I never believed in spirits.
Sure, I grew up surrounded by my uncle’s shamanic rituals—drawing talismans, memorizing formations—but it was just tradition. Nothing more. Or so I thought.
Then, a strange death brought us back to a small town for an old friend’s funeral.
An unexplainable paralysis.
A lingering grudge.
A forgotten talisman.
And suddenly, what I had dismissed was the only thing standing between us and something far worse.
A supernatural mystery steeped in folklore and the unseen.
Chapter One
I lived with my uncle, a shaman who made a living mostly through online fortune-telling and talisman sales. His business was modest at best, but he never worried about it.
“Wealth and fortune are in the hands of fate,” he’d say, sprawled on the sofa, a book in hand, grinning lazily without looking up, as if waiting for fate to deliver customers to his virtual doorstep.
Then, still absorbed in his book, he’d add, “Can you grab me a soda from the fridge?”
Sometimes, I wondered if fate was just his excuse for laziness, or just a way to get me to do things for him. Still, he always managed to keep us comfortable, so I kept my suspicions to myself.
Beyond his online store, my uncle had other businesses: occasional clients seeking what I assumed were authentic shamanic practices. When these requests came, he'd grab his leather satchel filled with shamanic supplies and head out, sometimes disappearing for days.
But whatever he was doing, it didn't seem to pay well. Our finances never looked any better when he returned. He never talked about these so-called "business trips," not a single word, even when I asked.
One day, as I was frying an egg for breakfast, he came home exhausted. I was shocked to see his clothes dusty and wrinkled like he'd spent the night rolling around on a dirt road. Curious, I followed him into the bathroom and pressed him for details, completely forgetting about my egg until the smell of burning filled our small apartment.
He just smiled and said, “When the time comes, I'll let you know.” Pushing me out of the bathroom, “Don't set the kitchen on fire.”
While he kept his true shamanic work a mystery, he began teaching me spells and basic arrays when I was six. Once I’d memorized all the basics, he started showing me how to group different arrays into formations. It was fun, like playing with Legos.
Still, I often wished he’d let me pursue normal after-school activities instead. Like other kids, I wanted to try drawing or playing the piano, not that I had any talent or passion for either, but they symbolized the ordinary life I craved.
When I finally gathered the courage to voice these thoughts, I said, "Uncle, maybe I could try learning how to draw?"
His face brightened instantly. "Drawing? Perfect! You can start learning how to draw talismans now!"
And just like that, my attempt at normalcy became another stepping stone in my shamanic training. My “extracurricular activities” now consisted of spells, formations, and talisman drawing, “all essential and useful skills,” as my uncle never tired of reminding me.
Useful for him, certainly. I spent hours drawing talismans on yellow paper with red pigment, which he sold through his online store.
Sometimes, he crafted his own, using cinnabar to draw on hides or etching symbols directly onto stones and crystals. He explained that while animal hides could accommodate any symbols, specific stones and crystals amplified the power of certain talismans. But those were never for sale; he reserved them for his “business trips” or sent them as gifts.
"Why can’t I use these?" I asked one day, watching him prepare a piece of deer hide.
“That’s a waste,” he replied without hesitation.
I must have failed to hide my disappointment, because his expression softened. He reached over and patted my head. "You’ll use them when the time comes."
At first, I had doubts and tried earnestly. The spells I cast never produced any results; the formations I set up had no effect, no sparks, no flashes, not even the faintest sign.
When I asked why nothing happened, my uncle simply said, “practice makes perfect. And when the time is right, it will work.” I thought maybe I wasn’t doing it right. But later, Even when I could set up formations perfectly with my eyes closed, still nothing happened.
Once, I carefully drew a Misfortune Talisman and slipped it into the backpack of a school bully who'd been stealing my best friend's lunch money. I even stole some cinnabar powder and a piece of deer hide from my uncle's supplies, suspecting his materials would have better effects than mine. I hoped the bully might trip, stumble, anything. Instead, he found a small amount of money, ten yuan on the ground on his way home.
Eventually, I dismissed it all as superstition, nothing more than a charlatan’s act, a performance meant to deceive the gullible.
But I never voiced these thoughts. How could I? Our family’s shamanic lineage stretched back generations, with one practitioner in each. My uncle was the current bearer of this tradition. After my parents' death, he took me in and raised me with genuine care, though perhaps not the most conventional wisdom.
Growing older, I began to notice subtle clues: extra teacups left on the table after school, hushed phone calls answered on the balcony, peculiar objects quietly stored away as “gifts from friends.” These details hinted at a hidden world, one my uncle deliberately kept from me. It felt like he was building a wall, brick by secretive brick, and I was on the wrong side.
Why wouldn't he trust me? What was he hiding? I asked, I pleaded, but my uncle’s response was always the same: a pat on the head and the maddening mantra, “It’s not about trust… just not time yet, not time yet.”
Then, when I turned fifteen, something shifted, or so it seemed. Occasionally, his associates began visiting while I was home. My uncle, if I happened to be present, would offer a brief introduction. But their conversations always took place behind the closed door of his study.
Once, a Taoist priest visited, his long light blue-gray robe rippling as he entered our home. He left a gift: a piece of charcoal-black wood. My uncle examined it with reverence, his eyes gleaming. “This is superb lightning-struck wood,” he declared, handing it to me excitedly. “Feel it. Feel the quality!” he urged.
I turned it over in my hands, trying hard to discern something, anything. It felt like… wood, nothing but just wood.
“Not time yet,” he said, more to himself than to me, shaking his head slightly.
Here it was again, my most loathed collection of words. I’d heard it countless times, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Frustrated, I hissed, “Pretending to be mysterious is a charlatan’s trick.”
That swiftly earned me two extra hours of talisman drawing, every single day, for the next two months.
I suspected his online store needed to be restocked, but I said nothing. I didn’t want to craft more talismans.
A month later, on a quiet Saturday in late October, I hounded my uncle for a deal. 'I'll do four extra hours of talisman drawing today if I can have tomorrow off to play games with my classmates,' I bargained, watching him carefully examine the herbs in the newly delivered box.
The familiar scent filled the air, rich and fragrant, a smell I had loved since the day he took me in. It mingled with the soft rustling of leaves as he carefully turned them over, inspecting each one with practiced ease.
“If you sort these herbs, I'll consider it,” he replied without looking up.
“I’ll sort them on Monday,” I countered, already imagining a full Sunday of gaming. “Can I go tomorrow?”
“No, you’ll sort them today, and you can only go if you make no mistakes.”
I stared at the huge box of herbs, calculating: four extra hours of talisman drawing plus this? I’d have to work like a slave to earn my freedom.
Man, it was impossible to get one over on him. I was formulating my next argument with all my brainpower when the sharp ring of the phone cut through my thoughts.
I watched as my uncle answered, his expression darkening almost immediately.
The call was from Aunt Shen in Huangxian Town, a remote village in the Northeast Territory. She brought impossible news: her husband, Uncle Zheng, an old friend of my uncle’s, had drowned.
Drowned. In a pothole.
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