Sanqi — Two Odd Fellows

Not my concern! Not my concern! Lingran shook her head, lifted the lantern, and went to the small kitchen to boil water. She lit the stove, searched for a cloth, fetched a wooden bucket, carried water in, and prepared to clean the agate bathtub for a proper bath.

Although this little hill was fairly central within the Prime Minister’s residence, at night there wasn’t a soul about. Lingran shuttled back and forth between the kitchen and the empty house; distant branches swayed in the wind, casting eerie shadows that could easily stir suspicion and fear. Luckily, her courage surpassed that of most women; otherwise, she would never dare spend the night here alone.

In her previous life, her mother, troubled by Lingran’s illness, devoted herself to Buddhism and somehow acquired a Chinese version of the Great Compassion Mantra. Lingran had scoured the internet but never found the exact rendition her mother recited. Regardless, her mother would sometimes chant it hundreds of times a day. Lingran learned it by heart, whether she wanted to or not. They said it could dispel demons and ghosts, avert disasters and illness. Whether or not it worked, Lingran sang it like a little tune to bolster her courage.

Thus, as she scrubbed the bathtub, she gently hummed, “Great Compassionate Avalokitesvara, Eight Dragons, Eight Tigers, Eight Vajras. Ten Heavenly Mothers, Ten Earthly Mothers, vanquish spirits and ghosts, vanquish demons and monsters, Savalogan, Savalha…”

It took considerable effort to clean the tub. She boiled several kettles of hot water and mixed it with cool, filling two-thirds of the bathtub. Exhausted and dripping with sweat, she regretted it—on such a hot day, with no one around, it would have been easier to wash in the pond behind the house.

But once she sank into the hot water, comfort seeped into her limbs and bones, and her weary feet finally relaxed after a day of running about. Lingran was thoroughly satisfied. Leaning back, she mused that without maids to serve her, this bathtub was far too much trouble. She would have to find a way to install pipes to connect the spring outside to the kitchen.

Lying in the bathtub, feeling as happy as a celestial immortal, Lingran began to hum various tunes, from childhood songs like “The Singing Cowherd Boy” to “Angel’s Wings,” which she could still hear in her final moments in her previous life—a song she thought particularly suited for those near death.

“Leaves drift with the wind, where will they go, leaving only a beautiful scene for the sky.

The sound of wings once danced, like angel’s wings, brushing past my happy memories.

Love once came to this place, yesterday’s fragrance still lingers.

That familiar warmth, like angel’s wings, crosses my boundless heart.

I believe you are still here, never left, my love guards you like an angel.

If life ends here, and I am gone, I will find an angel to love you for me…”

As she hummed, she seemed to glimpse a shadow flash past outside the door, accompanied by a faint sound.

Could it be… a bold servant sneaking up the hill to spy on her bathing?

Her heart trembled; she quickly reached for her clothes by the tub, not caring if they got wet, clambered out and hastily threw them on, then called out loudly, “Who’s there?”

No one answered, but from the main hall came a distinct “tap, tap” sound.

“Could it be a ghost?” Lingran recalled the strange expressions of the old maids when they learned she would be staying here. “Impossible!” The underworld’s ghost envoy had told her that apart from a rare few vengeful spirits with intense resentment, ghosts cannot linger in the mortal world. And places with strong baleful energy repel all spirits. Surely, the Prime Minister’s residence was heavy with such energy? She reasoned it couldn’t be a ghost, so she mustered her courage, left the candle behind, and slowly crept out to see who or what was causing the disturbance.

The outer room was empty and pitch black. She relied on the darkness to conceal herself, hoping to startle the intruder, but instead, in the center of the main hall stood a thing neither human nor ghost. It suddenly turned and flashed a “brilliant” smile at her, nearly causing her to faint on the spot.

By the flickering candlelight in the hall, she saw the painting that had hung on the wall was now gone.

The “person” wore the exact same foreign-style dress as the late Princess Dowager depicted in the painting, hair braided into little plaits, but the figure was sturdy, the face covered with stage makeup like a painted villain—so much so that eyes and mouth were indistinguishable. When it grinned, a long tongue hung out…

“You…you…you…you…you…” Lingran stammered five times, her mind going blank with terror, unable to utter another word.

Was this really a vengeful spirit?

Had the Princess Dowager morphed into this?

“You sing beautifully,” the creature spoke, its voice male but ethereal and uncanny. Then, it actually “floated” toward her without touching the ground.

“Ah—” Even Lingran, whose bravery was exceptional, could not withstand this. She screamed and dashed out the door.

“You sing beautifully,” it repeated, the voice clinging to her back like a shadow. No matter which way Lingran ran, it followed with the same phrase, and a cold hand gripped her shoulder.

“Help! Help!” Lingran darted frantically, slapping at the hand stuck to her shoulder.

She was certain that in the quiet Prime Minister’s residence, her loud cries atop the hill would surely alert the guards—perhaps if she held out a little longer, a crowd would rush up.

But the base of the hill remained eerily calm, as if her desperate screams were unheard by the outside world. No matter how she ran, she could not escape the creature’s pursuit.

Was this “ghostly confusion”? Gritting her teeth, she silently recited her mother’s rare version of the Great Compassion Mantra, then stopped and turned to face it.

“Are you human or ghost? If you’re human, stop pretending to be supernatural! If you’re a ghost, well, I’ve seen worse—just tell me what you want,” she panted, hands on hips, finger pointed at the creature only three feet away, ready to risk everything.

“You sing beautifully,” the creature cocked its head, seemingly pondering. “I want to take you back, to sing for me.”

“Take me back? Where?” Surely not dragging me to the underworld again? I’ve only just been reincarnated, Lingran thought.

The creature suddenly leapt—fully ten feet high—landed and retreated a few steps, saying, “The Jade Doll is no fun. I want this girl.”

Its cloudy eyes seemed to address someone behind her.

Lingran sensed nothing behind her, but following its gaze, she turned to look—and nearly lost her soul in fright.

A cold bronze face hovered less than two feet before her, glowing faintly in the moonlight, but with no body at all.

She stumbled backward, almost colliding with the monster in the foreign dress.

“She wants to go with me, Jade Doll!” The monster grabbed her shoulder; she tried to resist, but her whole body went numb, sapped of all strength.

The “Jade Doll”—the bronze face—said nothing, but suddenly floated forward, nearly brushing Lingran’s face, as if lunging to bite her.

Lingran squeezed her eyes shut in terror, but at that moment, her shoulder was freed—the creature had let go.

When she opened her eyes again, there was nothing beside her; the bronze face had dragged the monster away, receding farther and farther. Only then did she see that the face was not bodiless, but wrapped entirely in a pitch-black cloak. It reached out to pull the monster, and under the faint moonlight, she caught a clear glimpse.

“At last, they’re gone—those two monsters! They nearly scared me to death!” Lingran patted her chest, shuddering with lingering fear.