Eastern Mystic Encounters

The City God

Song Tao, courtesy name Ziming, was my brother-in-law’s grandfather. He was a scholar in a small county during the late Qing Dynasty. Gentle by nature and deeply filial, he spent most of his time reading at home and caring for his elderly mother. Though his family was poor, he lived with quiet dignity and lofty ideals. The townspeople often called him “the gentleman of the books.”

One spring, Song suddenly fell ill. Within three days, his condition worsened—his breath grew faint, his face turned pale, and the local doctor could do nothing. His family, grief-stricken, began preparing for his funeral. A coffin was even brought into the house.

But just when everyone believed he had passed, Song’s consciousness entered a strange and otherworldly realm.

He felt as if he were waking from a deep dream. Before him stood a man in official robes, holding a red-sealed document. Beside him was a majestic horse with a patch of white hair on its forehead. The messenger bowed and said, “By order of the court, you are summoned to take an examination.”

Song was bewildered. “But the provincial examiner hasn’t arrived. How can there be an exam?”

The messenger gave no answer, only urged him to depart. Though his body felt heavy, Song found himself rising, dressing, and mounting the horse as if guided by an invisible force.

The road they traveled was shrouded in mist. Towering trees lined the path, and not a single bird sang. The world was silent, save for the sound of hooves and wind. Everything felt unfamiliar, as though he had left the mortal world behind.

Eventually, they arrived at a city. The gates were tall, the streets immaculate, but eerily empty. The buildings were grand and radiant, like something from a celestial realm. It felt more like a divine capital than any earthly place.

They entered a magnificent government hall. Inside, more than a dozen officials sat in solemn silence. Their robes were embroidered with strange symbols, and their expressions were grave. Song recognized only one of them—Guan Yu, the legendary general now revered as a god.

Two desks stood before the dais, each with brush and paper. Another scholar was already seated. Song took the remaining seat. Moments later, a scroll floated down from above, bearing eight characters:

“One man, two men; with intent, without intent.”

Song pondered the prompt, then began to write. In his essay, he argued: “To do good with intent, though virtuous, does not warrant reward; to do harm without intent, though wrong, does not deserve punishment.”

His words were simple but profound, blending Confucian ethics with Buddhist ideas of karma and intention.

The officials passed his paper around, nodding in approval. Guan Yu spoke: “There is a vacancy in Henan. The position of City God is open. Song Tao is well-suited for the role.”

Song was stunned. Only then did he realize this was no ordinary exam. He knelt and said, tears streaming down his face, “I am honored by this appointment, but my mother is over seventy and has no one else to care for her. I beg to delay my service until after her passing.”

The emperor-like figure at the center of the hall ordered a check of her lifespan. A long-bearded official opened a celestial register and replied, “She has nine years remaining.”

The officials hesitated. Then Guan Yu spoke again: “Let the scholar Zhang serve in his place for nine years. When the time comes, Song Tao shall take over.”

The ruler nodded. “Your filial devotion is admirable. You are granted a nine-year leave. When the time comes, you will be summoned again.” He turned to Zhang and added, “Serve faithfully during your term.”

Both scholars bowed in gratitude. As they left the hall, Zhang took Song’s hand and walked with him to the city’s edge. “I am Zhang, from Changshan,” he said. “It was an honor to meet you.” He handed Song a farewell poem. Most of the lines faded from memory, but two remained:

“Where flowers bloom and wine flows, spring never ends. Though no candles burn, the night still shines.”

Song mounted his horse and rode home. As he crossed the threshold of his house, he awoke as if from a dream. His family was shocked—he had been lying in the coffin for three days.

His mother heard faint groans from within and rushed to open the lid. Song lay inside, pale but alive. It took half a day before he could speak. He recounted everything he had seen in vivid detail.

He later sent someone to Changshan to investigate. Sure enough, a scholar named Zhang had died on the very day Song revived. The story spread quickly through the village, and people spoke of it in hushed, awed tones.

Nine years passed. Song’s mother lived peacefully until her natural death. After the funeral, Song bathed, dressed in ceremonial robes, lit incense, and entered his study. He closed the door and never came out.

That same day, his father-in-law, who lived near the city’s west gate, saw Song riding a splendid horse, followed by an entourage of attendants. Song entered the hall, bowed deeply, and said farewell. Then he vanished.

