Chapter One: An Incident at the Wax Road Crossing

My name is Xie Xiaopi, and my ancestors originally lived in Lingnan.

Decades ago, my grandfather Xie Diebing inexplicably moved our entire family to a small village by the Yellow River. At that time, due to famine, floods, and disease, many people migrated from place to place. The villagers were simple and kind. After settling by the river, the Xie family was quickly accepted by the locals, and our mountain-dwelling, hunting ways gradually blended into the fishing and netting life along the Yellow River.

Grandfather Xie Diebing was a peculiar man. He would often wander alone to the wax channel by the river in the dead of night, staring at the surging waters until the sky began to pale.

One dark, windy night, he put on a fisherman's leather cap, waterproof boots, and slung a long water-dividing spear over his shoulder. With a nervous air, he told my parents that he would be boating out to the wax channel that night, and charged them with keeping careful watch over a certain object in the inner room—under no circumstances were they to let it tip over.

What was this object?

A foot basin filled with clear water, and floating upon it, a tiny paper boat.

Once my parents solemnly agreed, Xie Diebing hurried off into the night.

At the time, my father was not yet thirty, full of energy, and my mother was famed as the village beauty. After lulling me to sleep, the young couple, unable to contain their passion, began their own affair. It had nothing to do with grandfather’s mysterious voyage, but by a twist of fate, in their ardor they knocked over the basin of water. The paper boat tumbled to the ground, soaked through.

My father was instantly stricken, his face ashen and sweat pouring from his brow. He yanked up his trousers and ran for the riverbank.

At dawn, my mother finally saw my father return—soaked to the skin, hollow-eyed, and grief-stricken.

She asked him what had happened to grandfather.

My father shook his head. “It’s over. The paper boat overturned, so did the old man’s boat. His body was probably swallowed by that beast.”

My mother was terrified and wept, asking what they should do, lamenting that they had caused grandfather’s death. The couple clung to each other and sobbed.

With a knot of guilt in his heart, my father swore he would not rest until he split open that creature’s belly and retrieved grandfather’s remains.

He began to haunt the wax channel by the river every night, just as grandfather had.

My mother tried to persuade him, saying, “Our son is only six. The dead cannot return. From now on, the Xie family should leave this life behind and live in peace.” But wracked with guilt, my father would not listen.

After half a month, he came home elated, telling my mother that the beast had gone up the mountain and he had found its den—well hidden indeed. In a few days, he would kill it. He began sharpening his knives in the yard.

My mother resorted to the usual tactics—crying, rolling on the ground, threatening to hang herself—but nothing could dissuade him.

A few days later, my father prepared his gear, lit a candle as thick as a baby’s arm and over a meter long, stuck it into a giant radish in the inner room, and told my mother that the candle would guide him as he hunted the beast on the mountain. She must not let it go out. If it did, he could get lost, fall, or be eaten, never to return.

My mother said nothing, but packed her things to go with him.

My father said, “If you come, who will watch the candle? If something happens to both of us, what about Xiaopi?”

My mother replied that she had sent word to Tongzi—he would come tomorrow. If they returned safely, all was well; if not, Tongzi would care for me.

Tongzi, as they called him, was Tong Tianwang, my uncle, a decade older than me.

Unable to argue, my father looked back at my sleeping form, then locked all doors and windows so tightly that not even a breeze could get in. He placed a glass cover over the candle, and only then did they set off, apprehensively, up the mountain.

Back then, cell phones were rare and even landlines uncommon; messages were relayed by word of mouth. With the doors sealed, the sturdy candle—called an “eternal candle,” usually reserved for temple altars—should have burned for days under the glass cover.

But, unexpectedly, Tong Tianwang, upon receiving my mother’s message, thought something urgent had happened. He didn’t wait until morning, but pedaled his battered bicycle through the mountain roads under cover of night.

