Bring Ghost To The Family Grave

The night was as dark as ink, with a cold wind slipping through the cracks, slithering into the grand three-story house. The window creaked, sending chills down the spine of the woman lying in bed.

Madam Hoe opened her bleary eyes. Though past fifty, she was still nimble. Glancing at the altar, she saw the incense had burned out, the candles long extinguished. She clambered out of bed.

Fumbling for the lighter, she struck it several times, but the feeble flame flickered and died. Looking at the framed portrait on the altar, she sobbed:

“Oh, my husband… Why did you leave me and our child behind?”

Knock… knock… knock.

A sudden knock at the door made Madam Hoe’s face go pale. She collapsed onto the cold stone floor, her eyes darting between the dimly lit portrait and the door.

Could it be her husband’s spirit returning?

Just then, Hue, her daughter, descended from the upper floor. Holding up her phone as a makeshift lantern, she mumbled:

“Mom, why are you sleeping here? And who would be knocking at this hour?”

Seeing her daughter, Madam Hoe felt slightly relieved. The eerie sound had shaken her to the core. Together, they approached the door. The knocking continued, steady and unrelenting against the sturdy wooden frame.

Madam Hoe's family was wealthy, their house large and well-fortified. Last year, they had even installed security cameras. Hue unlocked her phone to check who was outside.

On the screen appeared a gaunt man clad in pitch-black robes, clutching a small bag in one hand. His bony fingers continued rapping against the wood. As if sensing he was being watched, he slowly lifted his head toward the camera and… smiled. A thin, eerie smile.

Hue’s skin crawled. She checked the time—just past two in the morning. This man was a stranger, neither kin nor neighbor. If he wasn’t a thief, then he had to be up to no good.

She called out sharply:

“Who’s out there?”

A deep voice responded:

“I’m a disciple of Master Cao. I’ve come to perform the soul-guiding ritual for Mr. Hoe. Is this his residence?”

Madam Hoe and Hue exchanged glances, confusion clouding their eyes. It was true that someone was supposed to perform the ritual today, but who would arrive before dawn?

Sensing their hesitation, the man added:

“I told Madam La I’d come at dawn. The ritual must be done before sunrise, when the yin energy is strongest. Open the door quickly—if we wait two more hours, it’ll be too late.”

His urgency made Hue waver. Madam Hoe, however, was already reaching for the key, ready to unlock the door.

But Hue, still wary, stopped her.

“Mom, stay here. Don’t open it yet. Let me wake Brother Hung. A man in the house will make them think twice before trying anything.”

Madam Hoe nodded at her daughter’s reasoning. Hue rushed upstairs to wake her brother and his wife. Meanwhile, Madam Hoe clutched a flashlight, her gaze shifting between her late husband’s portrait and the door.

Her heart pounded. A strange foreboding crept over her. But perhaps this was a good thing—bringing her husband’s soul home would ease her troubled heart. Thirty years of marriage… she couldn’t bear the thought of his spirit wandering cold and lost beneath the river.

Just a week ago, Mr. Hoe had gone to the fields and slipped into the water. The area was secluded, the riverbanks overgrown with weeds, so no one had noticed. By evening, when he hadn’t returned, the family panicked and scoured the village, only to find his lifeless body drifting in the current.

Dying in water meant the soul was trapped below. The villagers whispered among themselves, warning their children to stay away from the river—lest Mr. Hoe’s spirit seek a replacement.

The neighbors urged Madam Hoe to conduct a soul-summoning ritual. Hung, her son, didn’t believe in ghosts. But out of respect for his mother, he reluctantly gathered the necessary offerings after his father’s funeral.

Now, in the dead of night, Hung and his wife groggily made their way downstairs. Opening the door, they found the stranger—a man who introduced himself as Qua, a disciple of the renowned Master Cao.

Hung didn’t care who the man was. He just wanted to get this over with, to silence the gossip and superstition spreading through the village. Since time was short, Ly—Hung’s wife—only had time to summon immediate family to assist. At this hour, it was impossible to wake the neighbors.

In the fourth watch of the night, shadowy figures clad in black robes moved through the fields. They carried offerings of fruit, flowers, and cakes, their silhouettes swaying as they walked through the grass. Behind them, someone held a long white silk ribbon, which fluttered in the wind like a spectral guide for the departed soul.

The women in the family wept bitterly. Amidst the desolate fields, they saw crimson footprints appear on the white silk—footprints that led from the river’s depths.

Beneath the murky water, a lone sprig of duckweed bobbed with the current. A shadow surfaced, reeking of decay, slithering toward the grand house on the hill. Yet another shadow, weaker and more fragile, remained behind—its ankles ensnared by the river’s weeds.

Something was pulling it down.

The weakened shadow peered below. A discarded ceramic urn lay half-buried in the riverbed, emanating an ominous force that slowly sucked the feeble spirit inside.

As dawn broke, the Morning Star shone in the sky. The family, overjoyed, handed Qua his payment. He pocketed the hefty sum, then, without hesitation, snatched a piece of pork roll from the offering tray.

With a smirk, he thought to himself: With so many people here, who would notice?

A fat paycheck in hand, he was eager to find a good place to splurge. As for the ritual? Qua chuckled inwardly. If he truly had the power to summon a soul, he would’ve replaced Master Cao and gone legitimate—rather than sneaking around like this.

Yet, just as he stepped beyond the gate, a shiver ran down his spine.

Through the window, he caught sight of the framed portrait.

The eyes in the picture…

They were no longer lifeless.

They were watching him.

And they were smiling.