The family was stunned. They sent someone to Song’s hometown to inquire, only to learn that he had passed away just hours earlier.

It’s said that Song once wrote a personal account of his experience, but it was lost during the chaos of war. What remains is this story—a tale passed down through generations, known as “The City God Examination,” now recorded among the strange and wondrous chronicles of the unseen world.

“The Whisper Within”

Tan Jinxuan wasn’t your average college student. While others crammed for exams or chased internships, he spent his nights cross-legged on a bamboo mat, eyes closed, breath slow, body still. He believed in qigong—an ancient Chinese practice of energy cultivation—and trained obsessively, rain or shine, winter or summer. No parties, no distractions. Just silence and breath.

After months of unwavering discipline, something changed.

It started with a sound.

Faint. Insect-like. A whisper in his ear, like a fly brushing past. “You may come out now,” it said.

He snapped his eyes open. Nothing. Just the hum of his desk fan and the distant bark of a dog. But when he closed his eyes again, the whisper returned. Same words. Same tone. He felt a thrill—was this the breakthrough? The inner elixir, the legendary “dan” he’d read about in dusty Taoist texts?

From that day on, the whisper came every time he meditated.

One evening, he decided to answer.

“You may come out now,” he murmured, mimicking the voice.

Pain bloomed in his ear—sharp, itchy, electric. He winced. Something was moving. Crawling. Emerging.

He peeked sideways.

A tiny figure, no taller than a finger, stood on the floor. Its skin was grayish, its face twisted and grotesque, like a demon from a temple carving. It paced in circles, agitated, sniffing the air.

Tan froze. His heart thudded. Was this his creation? His spirit? His failure?

Then—knock knock knock.

A neighbor’s voice called through the door, asking to borrow soy sauce.

The creature panicked. It darted around the room like a mouse trapped in daylight, searching for a way out. Tan felt his mind blur, his thoughts scatter. Something inside him—his soul, maybe—lurched, slipped, vanished.

He blacked out.

When he came to, he was screaming. Days passed. Then weeks. He couldn’t stop. Doctors came. Pills were prescribed. Half a year later, the madness began to fade.

But he never meditated again.

And sometimes, late at night, he still heard the whisper.

Corpse Transformation

In Yangxin County, there lived an old man from Caidian Village. His village was about five or six li from the county seat. He and his son ran a roadside inn that hosted traveling merchants. Several cart drivers who frequently transported goods often stayed at their inn.

One evening at dusk, four cart drivers arrived together, hoping to lodge at the inn. But all the guest rooms were already full. With no other options, the four men pleaded with the innkeeper to find a way to accommodate them. The old man thought for a moment and remembered a place, though he worried it might not be suitable. The guests said, “We just need shelter from the wind and rain. We’re in no position to be picky.”

At that time, the old man’s daughter-in-law had just passed away, and her body was laid out in a room awaiting burial. His son had gone out to purchase wood for a coffin and hadn’t yet returned. The old man figured the mourning room was quiet enough, so he led the guests through alleys and streets to that place.

Inside, a dim oil lamp flickered on a wooden table. Behind it hung a mourning curtain over the bier, and a paper shroud covered the corpse. In the inner room was a large shared bed. The four travelers, exhausted from their journey, quickly lay down and began snoring. Only one of them remained half-awake, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, when he suddenly heard a rustling sound from the bier.

Startled, he opened his eyes. The lamp cast enough light to see clearly: the female corpse had sat up, pushing aside the paper shroud. Moments later, she climbed down and slowly walked into the bedroom. Her face was pale yellow, and a silk ribbon was tied around her forehead. She leaned over the bed and blew air onto each of the three sleeping men.

Terrified, the half-awake guest feared she would blow on him too. He quietly pulled the blanket over his head and held his breath, listening intently. Sure enough, the corpse came to him and blew air on him just as she had done to the others. He sensed her leaving the room and soon heard the rustling of the paper shroud again. Peeking out, he saw the corpse lying stiffly on the bier as before.

