Volume One: The Field of Eight Coffins Chapter 13: The Ghostly Seedling Grows

“Blood? What are you up to now?” I hurriedly set the bottle down and asked.

“It has its uses, of course. Just watch…” Third Uncle shot me a glare, unscrewed the cap of the bottle, and began pouring the blood slowly into the bowl containing the Mandragora. As he did so, he explained, “This is black dog’s blood. I’ve added cinnabar and pine resin powder so it won’t coagulate.”

I nodded, watching as the level in the bottle dropped. Yet, as he poured the entire bottle into the bronze bowl, the blood quickly seeped into the soil. The already-cracked bowl, despite its gaping fissures, didn’t leak blood. It was as if the whole bottleful had been absorbed by the plant.

At that moment, the otherwise ordinary-looking seedling changed.

From the roots to the leaves, something like veins appeared, faintly visible along the stem. I remembered Third Uncle telling me about seeing this the night before, and instinctively took two steps back, wary of what oddities might happen next.

Third Uncle muttered, “Now that we’ve left that house, the ghost infant is not yet fully formed and can’t follow us out. This plant can’t cause any real trouble.”

Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief and watch as he continued his work.

The veins on the seedling grew thicker, and I could clearly see something like blood flowing inside, just as Third Uncle had described. The world is indeed full of wonders, I thought. I doubted anyone would believe me if I recounted this scene.

The veins swelled further, until, under our watchful eyes, they burst. Blood trickled down the leaves, staining the ground a vivid red.

Once the blood had all drained away, the once lush Mandragora withered rapidly.

Third Uncle rummaged in his bag again and laid out several items: an incense burner, a few yellow talisman papers, and a small spade.

He pointed at the incense burner. “Nephew, there’s incense ash in here. In a moment, hold this and wait for my command. When I tell you, scatter all the ash.”

“Scatter it where?” He didn’t specify, leaving me confused.

Without answering, Third Uncle took up the spade and, face solemn, began digging at the base of the Mandragora.

I swallowed my question and lifted the incense burner, watching his movements.

There wasn’t much soil in the bowl, so just a few scoops revealed the Mandragora’s roots.

We’d read in the library that Mandragora roots could be used medicinally, while the leaves were highly toxic. We’d both handled the leaves earlier without ill effect, probably thanks to the burial garments we wore. Third Uncle had said those garments shielded one’s vital energy; perhaps that also protected us from the plant’s poison.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed that he’d finished brushing away the loose soil.

When I finally saw the root clearly, I was left speechless.

The root had grown into the shape of an infant—head, arms, legs—all distinct. At the navel, the Mandragora plant sprouted from its body. Faintly, blood could be seen circulating beneath the “skin,” pumping from the infant’s body into the stem and up to the leaves.

But the blood, now mixed with black dog’s blood, was almost depleted. Even so, the veins in the infant-shaped root still pulsed with a sluggish flow.

“Nephew, scatter it now!” Third Uncle barked.

At last, I understood where the ash was meant to go. Without hesitation, I flung the incense ash over the bowl, nearly covering the entire infant-shaped root with a generous layer.

I’d already noticed that the infant’s limbs were fully formed. The only difference from a real baby was the indistinctness of its features; the face was still blurred, as if unfinished.

“If we’d come a few days later, I fear the root would be complete,” Third Uncle said, standing there for a long moment before exhaling.

“What’s going on with this child? What happens if it completes?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“I’ve told you, it’s an evil art. I don’t know all the details. But sorcery often shares similar principles, so I can use this Daoist method to destroy the ghost seedling. I do know of a dark ritual to cultivate such things—ghost seedlings grown to help spirits break free. The root you saw, shaped like an infant, is actually the ghost infant’s body—the very dead baby that Chen Ximei buried in the earth, now fused with the root. In that accursed house, where malice and yin energy abound, the ghost seedling thrives. If the infant’s face fully forms, the ghost fetus will break through the soil…”

“And what happens then?” The more he spoke, the more I realized how little I truly understood, and I pressed for details.

