Chapter 1: The Person in the Painting（1）

Chapter 1: The Person in the Painting

This incident happened before I turned seven, before I started school. It left a wide-reaching impact, so the memory remains vivid. Even now, thinking back sends chills down my spine, as if I'm once again trapped in that oppressive, maddening atmosphere of terror.

My village was small, with several dozen households all sharing the same surname. At the village center stood a large ancestral hall housing the spirit tablets of our forebears. It was also where deceased elders lay in repose and funeral rites were held. During festivals, we'd go to pay respects to our ancestors, but we children dreaded entering the ancestral hall—it was the ultimate haunted house in our minds, the very source of our fears. I was braver than most kids my age, or perhaps just more stubborn. When dared, I couldn't back down and would force myself through it, so I'd been inside a few times. The place was genuinely unsettling. It felt gloomy and dark, day or night. A single small 25-watt light bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying when the wind blew strongly, making the ancestral tablets appear and disappear eerily in the flickering light. But the most terrifying aspect, which I initially thought was just my imagination, was the distinct chill that ran down your spine upon entering. I later asked many others who'd been inside, and they all admitted feeling that same coldness.

Besides the spirit tablets, the ancestral hall held another mystery: a painting. No one knew its origins, only that it had been there as long as the hall itself. It hung on the right wall, with an incense burner placed before it, indicating it was no ordinary decoration. Everyone knew it was a painting, but no one had seen whether it depicted a landscape or a person, because it was always shrouded by a piece of red cloth. The elders said they had seen it long ago and that it portrayed a beautiful woman. Clan rules forbade touching anything in the ancestral hall except in cases of natural disaster or hall renovation, lest we offend the ancestors. Steeped in tradition, the villagers strictly adhered to these rules, and no one entertained mischievous ideas. But children pay no heed to such things. I secretly looked at that painting myself.

Back then, ignorant and foolish, I made a bet with a friend. I sneaked into the hall to peek at the painting; if I succeeded, he'd owe me two ice pops. I admit I was a glutton, and a glutton's motivation is formidable. So, one noon, when no one was around, I slipped into the ancestral hall. Heart pounding with fear, I lifted the red cloth. The elders were right. By the dim light, I clearly saw the beautiful woman in the painting. However, they'd missed one detail: the woman was dressed in ancient attire. A little kid knew nothing about appreciating art; I just thought the person in the painting was pretty and blurted out, "So beautiful." In the darkness, I seemed to hear a faint, stifled laugh but didn't pay it much mind. At that moment, I was just thinking about claiming my ice pops from my friend. Afterward, the memory of the painting faded in my mind. That is, until something happened at my Third Uncle's house.

In those days, nearly every household had a pigsty in their yard, raising a few pigs. My Third Uncle had studied for a few years and loved delving into things. He was especially skilled in farming and animal husbandry. Besides giving injections and treating pig diseases, he could also castrate chickens and pigs, making him the village's unofficial, unlicensed vet. Whenever someone's livestock had a problem, they'd call for him. Third Uncle was an odd man, already in his thirties but unmarried. He devoted all his energy to his work, busy from dawn till dusk. When the family introduced him to potential wives, he refused to meet them. My dad later said that when Third Uncle was young, he was engaged to a girl who drowned while washing clothes in the river. After that, Third Uncle became secretive, mysterious, and occasionally even seemed a bit mad, talking to himself in his room.

The incident happened one night but was discovered at daybreak. All five of Third Uncle's pigs were dead. Worse yet, all their hair had been plucked out—not shaved, but pulled out, leaving the skins smooth and bare. Furthermore, Third Uncle, being a vet, found no wounds on the animals. Initially, he suspected poisoning and a malicious prank, but after dissecting one pig for examination, found no signs of poison. The five pigs had died for no apparent reason. The unexplained death of Third Uncle's pigs caused a wave of panic in the village. Everyone knew Third Uncle was a vet. If his own pigs died, it must be some strange illness, possibly even swine fever. Not daring to eat the abnormally dead pigs, Third Uncle and my dad hauled them away with an ox-cart to bury them in the mountains. On the road, Third Uncle suddenly said to my dad, "Brother, I don't think this is swine fever, but I can't figure out what it is either." "Maybe it's a disease beyond your knowledge?" my dad replied, also worried about our family's three piglets. "Perhaps. I need to observe more," Third Uncle said.

