The old woman tremblingly peered around to look, and what she saw struck her like lightning, causing the sickle to clang to the ground.
She saw the charcoal-like young wife gnawing on the younger son’s corpse. Everything above his chest had already been consumed, while his arms and legs sprawled on the ground still occasionally twitched from neural responses.
Hearing the noise, the young wife turned her head and grinned at the old woman.
The young wife’s face was black, her lips mostly burned away, exposing stark white teeth filled with blood and flesh. Her eyes gleamed, with wild hair like dried grass hanging behind her head—after the great fire, her hair had been burned away, and the old woman, having paid little attention to her, didn’t know when she had started growing hair again, like an old tree sprouting new branches.
The old woman couldn’t bear the sight. Without even a whimper, she fell straight backward and fainted. Before her eyes closed, she vaguely saw the young wife clutching her son’s remains as she darted into the pitch-black night.
Old Qian paused his story there.
It was nearly dark, with few cars on the road. Autumn had arrived, and the vegetation near and far had begun to thin, making the world seem cold and desolate.
For about ten seconds, neither spoke. Nie Jiuluo was processing the story, while Old Qian was gathering his thoughts.
“Miss Nie, when I heard this story as a child, I was just scared. But looking back as an adult, I feel the logic doesn’t quite add up.”
Nie Jiuluo had the same feeling: “Go on.”
Old Qian poured out his doubts like beans from a bamboo tube: “Why would this demon be so patient, living with the younger son for a year or two before eating him? What was she waiting for?”
Nie Jiuluo thought for a moment: “Maybe it had to do with her injuries. She was wounded and needed to recover her strength.”
Old Qian shook his head vigorously: “No, no, no.”
He had heard this story since childhood and had pondered it hundreds of times over the decades: “First, if she needed to recover her strength, why didn’t she do it right after being injured a year ago, instead of waiting over a year? And why care about leaving an heir for the family? That’s too conscientious. Second, as the saying goes, ‘a day as husband and wife means a hundred days of affection’—people develop feelings after spending time together. With a whole village of people there, she could have chosen anyone to restore her strength, whether young boys or girls. Why specifically target her own family?”
He was getting emotionally invested. Nie Jiuluo couldn’t help but laugh: “It’s just a story. Many folk tales are like this—they don’t hold up to scrutiny.”
Old Qian sighed: “My aunt said the same thing. When I discussed it with her, she would get irritated—the older she got, the more impatient she became. She would yell at me, saying she just heard it that way, how would she know what a demon was thinking!”
Well, you can’t even know what’s in another person’s heart, let alone what a demon thinks.
Nie Jiuluo asked: “What happened next?”
The rest was simple.
When the old woman awoke, both the young wife and the younger son were gone, with only a frozen pool of blood beneath the old locust tree reminding her it wasn’t all a nightmare.
Her wailing brought the neighbors. Armed with hoes and brush knives, carrying torches, they followed the blood trail into the great swamp. In the cold, with howling winds like ghost cries, no one dared venture further, and they had to turn back.
The next day, heavy snow blanketed everything in white, erasing all traces.
The great swamp, always the great swamp—the elder son went to market through the great swamp and never returned; the younger son searched for his brother and met the young wife in the great swamp; and the young wife came from the great swamp wearing the elder son’s black cotton trousers, then disappeared into it again with the younger son’s remains.
The great swamp—the old woman had truly come to fear it.
Not just her—the entire village began to dread the mention of the great swamp, and this fear spread to surrounding villages. The Qinba Mountains stretched vast—how could you know that thing wouldn’t come for your family next?