Paralyzed with fear, he tried nudging his companions with his foot, but none of them moved. After much deliberation, he decided to escape. Just as he sat up to dress, the rustling sound returned. Panicked, he lay back down and hid under the blanket again. He felt the corpse approach and blow on him several times before returning to the bier. Once he heard her lie down again, he slowly reached out, found his pants, put them on, and ran barefoot out of the room.

The corpse sat up again, seemingly intent on chasing him. But by the time she stepped past the mourning curtain, the guest had already opened the door and fled. She chased after him. He ran through the village, shouting for help, but no one woke up. He considered knocking on the innkeeper’s door but feared slowing down. So he sprinted toward the county town.

At the eastern outskirts, he spotted a temple and heard the sound of a wooden fish being struck. He rushed to the gate and banged on the door. The monks inside were alarmed by his frantic behavior and hesitated to let him in. At that moment, the corpse arrived—just a foot behind him. Desperate, the guest hid behind a large poplar tree with a trunk four or five feet thick. When the corpse lunged to the right, he dodged left; when she lunged left, he dodged right. Both grew increasingly exhausted.

Eventually, the corpse stopped and stood still. The guest, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, remained hidden. Suddenly, the corpse lunged forward, stretching her arms around the tree trunk to grab him. He fell to the ground in fright. Unable to reach him, she clung to the tree and gradually stiffened.

The monks had been listening quietly for a long time. When all fell silent, they cautiously stepped outside. They found the guest collapsed on the ground. By candlelight, he appeared dead, but his chest still held a faint warmth. They carried him inside the temple. After a night’s rest, he finally woke up. The monks gave him hot water and asked what had happened. He recounted everything in detail.

By then, the morning bell had rung. In the misty dawn, a monk went to inspect the poplar tree and indeed found the female corpse. Horrified, he reported it to the county magistrate. The magistrate came personally to investigate and ordered the corpse’s hands removed from the tree. But her grip was so tight that they couldn’t pry her fingers loose. Upon closer inspection, they saw that her fingers were curled like hooks, and her nails had dug deep into the tree trunk.

It took several men pulling together to finally remove her. Her fingers had gouged holes into the wood like chisel marks. The magistrate sent officers to the old man’s home to inquire. The household was in chaos, as the corpse had vanished and one guest had mysteriously died. The officers explained what had happened. The old man followed them and retrieved the corpse.

The surviving guest wept before the magistrate. “The four of us set out together, and now I’m the only one returning. How will anyone back home believe this?” The magistrate wrote him a formal statement and gave him some provisions before sending him on his way.

Water Sprayer

When Mr. Song Yushu of Laiyang served as an official in a certain department, he rented a rather desolate residence. One night, two maidservants were keeping his elderly mother company in the main hall when they suddenly heard a soft splashing sound in the courtyard—like a tailor spraying water onto fabric.

Madam Song urged the maids to investigate. One of them poked a small hole in the paper window and peeked outside. She saw an old woman—short and hunched, her white hair like a broom, and a topknot on her head nearly two feet long. The old woman was circling the courtyard, striding rapidly with a crane-like gait, spraying water as she walked. The water seemed endless, gushing out without pause.

Terrified, the maid returned and reported what she saw. Madam Song, alarmed, got out of bed and, supported by the two maids, joined them at the window to look. Suddenly, the old woman approached the window and sprayed water directly at the lattice. The paper window tore apart, and all three women collapsed to the ground. No one else in the household was aware of what had happened.

By morning, the family gathered and knocked on the door, but no one responded. Panic set in. They forced the door open and found Madam Song and the two maids lying side by side, dead. One maid still had a faint warmth in her chest, so they gave her water and helped her sit up. After an hour, she regained consciousness and recounted everything she had witnessed.

Mr. Song arrived and was devastated. He carefully searched the spot where the old woman had vanished. Digging more than three feet down, he uncovered strands of white hair. Digging further, he unearthed a corpse—exactly as the maid had described. The face was bloated, almost lifelike.

Mr. Song ordered his household to beat the corpse. As they struck it, the flesh tore apart, and clear water poured out from beneath the skin.

The Speaking Pupils

In Chang’an, there lived a scholar named Fang Dong. He was talented and well-known, but his behavior was frivolous and undisciplined. Whenever he saw women out for a stroll, he would shamelessly follow and leer at them.