So, Third Uncle came to our house seven times a day to check on our three piglets. Strangely, our pigs were fine, but then the two pigs next door died just as mysteriously. There hadn't been a sound in the night; these pigs seemed to have died in their sleep. The village's panic intensified. Every household had someone guarding the pigsty at night. But it was no use. A doze off or a moment looking away, and perfectly healthy pigs would be dead, and hairless. At first, people thought it was swine fever, but now it was clearly something else. Word spread that a monster was in the village. The village chief invited vets from town, but they couldn't explain it either. The rumors grew wilder, the panic deepened, and everyone turned to praying to gods and Buddhas. However, it didn't end there. Pigs kept dying mysteriously, and eventually, no one in the village dared to raise pigs anymore. Our family's three piglets also fell victim. My father was furious but helpless. What could he do? Everyone could only wait quietly for a miracle.

No miracle happened. Instead, Third Uncle, who had gone to the county town to research the pig deaths, suddenly returned home with a young, beautiful woman. The family was overjoyed and held a feast. Although this woman was mute, for Third Uncle, over thirty, to get a wife was nothing short of a miracle. In those days, someone his age was generally destined to be a lifelong bachelor. But the first time I saw her, I felt I'd seen her somewhere before, though I couldn't recall where. This new aunt was a good wife, skilled at washing, cooking, and very helpful to the villagers. Whatever you asked, she'd nod in agreement. Everyone in the village liked her. Her braised pork belly was so fragrant you could smell it throughout the village. People said Third Uncle was lucky, but my dad didn't see it that way.

One day, Third Uncle and my dad were drinking at our house. I heard Dad say to Third Uncle, "You need to take it easy, lad. You're over thirty, not a young man anymore. Take care of your health." Third Uncle just smiled without replying. Seeing his indifference, Dad grew anxious: "Look at you! In just these last ten days or so, your complexion is sallow, you can't stand straight, and you're short of breath. Must you be so... vigorous?" The advice seemed futile. Third Uncle's complexion worsened, his back bent further. Not just my dad, but others in the village also urged Third Uncle to take it easy at night. In the first month after his marriage, Third Uncle seemed to have aged ten years: his hair greying, face sallow, back hunched, speaking with weak breath. Watching Third Uncle wasting away, my dad was worried but helpless. He couldn't very well forbid the couple from sharing a room. Dad even approached the new aunt, but after much hesitation, found he couldn't bring it up.

My dad was a cement worker, riding his "28" bicycle to neighboring villages to lay bricks. Building a house in the countryside back then wasn't like city construction today; it involved ceremonies for the land and household gods, hiring a feng shui master to determine方位 (fāngwèi: orientation/position) and layout the foundation. At lunch with his workmates, Dad mentioned Third Uncle's situation. A colleague suggested he consult a feng shui master. Given his line of work, Dad was quite superstitious about such matters. After work that day, he invited a familiar feng shui master home for dinner. During the meal, he had Third Uncle join them. The master didn't reveal his purpose but quietly observed Third Uncle's condition. After the meal, the master only said he would return in three days.

Three days later, the feng shui master returned. But instead of coming to our house, he went straight to see the clan elder. He requested that the ancestral hall be moved northward by precisely one zhang, one chi, and one cun (a traditional Chinese unit, ~3.3 meters, ~0.33 meters, ~0.033 meters respectively). This unreasonable demand earned him a stern ejection from the old clan elder. It seemed the feng shui master was no ordinary fellow either. If persuasion didn't work, he'd resort to force. The master had my dad gather all the men of the village at the ancestral hall. All women were to stay indoors and not go out. The reason: a monster had indeed plagued the village. Those pigs had their souls sucked out and hair plucked by this monster, and today the master would capture it