All sorts of rumors spread like boiling soup: Li Da from Li Village had seen the young wife at the village entrance, her strength enormous as she dragged away a pig with one hand; Wang Seven from Wang Village went to cut firewood and saw a wolf with its belly torn open, while the charcoal-like young wife was feasting on its heart and lungs, her hair grown even longer, nearly reaching her waist, moving like thick spider silk hanging from an old wooden stake…
People were terrified, many even packed up and fled their homes. The matter alarmed the county magistrate, but involving supernatural forces, he dared not report it up—the mid-Qing “soul-stealing” panic that originated in Jiangnan had sparked widespread fear of sorcery across half of China, enraging those in power who had executed many officials over it.
The magistrate could only consult with his advisors to find ways to locate an expert who could “subdue demons.”
Another year passed. In the depths of winter, a wandering Taoist priest passed through. After multiple calculations and divinations, he declared the demon’s root was in the great swamp, and to eliminate this evil, they must first deal with the swamp.
…
At this point, Nie Jiuluo couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
The story’s direction was truly unpredictable. At first, she thought it was a rural supernatural tale, then it seemed to be a story of gratitude and good deeds, before suddenly turning into bloody horror, and now it had shifted to promoting environmental protection.
Old Qian was puzzled by her laughter, but Nie Jiuluo gestured for him to continue.
“My aunt said this priest’s ceremony was quite grand—thousands came from far and wide to watch. In those days, China’s population was small, so thousands of people were like a major market gathering.”
Nie Jiuluo imagined it—given the population density in the late Qing Dynasty, especially in a mountain village, thousands of attendees truly made it a “grand event.”
“The priest did many mysterious things, step by step, which my aunt couldn’t describe. She only said that in the end, over a hundred people set up furnaces and bellows in an open space to melt iron on site.”
Nie Jiuluo didn’t understand: “What was the molten iron for? Blacksmithing?”
Old Qian explained: “It was winter, and the great swamp had frozen solid, not just frozen but cracked into hundreds of fissures from thermal contraction. Since the priest had divined that the demon was beneath the swamp, they poured molten iron into it—welding shut her doorway so she could never emerge again.”
Nie Jiuluo understood now. Though crude, the method sounded satisfying and indeed practical.
Old Qian clicked his tongue appreciatively: “It was a massive project requiring many people, but China has always had plenty of people. They say they poured molten iron for three days and three nights. At night, the spraying iron made beautiful patterns. Hey Miss Nie, have you ever seen iron flower throwing? It’s a specialty of Mizhi in Shaanxi, really worth seeing.”
True to his profession, he could turn even a horror story back to tourism. Nie Jiuluo redirected: “What happened after pouring the iron?”
“That was it—the priest left. The surrounding villages returned to normal life. The great swamp, whether from the heat of the molten iron or not, wasn’t so treacherous come summer. Later, villagers found the bare ground unsightly and frightening, so they brought yellow earth and stones from elsewhere to cover the whole area thickly.”
With soil, yearly rainfall, and seeds brought by wind or animals, the area gradually filled with wild grasses and crops, becoming like any other unclaimed wasteland common in the countryside.
At this point, he suddenly remembered something: “As children, after hearing this story, my friends and I took shovels to dig there, hoping to find the iron shell—we dug over a meter deep but found nothing, just exhausted ourselves.”
This wasn’t surprising—due to the rock cycle and human activity, soil layers naturally thicken over time.
Nie Jiuluo asked: “What about the temple? What’s its story?”
“Well, after the priest left, he said he had contained the demon, but the villagers weren’t at ease. Country folk are superstitious—they felt they needed to build a temple and make offerings.”
No wonder, Nie Jiuluo thought, remembering that seductively demonic statue.
Chinese people typically build temples for two types of beings: one for benevolent deities like Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and wealth gods who bring blessings; the other for various demons and spirits, worshipped out of fear to prevent harm to oneself—though they might harm others freely.
“They built a temple, but couldn’t openly say it was for a demon—that wouldn’t be proper. So they vaguely called it a ‘Guanyin’ temple, but since she was a demon, they feared the real Guanyin’s wrath, so they called her ‘Earth Guanyin,’ since she came from the ground.”