“Ancient texts record that if such a ghost fetus emerges and is properly guided, it can be resurrected. But Chen Ximei is dead; unguided, the ghost fetus turns into a flying evil spirit, said to prey on unborn children in their mothers’ wombs. Such things are rare and hard to subdue. Many families could suffer before it’s stopped.”

His explanation seemed far-fetched, more like a myth than reality.

Reading my doubt, Third Uncle added, “It’s just what the old books say. Who’s seen it with their own eyes? Still, it’s better to believe than ignore. There’s a reason such arts are called evil. Let’s just destroy this thing—ghost seedling and fetus together—no matter what’s true.”

“Alright. How?”

“Burn it.” With that, Third Uncle dug a pit, placed the withered plant inside, and, as if performing a magic trick, produced several sticks of firewood from his bag.

“Uncle, is your bag a general store? What haven’t you got in there?”

He replied, “Can’t be too prepared in this business. These sticks are from a farmhouse kitchen, burned with ordinary fire—called ‘earth fire’—which is especially effective against evil things.”

He lit one stick and tossed it in. I helped by adding more wood as the flames grew.

Strangely, though the Mandragora had withered, it didn’t burn—more like it was fireproof. The leaves sizzled and spat as if coated in oil, but didn’t catch.

Seeing this, Third Uncle hastily drew talismans, pricked his finger to draw blood, and painted symbols on them before tossing them into the fire.

As the talisman papers burned, the fire suddenly roared up to over a meter high.

At the same time, a cry like a baby’s wail rang out—sharp and mournful, as though enduring unspeakable pain.

Hearing it, my skin crawled and goosebumps prickled across my arms.

We were both staring intently at the pit when, unexpectedly, a sigh sounded behind us—soft, almost inaudible.

Before we could turn, a figure darted past, rushing straight for the fire and grabbing at the ghost seedling.

Neither of us had expected anyone else to be here, and for a moment, we were too stunned to react.

By the time Third Uncle shouted, “Who is it?” the person had already snatched the ghost seedling from the flames and was fleeing in another direction.

We gave chase for a few steps, but they quickly vanished into the night.

We stopped, and Third Uncle cursed, “Damn it. Someone’s actually trying to steal this thing!”

I stared in the direction the person had gone, then asked, “Uncle, did you notice who it looked like?”

“Hm?” He was puzzled. “Looked like who?”

I shook my head. “It shouldn’t be possible, but…”

He pressed, “Spit it out. What did you see?”

“The old man. The librarian. His silhouette looked like him—and the silver hair, too.”

“Damn. You noticed that? Now that you mention it, I had the same feeling. Isn’t that old guy a professor? What’s he want with this thing?”

“Who knows. He was interested in those Mandragora pictures. Maybe he followed us after we left, lost us when we went into the house, but kept searching the area. When he saw us burning the seedling, he made his move.”

My analysis made sense to Third Uncle, and he nodded in agreement.

He waved his hand. “Forget it. That thing’s half-burned already, no way it can revive. We didn’t finish the job perfectly, but it’s good enough. Once we’re done with that cursed house, we can visit the university and ask the old man ourselves.”

I looked at him and asked, “So the haunting is solved?”

“More or less. The ghost’s power was tied to the infant; its essence is destroyed, its spirit scattered. Didn’t you hear that wailing? Tomorrow at noon, we’ll cleanse the house; the rest of the ghosts and filth will be driven out. Then we’ll be done here. Hah! We’ll find a buyer, make a few hundred thousand, and get rich, nephew!”

At this point, his face was flushed with excitement, like he’d just had a shot of adrenaline.

“What about now?”

He yawned widely. “Back to bed. I’m dead tired.”

We packed up and caught a ride back to the basement.

According to Third Uncle, the matter was settled. Yet, I had a nagging feeling that things wouldn’t go so smoothly. Events afterward would prove my instincts right.