Chapter Fifteen: The Funeral Procession

According to Fatty Zuo's explanation, when a person dies, the light goes out—the soul is reborn, the spirit dissipates. If the soul lingers in the realm of the living and refuses to depart, it becomes what is known as a ghost.

But the "corpse topple" is something altogether different, referring specifically to a phenomenon found along the banks of the Yellow River.

In old times, there were many rituals to appease the River God along the Yellow River. Women would be stripped and their bodies coated in sesame oil, then wrapped in silk. Along with offerings of pig, ox, and sheep heads—the so-called "Four Great Joys"—they would be set adrift on a boat. The boat would be rowed to the center of the river, then scuttled to present these sacrifices to the River God. After such ceremonies, the villagers believed the coming year would bring favorable weather and abundant river bounty. However, sometimes, if the River God discovered the woman was not a virgin, he would be enraged, refuse the offering, and, through his powers, transform her into a "corpse topple."

What exactly is a "corpse topple"? It was said that, biologically, they remained human, but they lost all human awareness. Their bodies were suffused with baleful energy, becoming something neither human nor ghost—unable to reincarnate like a spirit, nor live like a person. Forever, they dwelled in the lightless depths of the Yellow River, heads downward, feet upward, wandering through the riverbed silt day and night, preying upon those who dared to cross the river.

A chill ran down my spine. “Fatty, I’m not that well-read—don’t try to scare me with your nonsense!”

Fatty Zuo snorted, “If you don’t believe me, one of these days I’ll catch a corpse topple and make her your bride. And let me tell you, some of them are quite well-built.”

“Get lost!” I grumbled, seeing plenty of holes in his story.

No matter if a corpse topple was human or ghost, how could she breathe underwater? If they were doomed to live beneath the river forever, how could Sister Ping come up to the surface? Besides, she hadn’t lost her memory at all; for over a decade, she’d remembered me perfectly, even recalling my twentieth birthday.

I voiced my doubts to Fatty Zuo.

He replied, “They say the River God taught them turtle-breathing, so they can live underwater and their bodies don’t rot. As for your Sister Ping, I’m puzzled as well. Usually, I could scare a corpse topple just by lifting a finger, but she’s something else. We’ve clashed several times, and I haven’t gained the upper hand once. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless she was dragged from the river and made someone’s tool soon after she became a corpse topple.”

“Who the hell would be twisted enough to use a corpse topple as a tool?”

Fatty Zuo’s eyes rolled. “Comrade Little Pi, is it appropriate to insult your own kind like that?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused.

“Who else but you treasure hunters would do something that perverted?” Fatty looked at me as if it were obvious.

Just then, as we were talking, the window gave a sudden, sharp crack.

I turned and saw, right outside the window, the face of a woman—her hair dripping wet, her complexion deathly pale—staring at us with a fixed, lifeless gaze.

Fatty Zuo spat a curse, “Damn it!”

His bulky body shot up from the armchair, a charm appearing in his palm. He leapt to the window and slapped the charm onto that woman’s ghostly face. With a shriek, the face vanished, and the charm burned to ashes that drifted down in the air.

Not knowing what was happening, I asked him what that was.

Fatty Zuo told me to stay put while he went out to check. After a while, he returned, hands dusted with charm ashes, cursing under his breath, “Lonely grave ghosts daring to show off in front of me!”

Then he fixed me with a puzzled, almost incredulous look. “Little Pi, after you paid respects to the old village chief, did anything happen?”

He called me “Little Pi” as a nickname, but I couldn't care less. I told him the old man blew a chilly breath in my face, stank horribly, and then recounted my run-in with Uncle Mingda’s ghost.

He clapped the dust from his hands, boasting, “You’ve got a ring of black energy around your brow—dozens of ghosts outside want a chat, but lucky for you I was here to scare them off. How will you thank me?”

Perhaps he was exaggerating, but I couldn't help believing him. Years back, after I’d been cursed by a deadly parasite, Granny Third came to exorcise me, saying I was haunted by a curse spanning three lifetimes, surrounded by spirits and demons. If not for Sister Jiu feeding me a strange medicine—something like animal viscera—that cured me, and warning me not to return to the village before I turned twenty, I might not have survived. But now, returning had clearly brought the evil back upon me.

“I was living just fine until you tricked me into coming back here! I ought to kill you for landing me in this mess, and you still want thanks?” I fumed.

Fatty Zuo’s expression twisted awkwardly, and he shrugged. “Fine, for the sake of earning Chang Geng’s fifty thousand, I landed myself with this headache. Let’s just sleep and deal with it tomorrow.”

