Volume One: The Graveyard of Eight Coffins Chapter 11: The Black Cat

I asked Third Uncle in confusion, “What are we doing now?”

He didn’t reply, his face clouded, and struck two matches in a row to light the incense sticks. Once the incense was burning, he handed one to me and said, “Once we’re inside, we can’t use the flashlight. Don’t speak, either. Keep the incense in your hand at all times. We’ll go straight to the second floor, take out the bronze bowl and the Mandragora, and deal with them in the courtyard.”

“Holding incense and wearing mourning robes are both to mask our life force, right? And not speaking is also to avoid leaking it, I get that. But what if something happens inside? How will we communicate?” I asked.

He answered, “Watch my eyes and my gestures. Whether you understand will depend on your own perception.”

“All right…” I replied, but something felt off. I hurriedly said, “Wait, Uncle, are you messing with me? If we’re not using the flashlight, how am I supposed to see your eyes and gestures in the dark?”

He shot me a contemptuous glance, shaking his head as though frustrated with my lack of sense. From his pocket, he produced two candles, waved them before my eyes, sighed, and prepared to open the door.

I pursed my lips. If he wasn’t clear, was I not allowed to ask more?

At the door, Third Uncle turned back to me once more, saying, “This incense does mask our life force, but it’s also to measure time. We only have as long as this stick burns. When it’s gone, there’s no chance to light another.”

I glanced at the incense in my hand—it was already nearly a quarter gone. I hurriedly said, “Uncle, look how much it’s burned. Why don’t we swap it for a fresh one now—just in case something happens inside, we’ll have more time.”

“No,” he said, “once incense is lit, it can’t be changed. It’s bad luck. So once we’re in, move quickly and efficiently, no dawdling…”

I grew more annoyed. If that’s so, why did he light the incense so early? And he’s still standing here rambling on.

I waved my hand and pointed at the door. Only then did Third Uncle stop talking, nod, pull out the key, and unlock the main entrance.

A day had passed since we last set foot in this cursed house. My heart pounded far more violently than before. The first time, I’d been scared, yes, but ignorance breeds courage; I’d forced myself in without overthinking. This time was different—I knew full well what lingered inside: several ghosts, and a particularly fearsome ghost infant that seemed fixated on me. Yet here I was, walking in by choice. The feeling could not have been worse.

I kept praying silently, hoping my unreliable uncle’s methods would work, just this once.

He pushed open the door. Standing behind him, I peered quickly inside—thankfully, the ghostly figure at the threshold was nowhere to be seen.

We stepped inside, one after the other. Maybe it was my imagination, but the air felt even colder than before. There was no wind, yet I felt chilled to the bone, my limbs tingling with numbness.

Third Uncle turned, and in the moonlight slanting through the doorway, I saw his face. I nearly cried out. His complexion had gone deathly pale, devoid of any color. Dressed in mourning robes, he looked no different from a corpse laid out in a coffin—except he was standing with eyes open, not lying with eyes closed.

In that instant, I understood—no doubt I looked just as ghastly.

Third Uncle blinked at me, then inhaled deeply, drawing in the incense smoke. A look of satisfaction appeared on his face.

Puzzled, I mimicked him, inhaling incense. A warm current coursed into my body through my nose, quickly dispelling much of the chill.

He nodded approvingly, handed me a candle, and pointed to the floor.

The candle was thick and white, much larger than the ones we use for daily purposes, and its surface was smooth, almost waxy. I couldn’t tell what it was made of. Following his lead, I set the lit white candle on the floor. The base was broad and steady.

Every three steps, Third Uncle would produce another white candle as if performing a magic trick, handing it to me to light and place. The trail of candles stretched all the way to the stairs.

I followed, about to ascend, when my foot landed on something soft.

Looking down, I saw the doll I’d thrown away that day.

That doll was supposed to be my lifesaver—Third Uncle had made it for me. He’d explained that its belly was sewn with the hair of five infants, each representing one of the five elements—metal, wood, water, fire, and earth—to fool the postpartum ghost into mistaking it for a child.

But now, the doll at my feet was horrifying. Its head had been twisted off, its belly slashed open, half the hair inside spilling out in a fuzz.