One day, just before the Qingming Festival, Fang Dong wandered out to the outskirts of the city. There, he saw a small carriage draped with red curtains and embroidered veils, followed by several maidservants in green riding on horseback. One of the maids, riding a small horse, was strikingly beautiful. Fang Dong edged closer to sneak a look and saw that the carriage curtain was open. Inside sat a girl of sixteen or seventeen, lavishly dressed and breathtakingly beautiful—unlike any woman he had ever seen.

Dazzled and entranced, Fang Dong couldn’t tear his eyes away. He trailed the carriage for several miles, sometimes running ahead, sometimes falling behind, unable to stop himself. Suddenly, the girl inside the carriage called a maid over and said, “Lower the curtain. Who is this shameless boy who keeps staring?” The maid did as told, then turned to Fang Dong and snapped, “This is the bride of the Seventh Lord of Hibiscus City, returning to visit her family. She’s no common village girl for a lecherous scholar like you to ogle!” With that, she scooped up a handful of dirt from the wheel rut and flung it at his face.

Fang Dong’s eyes were instantly stung and sealed shut. When he finally managed to rub them open, the carriage and horses had vanished without a trace. Alarmed and confused, he returned home, but his eyes continued to feel irritated. When someone pried open his eyelids to check, they found a thin membrane growing over his eyeballs.

By the next day, the discomfort had worsened. Tears streamed down uncontrollably, and the membranes thickened until they were as dense as copper coins. A spiral-shaped growth formed over his right eye, and no medicine could cure it. Fang Dong was devastated. Reflecting on his behavior, he was filled with regret.

He heard that reciting the Sutra of Radiant Light could dispel misfortune, so he obtained a copy and asked someone to teach him how to chant it. At first, he was restless and distracted, but over time, his mind gradually calmed. From then on, he spent his mornings and evenings sitting cross-legged, fingering prayer beads and reciting the sutra.

After a year of this practice, Fang Dong felt his mind was finally at peace. One day, he suddenly heard a buzzing sound in his left eye, like the hum of flies. A tiny voice said, “It’s so dark in here—I can’t stand it anymore!” Another voice from his right eye replied, “Let’s go out for a stroll and stretch our legs.”

At that moment, Fang Dong felt an itch in his nostrils, as if something were crawling out. Sure enough, he sensed tiny creatures wriggling from his nose and leaving his body. After a while, they returned the same way. Then he heard one of them say, “We haven’t visited the garden in days. Why have all the pearl orchids withered?”

Fang Dong had always loved fragrant orchids and had planted many in his garden, tending them personally. But since losing his sight, he had neglected them. Alarmed by what he heard, he asked his wife, “Why have you let the orchids wither?” She was startled and asked how he knew. Fang Dong explained everything.

His wife went to check and found the orchids indeed wilted. Deeply puzzled, she decided to keep watch. Soon, she saw two tiny figures crawl out of Fang Dong’s nostrils—no bigger than beans—chirping softly as they scurried out the door. They wandered off into the distance and eventually returned, flying back onto Fang Dong’s face like bees returning to a hive. This happened for two or three days in a row.

Then one day, Fang Dong heard the voice in his left eye say, “This tunnel is too winding and inconvenient. Why don’t we dig a door of our own?” The right eye replied, “The wall on my side is too thick—it’s hard to break through.” The left eye said, “I’ll try first. If I succeed, we can share the passage.”

Suddenly, Fang Dong felt a sharp pain in his left eye, as if something were tearing it open. After a while, he opened his eyes and could clearly see the furniture in the room. Overjoyed, he told his wife. She examined his eye and saw that the thick membrane had split open, revealing a glimmering black pupil the size of a peppercorn. By the next morning, the entire membrane had vanished. Looking closely, she saw that his left eye now had two pupils. The spiral membrane in his right eye remained, and Fang Dong realized the two tiny beings had moved into the same eye.

Though blind in one eye, Fang Dong could now see more clearly than most people with two. From that day on, he became a changed man—disciplined, humble, and virtuous. His neighbors all praised his transformation.

The Historian of Strange Tales comments:

There was once a scholar in our village who, while walking with two friends, spotted a young woman riding a donkey ahead. With a lewd tone, he said, “What a beauty!” and urged his friends to chase after her. Laughing, the three of them ran forward—only to discover she was his own daughter-in-law. Mortified, he fell silent, but his friends, pretending not to know, continued to make vulgar remarks. Embarrassed, the scholar stammered, “She’s my eldest son’s wife.” Only then did the others stop, snickering to themselves.