That night, I tossed and turned until the rooster crowed at dawn.

The next morning, Fatty Zuo told me we’d hold the ceremony first, to dispel the resentment caused by the old village chief’s “corpse dragging,” and the burial would take place at noon.

He instructed Uncle Chang Geng to fetch a rooster, a length of red cord, two copper coins, several sheets of yellow paper, and a large bundle of incense. Then, donning a red Taoist robe and a hat adorned with feathers, he led a group into the ancestral hall. There, he chanted and danced, had the old chief’s kin bow several times, and finally ushered everyone out.

I tried to leave as well, but Fatty Zuo stopped me, saying he needed my help.

I’d seen enough of his tricks to be wary, but when I tried to ignore him, he grabbed my arm. “Thanks to you, Little Pi, the corpse-dragging started, and you must stay to solve it.” Seeing the pleading faces of Granny Liang and the others, I had no choice but to stay, heart pounding.

Fatty Zuo tied a copper coin to each end of the red string and ordered me to stuff one into the rooster’s rear, warning me to do it properly or else, if the bird got startled during the ritual, I’d get splattered with droppings.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” I protested.

He wrinkled his nose. “It’s too disgusting.”

“And it’s not disgusting for me?” I retorted.

He rolled his eyes and handed me the coin. “Fine, I’ll do the rooster if you put this one in the old chief’s mouth.”

At that, I surrendered, suppressing my disgust as I did the deed.

When all was ready, Fatty Zuo lit the incense and papers, muttered a series of incantations, bowed several times before the old chief, then handed me several sticks of incense and had me bow by the coffin. He taught me to recite, “Old Chief, from now on, I’ll burn you fresh models every Ghost Festival. Please go and enjoy your afterlife.”

I did as instructed.

Suddenly, Fatty Zuo cast me a devilish grin and sprinted for the door.

I froze in terror, dropped the incense, and bolted after him.

But that bastard stopped at the door, turned back, and grinned mischievously.

I cursed, “Fatty, have you lost your mind?!”

Fatty Zuo replied, “Just testing your reflexes. On the funeral procession, if we run into a troublesome ghost, I want to make sure I can outrun you. With you covering the rear, I won’t be the one getting attacked.”

A thousand curses surged in my mind, but before I could explode, the old chief’s corpse suddenly jerked upright before flopping back into the coffin. The rooster began to screech, running frantically around the coffin with the red string dangling from its rear. Curious villagers gathered at the ancestral hall’s entrance.

The rooster circled the coffin several times, then leapt repeatedly in place as though someone were yanking it upward. After a dozen such leaps, its feathers started falling out, its body growing blacker, as if drenched in ink. Finally, it collapsed, head lolling to the side, dead.

Fatty Zuo turned to Uncle Chang Geng and instructed, “The baleful energy is gone. Take the rooster to the latrine, dunk it three times, each time for a quarter of an hour, then bury it somewhere sunny.”

That was even more revolting than shoving a coin up its rear; I was grateful Fatty didn’t make me do it.

After Uncle Chang Geng buried the rooster, Fatty Zuo checked the time. “Time to lift the coffin.”

Beneath the blazing sun, we made our way toward the hillside. Fearing the spirits might pester me if I stayed behind, I joined the funeral procession.

As we passed the entrance to the Wax Path, I shuddered, but nothing happened.

Everything went smoothly until we tried to lower the old chief into the grave. Suddenly, the dragon pole snapped, the coffin lid flew open, and sunlight shone upon the corpse. The old chief lay there, black as coal, eyes wide open, staring at us in bewilderment as if freshly awakened.

Fatty Zuo’s face paled. He demanded, “Uncle Chang Geng, where did you bury the rooster?”

“T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-that sunny spot under the camphor tree at the village entrance,” Uncle Chang Geng stammered.

Fatty cursed, slammed the coffin lid shut, slapped a charm onto it, scattered a ring of copper coins around, and then took off, legs churning, toward the camphor tree.

Remembering his words about outrunning me to avoid being attacked by ghosts, I didn’t think twice and sprinted after him.

At the camphor tree, a wild-haired woman stood, clutching the naked, jet-black rooster, her mouth working as she chewed—Junjun’s mother!

I nearly vomited on the spot.

Fatty Zuo kicked her aside, slapped two charms onto the rooster, and barked at me for a lighter.

I thrust it into his hand. He lit the charms, and the rooster burst into flames in his grip, burning to ashes in moments.

Junjun’s mother, lips stained with chicken blood, skipped away with a grin.

Two villagers came stumbling down the hill, shouting, “Something’s wrong! The old chief’s corpse is moving again!”