A jolt of terror ran through me. No one had lived here for ages, and when I’d thrown the doll, it had been whole. Who had destroyed it so horribly? If someone had come in during the day, surely they wouldn’t have been so interested in a doll.

More chilling still, we’d seen nothing on the floor as we came in. How had this doll appeared under my foot?

If it was the postpartum ghost’s doing, then our trick—these mourning robes and incense to mask our life force—had surely been seen through.

The more I thought, the more terrified I became. I stood rooted to the spot, shivering uncontrollably.

It wasn’t mere cowardice. Before entering, I’d made several mental preparations, but the invisible, intangible terror inside gnawed at my nerves, threatening to break me. Even afterward, for a long time, this feeling of psychological collapse would haunt me.

I suddenly remembered what some scholars had theorized: in haunted houses, people aren’t killed by ghosts, but by their own fear.

When I stopped, Third Uncle sensed something was wrong and turned to look at me.

I quickly gestured to the doll on the floor. He paused, then shook his head and pointed up the stairs—telling me to ignore it and keep moving.

I took another breath of incense. Dressed like this, inhaling its fragrance, I did feel steadier.

He led me up the stairs, placing two more white candles as we went. We reached the second floor without further incident. Apart from that strange doll, nothing else had happened—his methods seemed to be working.

He didn’t hesitate but headed straight for the room with the Mandragora sapling. I checked the incense—it was half gone.

At his signal, I placed a white candle at the door. He took a deep breath of incense, then gently pushed open the door and entered.

By candlelight, I saw his shadow flicker in the room. After about a minute, he emerged, carrying a flowerpot.

I breathed a sigh of relief—so far, everything was smoother than I’d dared hope.

But my relief was premature. Just as Third Uncle stepped out with the flowerpot, two points of light appeared behind him.

With his body blocking most of the candlelight, I couldn’t see what those points were. They glowed an eerie green and flickered, sending chills down my spine. They were low to the ground, less than a foot up.

My mind buzzed—those lights looked like eyes. At that height… could it be the ghost infant?

I wanted to warn Third Uncle, but before I could, a shrill cry burst from the room—like the sound of tearing paper, only louder and more sudden.

The cry, so abrupt and unheralded, snapped the last thread of my composure.

I opened my mouth to scream, but Third Uncle’s hand clamped over it just in time.

He stood rigid in the doorway, shaking his head at me.

I nodded, forcing myself to hold it together.

But I couldn’t stop myself from glancing toward the room. The green lights blinked, then vanished from the floor, and a black shadow leapt onto Third Uncle’s shoulder.

Now I finally saw it—a coal-black cat.

The two green lights were its eyes.

A cat? My nerves relaxed—a black cat was far less dreadful than a ghost.

But the situation changed instantly. Relief barely settled before tension returned, for Third Uncle’s face had grown even more strained.

He stood still, holding the flowerpot out as though to give it to me, yet he made no move to approach. Instead, he was making frantic faces, his lips moving silently.

I watched closely. His lips formed a single word: Run.

Run again? My mind reeled. Clearly, the trouble we faced was more serious than I’d thought.

In that moment, my respect for Third Uncle grew. At a critical moment, he still thought of my safety, willing to stay behind and face the danger alone so I could escape.

Thankfully, I kept my wits. Before running, I carefully took the flowerpot from his hands.

I mouthed back to him: Take care.

With that, I turned and headed downstairs with the flowerpot.

I’d barely taken two steps when the shrill cry sounded again. A black shadow darted toward me; I felt a sudden weight on my shoulder—the black cat had leaped onto me.

A jolt of terror shot through me, and then I saw Third Uncle squeeze past, holding his incense high, running downstairs without a backward glance.

“Damn it.”

I cursed him silently—so much for my praise a moment ago. In the blink of an eye, he’d thrown me to the wolves. No wonder he handed me the flowerpot—the cat was after it. Once I took it, I became the target.

I’d been tricked by my own uncle—some people get tricked by their dads; mine tricks his nephew.

I wanted to chase after him, but the black cat on my shoulder let out a low, rumbling growl.

For the first time, I realized how terrifying a cat’s growl could be. I could even smell the fetid, rotten stench from its mouth…