Frivolous men often bring shame upon themselves—how ridiculous! As for Fang Dong’s blindness, it was a harsh punishment from the spirits. Who was that bride from Hibiscus City? Could she have been a divine being, perhaps even a manifestation of the Bodhisattva? And yet, the tiny beings in his pupils eventually cleared away the blinding membrane. This shows that while the spirits may be stern, they still allow room for repentance and redemption.

The Painted Wall

Meng Longtan, a scholar from Jiangxi, was staying in the capital with a fellow scholar named Zhu. One day, the two of them wandered into a temple. The temple was modest, with small halls and monk quarters, and only an old monk was temporarily residing there.

Seeing guests arrive, the monk tidied his robes and welcomed them, leading them on a tour of the temple. In the center of the main hall stood a statue of the eminent monk Baozhi. On either side of the hall, the walls were adorned with exquisite murals—each figure painted with lifelike detail. On the eastern wall was a group of celestial maidens scattering flowers. Among them was a loose-haired girl holding a blossom and smiling. Her cherry-like lips seemed poised to speak, and her eyes shimmered with tender emotion, as if waves of feeling were flowing from them.

Zhu stared at the girl for a long time, lost in a daze. His thoughts drifted, and he felt his spirit lifting. Suddenly, his body floated upward, as if riding clouds and mist, and he flew into the mural.

Inside, he saw grand halls and towers layered one upon another—clearly not of the human world. A venerable monk sat on a high seat preaching the Dharma, surrounded by robed monks listening intently. Zhu found himself among them. After a while, he felt someone tugging at his sleeve. Turning around, he saw the loose-haired girl smiling at him before walking away. Zhu followed.

They passed through winding corridors until the girl entered a small room. Zhu hesitated, unsure whether to proceed. The girl turned back, raised her flower, and beckoned him. He hurried in. The room was quiet and empty. Zhu embraced the girl, and she did not resist. They shared an intimate moment, like husband and wife. Afterward, the girl closed the door and left, reminding him not to cough or make noise. That night, she returned. This continued for two days.

Eventually, her companions discovered the affair. They teased her, saying, “You’re already carrying a child—why keep your hair loose like a maiden?” They brought hairpins and earrings, urging her to style her hair like a married woman. Embarrassed, she said nothing. One companion added, “Sisters, we shouldn’t linger here too long. It might cause trouble.” Laughing, they all left.

Zhu looked again at the girl. Her hair was now styled in a towering bun adorned with phoenix-shaped ornaments, even more stunning than before. Seeing no one around, he grew affectionate again. The scent of orchids and musk filled the air, intoxicating him.

Just as they were wrapped in bliss, a sudden clamor broke out—heavy boots stomping, chains clanking, voices shouting. The girl sat up in alarm. Together, they peeked outside and saw a dark-faced messenger in golden armor, holding chains and a hammer, surrounded by celestial maidens.

The messenger asked, “Is everyone here?” The maidens replied, “All present.” He said, “If anyone is hiding a mortal from the lower world, report it immediately. Don’t bring trouble upon yourselves.” The maidens answered in unison, “No one is hiding anyone.”

The messenger turned and scanned the area like a hawk, clearly searching. The girl turned pale with fear and whispered to Zhu, “Hide under the bed!” She opened a small door in the wall and fled. Zhu crawled under the bed, holding his breath.

Soon, the boots stomped into the room, then left. The noise outside gradually faded. Zhu finally felt a bit safer, though voices still passed by the door. He remained hidden, ears ringing like cicadas, eyes flashing with stars, barely able to endure it. Yet he waited quietly for the girl to return, having forgotten where he’d come from.

Meanwhile, Meng Longtan noticed Zhu had vanished and asked the old monk about him. The monk smiled and said, “He’s off listening to the Dharma.” Meng asked, “Where?” The monk replied, “Not far.”

After a while, the monk tapped the wall and called out loudly, “Zhu, how long will you wander before returning?” Suddenly, Zhu’s image appeared on the mural—standing quietly, head tilted as if listening. The monk called again, “Your companion has waited long enough.” Zhu then floated down from the wall, dazed and weak, barely able to stand.