At this point, Nie Jiuluo understood most of it: “Later, when they reorganized into townships, Xingbazi was split into east and west, with the temple happening to be in the west. Country folk were superstitious, so they avoided the West, saying it was unclean?”
That was part of it, but not all. Old Qian thought for a moment before adding: “It’s what you’d call… a vicious cycle. Because people rarely went to the western section, the probability of robbery and violence there was higher. And because many incidents occurred there, people became even more reluctant to go, so over time it became a habit. It doesn’t have much to do with the temple anymore—besides, how many people today even know the ‘Earth Guanyin’ story?”
Nie Jiuluo made a sound of acknowledgment and leaned back against her seat, only now realizing she had been sitting straight up, completely absorbed in the story.
After a pause, still savoring it: “That’s quite an interesting story, much more interesting than visiting temples.”
She would have to include this in her notes tonight. What had started as a bland day had suddenly gained color through this story.
Old Qian was delighted by the client’s praise.
Nie Jiuluo suddenly thought of something else: “About the temple being destroyed and ‘Earth Guanyin getting angry and coming out to harm people’—is there any basis for that?”
Old Qian scoffed: “That’s pure superstition. After the late Qing, our country went through hard times, always being defeated and facing internal turmoil—the Long Hairs, White Lotus, bandits, military revolts—wouldn’t villages suffer with each uprising? And when villages suffered, wouldn’t temples be destroyed? The temple you see now, though built before Liberation, isn’t the original version. My aunt was just making connections, thinking disaster follows temple destruction, forcing blame on the demon when it was human-caused disasters that led to temple destruction… Oh, oh, shit, shit…”
At the end of his speech, Old Qian suddenly drew in a sharp breath, slowing the car.
The road ahead was completely empty, no cars, no people, not even cats or dogs crossing. Nie Jiuluo found it strange: “What’s wrong?”
Old Qian pointed diagonally ahead: “Miss Nie, look at that guardrail!”
Following his gesture, Nie Jiuluo noticed a section of guardrail had been smashed through, the remaining pieces tilting precariously—quite a violent scene.
However, she frequently traveled for her work and was used to seeing broken guardrails or overturned vehicles: “Must have been an accident.”
She glanced down the embankment—no car was visible, so the scene must have been cleared. Beyond the guardrail was a downward slope leading to a large field of wild hemp, a tall crop that could grow two to three meters high. Years ago, many rural families grew it, but it gradually gave way to other cash crops, with most now growing wild in abandoned fields.
Old Qian sighed: “This accident happened today—when we passed through this morning, the guardrail was still intact.”
As a driver, Old Qian paid special attention to accidents involving fellow drivers. He kept the car close to the edge, moving slowly while looking out frequently. As he looked, he suddenly hit the brakes: “Something’s not right, Miss Nie, look at those tire tracks.”
By now, the car was near the broken rail, and under the headlights they could see clearly: there were only two tire tracks going down the slope—if the scene had been cleared, the tracks would be chaotic, and there would be rescuers’ footprints.
Following the tire tracks’ direction, they extended into the hemp field, with broken stalks at the entry point where the car had rolled over them. But hemp stalks have some flexibility—unless completely broken, they tend to spring back somewhat, so the trail disappears further in.
Drivers come in two types: those who ignore accidents, having seen too many, and those who are especially concerned, putting themselves in others’ shoes and hoping for help if they’re ever in trouble.
Old Qian was the latter type.
He quickly unbuckled his seatbelt: “Oh no, did someone lose control and drive straight in? What if the people and car are still in there? I should check—might still be able to save someone.”
Nie Jiuluo looked toward the hemp field.
Tall crops, again tall crops—she thought of the cornfield in Xingbazi Township.
She was becoming uncomfortable with such places: the thin, tall stalks, dense and thick, completely blocking the view, hiding whatever might be inside.
She wanted to warn Old Qian to be careful, or at least take a stick with him, but he ran so quickly that in those few moments, he was already far away.