Volume One: The Graveyard of Eight Coffins Chapter Twelve: Escape

The cat’s mouth kept exhaling foul breath, the stench so revolting it was as if rotting flesh had been mashed up and left to fester under the sun for three days. Waves of nausea rolled through me, my stomach churning, yet I dared not move a muscle.

I could not forget the moment that black cat leapt onto my third uncle’s shoulder and how he became completely rigid. I had to imitate him, maintain the exact posture, for I understood nothing of what was happening.

But my situation was not quite the same. My third uncle had me—his hapless nephew—to use as a shield, whereas I had no one. So he had already made his escape, leaving me frozen here like a fool in this haunted place.

Still, there was some comfort in copying my uncle’s stillness; it seemed to keep me safe for the moment. The black cat crouched on my shoulder, letting out low growls but making no further move.

I glanced down. I still cradled the flowerpot in both hands, the precious incense clutched between my little and ring fingers. Only a third of the incense remained, its ember burning low.

I did not know if the incense was what kept the black cat from attacking, but since my uncle had insisted I carry it, I trusted his wisdom.

Suddenly, something even more terrifying happened. The black cat ceased its growling and began to inhale sharply, its nose twitching. The smoke rising from the incense was starkly visible in the candlelight, and the cat greedily sucked it in.

Perched on my shoulder, its head stretched far forward in a bizarre balancing act, the cat’s eyes lost their sharpness and malice, turning hazy and unfocused. Yet on its face, I saw an unmistakable glint of greed—a human expression, all the eerier for being worn by a cat.

The black cat was devouring the incense smoke with a ravenous hunger. The burning tip of the incense retreated rapidly, consumed before my eyes.

Panic knotted in my chest. The incense was almost spent; at this rate, it would be gone in less than five minutes. What would happen then, I had no idea.

A sudden memory flashed: the doll I’d found downstairs—head twisted off, belly slit open. Had this black cat done it? When the incense was gone, would it do the same to me?

The thought sent a prickling chill over my scalp. It made no sense to be so afraid of a cat, yet this one radiated an unnatural menace that filled me with dread. I could not even meet its gaze.

Only later did I learn that black cats are regarded as mystical creatures, especially in the supernatural world. Not every black cat is a conduit for spirits; only those with pure black fur, born under certain auspicious circumstances, are said to possess such power. The belief has roots—cats were introduced from abroad, where they were often kept as familiars by witches. Thus, the notion that cats can communicate with spirits is not unfounded. Black cats are often used by ghosts, and there is an old folk saying: if a cat jumps onto a coffin, the corpse will surely rise. That’s why, during funerals, cats are strictly forbidden from entering the vigil.

Of course, I knew none of this at the time. I simply stood there, enduring the cat’s presence and watching the incense slowly burn away, the ordeal more than any person should bear. In my heart, I cursed my third uncle for dragging me into this—if I made it out alive, I’d make sure he paid for it. It was all I could do to quell my terror.

Meanwhile, the cat on my shoulder continued to gulp down the incense smoke, and as the ember shrank, cold sweat broke out on my brow.

Just then, I heard footsteps echoing up the stairs. My attention snapped away from the cat and I saw my third uncle poking his head around the corner, peering at me.

I nearly lost my temper—at a time like this, what was he gawking at? Still, I was relieved he hadn’t abandoned me entirely.

He was more experienced than I, and upon seeing my predicament, he quickly gestured for me to stay calm.

Easy for him to say! My arms were going numb from holding the flowerpot so long, and I was starting to tremble.

Unable to speak, I glared at him.

He grinned mischievously and waved something at me—it was the doll from downstairs.

I had no idea what he was up to, but I watched as he clamped his own incense stick between his teeth, used his free hand to pull tufts of birth hair from inside the doll, then strode to the end of the corridor and placed the hair in a corner.

He picked up a candle and set the hair alight. The soft, fine strands caught instantly, sending up a thin wisp of blue smoke.

Before I could grasp the purpose of any of this, I felt the weight on my shoulder shift—the black cat, intent on the rising smoke, leapt away and bounded toward the burning hair.

I was still stunned when my uncle rushed up, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me toward the stairs.

Snapping out of my daze, I clutched the flowerpot and followed him down.

At the landing, I glanced back and saw the black cat crouched near the smoldering hair, the fur on its neck bristling, uttering low, menacing growls at the flame.

I dared not look any longer, bolting down the stairs at once.

Reaching the first floor, I found the hall shrouded in thick mist, so dense that I could barely see my own hand in front of me. My uncle had run on ahead and disappeared from view.

I spun around, searching for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. The confusion made me lose all sense of direction. I dared not call out, panic mounting within me.

Then, as I steadied myself, I noticed faint glimmers of light on the floor. It hit me—my uncle had made me set out those white candles when we first entered.

The small flames glowed weakly but stood out in the fog, marking a clear path. Distant candles were invisible, swallowed by the mist, but as I moved toward one, another flickered into view farther ahead.

Now I understood my uncle’s plan—he had left us an escape route. If I followed the candles, I could find my way out.

Relief flooded me. I hurried along the path illuminated by the candles.

The way out was smooth, and soon I reached the door. As I stepped across the threshold, a sharp pain shot through my finger—the incense had finally burned to the end, sputtering out with a wisp of smoke.

At that moment, a strange howl rang out behind me. I turned and saw the black cat, back arched, ready to pounce. I stumbled backward in fright, nearly dropping the flowerpot as I collided with something solid.

A familiar figure steadied the pot for me—it was my third uncle, who had exited just before me.

I started to speak, but he shushed me and led me around a few corners to a clearing at the heart of the neighborhood, surrounded by houses both near and far.

“That was close,” he sighed, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Damn. We can talk now?” I said, relief washing over me as if I’d escaped death. The oppressive air inside that house had nearly suffocated me; if I hadn’t gotten out, I might have gone mad even without any ghosts.

He nodded. “I didn’t expect the ghost baby to possess a black cat…”

I was stunned. “You mean, that black cat was the stillborn infant?”

“Without a doubt. The cat had been guarding the Mandragora. We wore burial shrouds and carried soul-guard incense, so the ghost baby couldn’t detect us. But the cat was different, with its keen senses. It couldn’t pinpoint us, but it could sense something was there. When I picked up the Mandragora, it pounced.”

I snorted. “So you made me carry the flower, to draw the cat to me. Third Uncle, I have to hand it to you—you’re ruthless.”

His face flushed. “I… I only did it to save you, it was the only way to lure the tiger from the mountain.”

I waved it off. “I know you meant to help, or I wouldn’t be here talking. But why did the hair inside the doll draw the cat away?”

He explained, “I told you, I made the doll to attract the postpartum ghost. Birth hair is brought from the womb, the purest, strongest human essence. When I burned it, the black cat thought someone had revealed themselves and went to investigate. That gave us our chance to escape. But that trick only works once. At least we got the flower out safely.”

We crouched around the Mandragora. I asked, “What now? How do we deal with it?”

He glanced up at the moon, silent, then rummaged in his satchel and set a liquor bottle on the ground, followed by a battered bowl.

I stared in disbelief. “Uncle, at a time like this, you want a drink?”

He shot me a glare. “Use your eyes. Is this liquor? Look closely.”

I took the bottle and, in the moonlight, saw it was filled with a deep red liquid.

“Wow, uncle, switched from white to red? When did you get so classy?”

He snatched the bottle from me. “Are you stupid? This isn’t liquor—it’s blood…”