Startled, Meng asked what had happened. Zhu explained that he’d been hiding under a bed, heard a thunderous knock, stepped outside to look—and somehow returned to the human world.

They all went to look at the mural again. The flower-holding girl now had her hair styled in a bun, no longer loose. Zhu bowed to the monk and asked for an explanation. The monk smiled and said, “Illusions arise from the mind. How could I, a mere monk, know their cause?”

Zhu was left confused and troubled. Meng Longtan was deeply shaken. The two of them bowed and departed, descending the temple steps in silence.

The Historian of Strange Tales comments:

All illusions are born from the human heart—this is the wisdom of the enlightened. Lustful thoughts give rise to lustful visions; irreverent thoughts give rise to terrifying ones. The Bodhisattva uses illusions to awaken the ignorant, guiding them through trials born of their own minds. The Dharma master, with compassion, earnestly teaches—but alas, the foolish hear his words and fail to awaken, never retreating to the mountains to seek true enlightenment.

The Mountain Demon

Sun Taibai once recounted a strange and terrifying event involving his great-grandfather, who had studied at Liugou Temple in the southern mountains. One autumn, during the wheat harvest, the old man returned home for a visit and didn’t go back to the temple until more than ten days later.

When he reopened the door to his study, he found the desk covered in dust and the windows thick with cobwebs. He called for a servant to help clean the room, and they worked until nightfall. Finally, the space felt fresh and tidy enough to settle in. He unpacked his belongings, laid out his bedding, shut the door, and lay down to rest.

Moonlight spilled across the windows. He tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The night was utterly silent—no sound at all. Suddenly, a gust of wind howled through the temple, and the main gate slammed shut with a thunderous bang. He thought to himself, “The monks must’ve forgotten to close the gate.”

As he pondered this, the wind swept toward his room. Moments later, the door creaked open on its own. He was puzzled, but before he could make sense of it, the wind had already entered the room. Then came the sound of heavy boots—clunk, clunk—approaching the bedroom door.

Fear gripped him.

The bedroom door swung open. He looked up and saw a massive demon stooping to squeeze through the doorway, then rising to its full height—level with the ceiling beams. Its face was the color of ripe pumpkin skin, its eyes flickered and darted around the room, and its mouth gaped as wide as a basin. Sparse teeth jutted out, each nearly three inches long. When its tongue flicked, it made a huffing sound that echoed off the walls like a drumbeat.

Terrified, and realizing the creature was only a foot away, he knew escape was impossible. He decided to strike first. Quietly, he drew the dagger hidden beneath his pillow and, in one swift motion, slashed at the demon’s belly. The blade struck with a sound like hitting a stone basin.

Enraged, the demon lunged with its massive claws. He recoiled just in time, and the demon grabbed only his blanket. It yanked the blanket violently and stormed out of the room. He was dragged off the bed and thrown to the floor, where he screamed for help.

Family members rushed over with lanterns, but found the door tightly shut as before. They climbed in through the window and were shocked by what they saw. After helping him back into bed, he shakily recounted the entire ordeal.

Everyone went to inspect the scene. The blanket was wedged in the bedroom door. When they opened it and shone a light, they found a claw print the size of a winnowing basket. The five fingers had pierced straight through the fabric.

At dawn, Sun Taibai’s great-grandfather refused to stay another moment. He packed his book chest and returned home. Later, when they asked the monks at the temple, none reported any further strange occurrences.

The Biting Ghost

Shen Linsheng once told of a strange incident involving an elderly friend of his. One summer afternoon, the old man was napping, drifting in and out of sleep, when he saw a woman lift the door curtain and enter the room. Her head was wrapped in white cloth, and she wore mourning clothes. Without a word, she walked straight into the inner chamber.

The old man assumed she was a neighbor visiting his wife, but then wondered—why would someone in mourning barge into another person’s home unannounced? As he sat there puzzled and uneasy, the woman reappeared.

He looked closely: she was in her thirties, with a sallow, swollen face, furrowed brows, and a frightening expression. She paced back and forth, refusing to leave, slowly approaching his bed. The old man pretended to be asleep, secretly watching her to see what she would do.

