
Someone in the dark breathed lightly on her earlobe.
Terrified, she struggled, but the figure's arms held her tight, immovable.
The breathing was unidentifiable. She cried, "Who are you? Let me go, I want to go home!"
The figure didn't speak, only held her.
The coffin swayed—she realized the four ghosts were carrying it somewhere.
She kicked and thrashed, but the arms bound her like ropes. The tight space limited her movement, her efforts futile.
Exhausted, sweating, she gave up, eyes heavy, and fell asleep.
When she awoke, she was in an unfamiliar place—a rural Liaoxi courtyard with a livestock pen holding two donkeys, red peppers and corn hanging under the eaves, rustic and nostalgic.
Large black pots simmered in the yard, steam rising, cooking some fragrant meat.
She scanned the yard, feeling it familiar but unable to place it. The atmosphere was odd—no people, just donkeys and pots.
She climbed stairs to a house, its door open, dim inside. She entered.
In the hall, an altar held an enlarged black-and-white portrait of a kind old woman with white hair and wrinkles—her great-aunt, who died when she was seven or eight, during a winter visit home.
As a curious child, she'd snuck in to stare at the portrait at dusk, its eerie smile haunting her for years.
Decades later, she was back in that scene.
Her memory stirred—she'd been brought by the coffin. Why here? It felt deeply significant.
Respecting the dead, she lit three incense sticks before the altar. Noticing the flickering long-burning lamps, she recalled a hometown custom: the lamps must stay lit during the three-day wake, or it's bad luck.
She adjusted the wicks, brightening the flames.
Turning, she saw the corpse bed.
A bed for the body during the wake, its linens later taken for blessings. Oddly, no body lay there, only a redwood box at the head.
She sat, holding the ornate box, carved with pines, likely an urn.
A strange premonition hit her—something vital was inside.
Sounds came from the box—"clack," "hic"—like teeth chattering or burping.
She slid open the lid, revealing a pale face—Li Damin's head! His lips were sickly red, eyes unfocused, like a gravely ill man.
Seeing her son's head in the urn, she wasn't scared, only heartbroken.
Tears fell on his face. He blinked, saying, "Mom… save me."
She clutched the box, sobbing. "Damin, I'll get you out." She headed outside.
At the door, a figure in a white martial arts uniform, flat-top haircut, stood in the yard, hands clasped, head bowed, odd.
As she stepped out, he circled the yard, holding three lit incense sticks, smoke trailing.
A crowd appeared, countless shabby figures squeezing into the yard, faces blurred in mist, swaying eerily.
The man raised the incense, chanting. The crowd surged to the pots, grabbing steaming contents—organs, torn from people half-submerged in the boiling water, smiling as their innards were eaten.
Even a tough woman like her couldn't handle this. She screamed.
The crowd turned, staring. The man, face unclear but angry, shouted, "Go back!"
She ran for the house, but Damin's head spoke, voice anguished. "Mom, don't go back, take me away."
Torn, she stood on the steps as the crowd approached, a gray mist enveloping them.
The man played a flute, its eerie tune like funeral music. The crowd returned to the pots, eating orderly.
"Mom," Damin's head said. She looked down.
His face twisted hideously. "Why won't you take me out? You bitch, die!" He cackled, expression venomous.
She awoke, sitting up, drenched in sweat, her husband staring, stunned.
"What's wrong? Nightmare?" he asked.
"I saw our son," she said, lips trembling, holding back tears.
Her husband sighed, fed up with their troublesome son.
He patted her back. She said, "Doesn't our son have a friend, Liu Yang?"
He blinked. "Yeah, he came over once. You cooked. Why?"
"I saw him too."
I slammed the table. "Auntie, you dreamt of me? Why didn't you mention it?"
She stared at me. "I did. You were one of those being cooked, your organs eaten, smiling the whole time…"