鬼打墙

Elders have all spoken of “ghost walls”. It is said that when traveling at night, even though you are walking on a main road, you keep walking and suddenly cannot find your way out.

There was once a man, a peddler. That autumn, he returned from the market late. It was pitch dark, the moon was covered by clouds, and the cornfields by the roadside rustled. He pushed an old bicycle, walking from the town toward his village. He had walked that road for decades; he could do it with his eyes closed.

When he reached an earthen mound, there was an old locust tree there, and behind the tree was a chaotic graveyard. Normally, when he got there, it only took the time to smoke a bag of tobacco to cross the mound. But that night, after walking for a long while, he looked up and saw that old locust tree ahead again.

He thought he had taken a wrong turn and turned onto another small path. He walked for a long time, but ahead was still that old locust tree. His heart sank instantly, and he remembered what the elders said: he had run into a “ghost wall”.

He did not dare to look back, nor did he dare to speak. Everything around was eerily quiet; even the insects had stopped chirping. He walked forward again, and after a while, he found himself back under the old locust tree. He was so out of breath he could barely breathe, and he plopped down beside his bicycle, staring wide-eyed as the moon emerged from the clouds and shone upon those burial mounds.

At that moment, he remembered the method taught by the village elders. The elders said that a ghost wall meant something had clouded your eyes, and the path in your mind had changed. To break it, there were several methods: some said to bite your middle finger and drip blood onto the ground; some said to urinate, as urine is heavy with yang energy; some said to take off one shoe and place it upside down on the ground; and some said, don’t panic, squat down, light a cigarette, and see which way the smoke drifts, then walk that way.

He had cigarettes on him. He squatted down, took out a match, and struck it once, but the wind blew out the flame. He struck another, cupped it with his hand, and finally lit it. The cigarette glowed bright then dim. He took a drag and exhaled a wisp of white smoke. The smoke did not drift upward; it moved diagonally toward his right.

He pointed the cigarette in that direction, pushed his bicycle, kept his head down, and walked only toward where the smoke drifted. He walked for who knows how long before hearing dogs barking—once, twice—the dogs of the village. He walked further and saw the lights at the village entrance.

When he got home, it was nearly dawn. His wife had not slept; she was sitting on the kang waiting for him. As soon as she saw him, she asked right away, “Why are you back so late?” He said he had walked all night. His wife said, “That’s not right. You left in the afternoon and came back in the middle of the night; the road takes at most two hours.”

He didn’t believe her, so he took out his pocket watch to look. The pocket watch had stopped at midnight, and the second hand did not move at all.

The next day, he went to circle around under that old locust tree and saw where he had sat the night before. The grass had been trampled down, and there was a pile of cigarette butts on the ground—ten or twenty of them. He didn’t remember smoking a single one.

He never forgot this matter for the rest of his life. Every time he told it to young people, his last sentence was always: “When walking at night, if you feel the road is wrong, don’t force yourself to keep going. Sit down first and calm your mind.”

#Paranormal #短篇故事 #民间故事