Chapter One: The Red Coffin

Some time ago, the story of the little white rabbit and the hundred steamed buns became a sensation. It tells of a little white rabbit who, for three days in a row, went to ask the owner of a steamed bun shop if there were a hundred buns available. The first two days, the owner said no, but on the third day, after preparing a hundred buns, the rabbit asked for a single pancake instead.

Recently, I encountered a similarly maddening situation, though my family doesn't run a bun shop—we own a coffin shop.

My name is Wu Dao. From a young age, I lived with my grandfather, relying on this coffin shop in town to make a living.

That day, my grandfather had to travel to a neighboring county to oversee a funeral, which would take several days. Normally, the shop would have closed, but since I happened to be home for winter break, he asked me to watch over the shop.

That evening, as I was about to close up, a very peculiar young woman entered.

She was about twenty-five or twenty-six, strikingly beautiful, though her attire was somewhat outdated—a red turtleneck sweater and a pair of tight, flared jeans, the sort of fashion popular in the 1990s.

Her complexion was pale, and she didn't speak upon entering. Instead, she fixed her gaze on me, unblinking, in a way that made my skin crawl. I quickly asked what she wanted.

She paused for two seconds, then asked, “Do you have seven unvarnished bright red coffins?”

I was dumbfounded and instinctively replied that we didn’t. Before I could explain further, she simply let out an “oh,” turned, and walked out of the shop.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. I figured she was just toying with me, so I closed up and went online.

To my surprise, she returned the next evening, dressed exactly as before, her expression unchanged. She stared at me for a moment, then asked once more if we had seven unvarnished bright red coffins.

This time, I found it odd. Could she actually be serious? I wanted to ask her more, perhaps request a deposit, but before I could say anything, just as before, she seemed to know we had nothing in stock, let out an “oh,” and left.

I was annoyed. Did she think this was a bun shop? Even if she really wanted seven bright red coffins, she’d have to give me time to find a carpenter.

Though it was strange, running a coffin shop means encountering odd things from time to time. I didn’t dwell on it. Yet, on the third day, at the exact same time, she returned and asked the same question.

Now I was certain something was wrong. After she left, I immediately called my grandfather and told him what had happened.

He scolded me over the phone, asking why I hadn’t called him sooner.

I thought he was upset that I’d lost a big sale, so I explained that I believed the woman was just making trouble. But that wasn’t it at all. He said the whole affair was extremely suspicious and feared I might have encountered something unclean.

My heart skipped a beat, and I hurriedly asked why he thought so.

He explained that, without red lacquer, how could there be bright red coffins? Even those made from redwood were merely dark red. Bright red coffins had two meanings: one, “joy coffins,” used when someone over ninety passed away peacefully—a joyous funeral. But who would have seven nonagenarians die at once? The other meaning was “blood coffins,” used only for those who died tragically.

Cold sweat broke out on my back. There was no need to deliberate; it had to be the second meaning. I grew frightened and asked my grandfather what I should do.

He was silent for a few seconds before saying he wouldn’t be back for another two days. If the woman returned the next day, I was to tell her we had what she wanted, but under no circumstances should I ask for a deposit. Tell her to come collect them the following day.

If she agreed, I was to immediately seek out Left Dao Yin, the fortune-teller behind our town, and have him divine what was truly happening and how to resolve it.

If she refused, I was to drive her away and warn her not to come back. If she dared return, I was to call the police.

After I hung up, I was on edge the entire night. The next evening, at the same hour, the woman appeared once more.

She wore the same clothes, her face still pale. She stared at me for a few seconds, then asked if we had seven unvarnished bright red coffins.

“Yes!” I mustered my courage to say it, my heart pounding in my throat. Without waiting for her response, I added, “If you want them, come collect them tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

To my surprise, she simply replied with that one word and turned to leave.

What was this supposed to mean? Was she taking them or not? I immediately chased after her to find out, but she moved so quickly that she vanished the moment I stepped outside.

I was out of options, so I called my grandfather again, but for some reason, perhaps poor reception, I couldn’t reach him.

Night was falling, and faced with such a bizarre situation, I dared not stay in the coffin shop alone. I decided to follow my grandfather’s instructions and seek out Left Dao Yin.

Our street is known as White Street, so named because nearly half the shops here deal in funeral-related business. On White Street, two people are renowned for their skills: Wu Zhenlong, my grandfather the coffin maker, and Left Dao Yin, the fortune-teller, both of whom are genuinely gifted.

By the time I reached Left Dao Yin’s house, night had fully descended.

Left Dao Yin is just over sixty, but perhaps because he revealed too many secrets of fate in his youth, his body is covered with scars from old boils and sores. His face, in particular, is pockmarked and grotesque, resembling the skin of a toad.

His life has been tragic—widowed in middle age, lost his only son in old age, now eking out a bleak existence on a meager government stipend.

These experiences have made him reclusive and eccentric. For years now, he rarely tells fortunes for others, preferring to shut himself away. No one knows what he does all day inside his house.

If not for this strange predicament, I would never have come to his house; I even avoided passing by, as the old two-story building seemed to exude misfortune, even through its doors.

After I explained my purpose, his cloudy, cataract-rimmed eyes fixed on me with a strange intensity.

Frightened, I stammered, “Grandpa Left, I’m not joking. This is real—my grandfather sent me here.”

He was silent for a moment, then told me to wait and went upstairs alone.

His house was made of wooden planks, and as he climbed the stairs, they creaked ominously, as if they might collapse at any moment. There was once a story on White Street: a thief broke into Left Dao Yin’s house, went upstairs, and came out raving mad from whatever he’d seen. Since then, rumors circulated that he kept evil spirits upstairs. Who knows the truth?

A few minutes later, Left Dao Yin returned with a chipped bowl containing a piece of yellow talismanic paper and three copper coins.

He asked for my birth date and time, wrote them on the yellow paper, burned it in the bowl, and dropped in the three coins. Then he began to manipulate the coins with his hands.

I stood beside him, transfixed, my palms and the backs of my hands slick with sweat.

He took a long time with the divination, his fingers moving at varying speeds over the coins, until finally his hand froze in place. He turned to me, his face tense.

Startled, I asked what was wrong.

Left Dao Yin frowned deeply, his voice trembling as he spoke: “That woman is not human!”