Upon arriving, he found the house ablaze with firelight, doors locked tight—surely a fire had broken out! The messenger had forgotten to tell him where the key was hidden. Hot-headed and fond of Bruce Lee, Tong Tianwang fancied himself a martial hero. He grabbed a bucket of water in the yard, kicked down the door, and doused the “fire” inside. The candle hissed and went out.

My parents never returned.

Thus, out of a family of four, only my six-year-old self remained—wiped out in such an abrupt and absurd way.

Tong Tianwang told me all this later. I asked how he knew so many details. He said half was guesswork.

After my parents’ deaths, Tong Tianwang searched the mountain for days but never found their bodies.

When the mourning was done, we burned a few clothes and set up memorial tablets, bowing our heads as if to send off our loved ones.

Tong Tianwang took me, intending to return to my grandmother’s home several dozen miles away.

But as soon as we stepped outside, we heard a commotion in the village—a frantic wailing as people rushed toward the river. Tong Tianwang, puzzled, grabbed a snot-nosed child and asked what was going on.

The child stammered that something terrible had happened at the wax channel—Sister Ping was undressing and dancing there!

Sister Ping was famed as the village beauty, even more so than my mother.

We raced to the wax channel.

A crowd of villagers was already there. Sister Ping’s eyes sparkled with madness as she stood by the river, laughing and singing, her bare skin dazzling. In her arms, a swaddled infant wailed.

Her family sat on the ground, wailing; the old village chief shouted, begging her to put the child down and talk things over.

Sister Ping swept her gaze over the crowd, smiled, and said, “My child is dead—so all the village children must die!”

The old chief retorted, “Don’t talk nonsense! Your child is in your arms, crying. Are you mad?”

Sister Ping looked down at the baby, then went berserk. “This isn’t my child!” she shrieked. Then she fixed her crazed eyes on me, “The one who most deserves to die is you, little Xie. Just you wait!”

I’d never witnessed such a scene and burst into tears, terrified by her venomous glare.

With a gasp, the crowd watched as Sister Ping hurled the baby into the swirling waters of the wax channel—a whirlpool on the Yellow River. The current swept the child away in an instant.

Sister Ping’s in-laws fainted on the spot. Her husband—Uncle Mingda, as I called him—went mad, snatched up a hoe, eyes bulging red, and cursed, “You crazy woman! I’ll kill you.” He charged at her, but Sister Ping, laughing wildly, slipped away naked like an eel, vanishing before their eyes.

The villagers, abandoning her, scrambled to launch boats and save the child.

Half an hour later, they dragged from the river the white, swollen corpse of an infant, tangled in river weeds.

It was a catastrophe. Sister Ping’s words—“all the village children must die”—terrified everyone. Even tigers don’t eat their cubs, yet she had killed her own child. No child in the village was safe.

The village chief ordered the roads sealed and summoned all the able-bodied men to beat the drums and search for Sister Ping.

With the roads closed, we couldn’t leave.

Tong Tianwang locked me at home and joined the search.

By evening, he returned exhausted, hurried upstairs, and asked me gravely, “Xiaopi, are you afraid?”

I said I was.

He said, “If you are, stay in the attic. No matter what you see or hear, don’t make a sound. Sister Ping has drowned Junjun at the wax channel.”

Junjun was my playmate; I never imagined he too would be killed by Sister Ping.

I remembered her words and her hateful eyes, “The one who most deserves to die is you, little Xie.” I trembled with fear, wet myself, and burst into tears.

Tong Tianwang, exasperated, slapped me. “Quit your bawling! If you want to live, keep quiet. Otherwise, even I can’t save you!”

Sniveling, I choked back my sobs.

He pasted a strange talisman at the attic door, tore down the ladder, and hurried out again.

The attic was full of rats. Normally, I’d have screamed and cried, but terror kept me silent.

Toward midnight, hungry and frightened, I was about to fall asleep when I heard someone calling downstairs, “Xiaopi, where are you? I’ve brought you milk candy, come play…”

It was Junjun’s voice.

But hadn’t Uncle said Junjun had been drowned by Sister Ping?