Soon, the woman lifted her skirt and climbed onto the bed, pressing down on his stomach with a weight that felt like thousands of pounds. Though fully conscious, he found his arms bound as if tied, and his legs limp and useless. He tried to cry out, but no sound came from his mouth.

The woman began sniffing his face—cheekbones, nose, eyebrows, forehead—methodically and thoroughly. Her breath was icy cold, sending chills deep into his bones.

In his desperation, the old man devised a plan: he would wait until she sniffed near his lower face, then bite her. Sure enough, she moved toward his cheek, and he lunged forward, sinking his teeth into her cheekbone. His bite was so fierce that his teeth embedded deep into her flesh.

The woman shrieked and struggled, trying to pull away, but he refused to let go, biting down even harder. Blood poured from the wound, soaking the pillow beside him.

As they wrestled, the old man suddenly heard his wife’s voice in the courtyard. He seized the moment to shout, “A ghost! A ghost!” Just as he released his bite, the woman floated away and vanished.

His wife entered the room, saw nothing unusual, and laughed, thinking he’d had a nightmare. But the old man insisted it was real and pointed to the bloodstains as proof.

Together, they inspected the bed. The pillow was drenched, as if rain had leaked through the roof. The old man bent down to sniff it and was overwhelmed by a foul, fishy stench, which made him vomit violently.

Even days later, the stench lingered in his mouth.

Catching the Fox Spirit

There was an old man surnamed Sun—he was the uncle of my in-law Qingfu—and he was known for his courage. One day, while resting on his bed in broad daylight, he suddenly felt something crawling onto the mattress. His body began to sway gently, as if he were floating on clouds.

He thought to himself, “Could this be a fox spirit playing tricks?”

Peeking through half-closed eyes, he saw a creature about the size of a cat, with yellow fur and a green snout, slowly wriggling up from the foot of the bed. It moved cautiously, as if afraid to wake him. As it crept onto his body, wherever it touched—his feet, his thighs—he felt numb and weak.

Just as the creature reached his stomach, Old Sun suddenly sat up and grabbed it, clamping his hand tightly around its neck. The creature let out a sharp, panicked screech but couldn’t break free.

Old Sun shouted for his wife, who rushed in. He told her to tie a strap around the creature’s waist. Holding both ends of the strap firmly, he laughed and said, “They say you’re good at shape-shifting. Well, I’m watching you—let’s see you try!”

No sooner had he spoken than the creature shrank its belly down to the width of a thin tube, nearly slipping free. Alarmed, Old Sun tightened the strap with all his strength. The creature then puffed up its belly until it was as wide as a bowl and rock-hard, making the strap impossible to cinch.

As soon as Old Sun relaxed slightly, it shrank again. Fearing it would escape, he shouted for his wife to fetch a knife and kill it. She frantically searched the room but couldn’t remember where the knife was.

Old Sun turned his head to the left to point out the spot where the knife was kept. But when he looked back, the strap in his hands was empty—like a loose ring. The creature had vanished without a trace.

The Monster in the Buckwheat Field

In Changshan County, there was an old man surnamed An who enjoyed working in the fields. One autumn, his buckwheat crop ripened. After harvesting, he piled the sheaves along the ridges of the field. At the time, there had been reports of crop thieves in nearby villages, so Old An instructed his hired hands to load the harvest onto carts under the moonlight and transport it to the threshing ground overnight.

After the carts left, Old An stayed behind alone to keep watch. He lay down in the open field, resting his head on his spear. Just as he closed his eyes, he suddenly heard a crunching sound—someone stepping on the buckwheat stalks. Suspecting a thief, he quickly looked up and saw a towering figure over ten feet tall, with fiery red hair and a wild, bushy beard, already looming close.

Startled, Old An leapt up without hesitation and thrust his spear fiercely at the creature. The monster let out a thunderous howl like a clap of thunder and vanished. Fearing it might return, Old An carried his spear and headed home. On the way, he ran into the hired hands coming back and told them what had happened, urging them not to return. But the workers were skeptical.

The next day, while everyone was spreading the buckwheat to dry at the threshing ground, a strange noise suddenly echoed from the sky. Terrified, Old An shouted, “The monster is back!” and bolted. The others, startled, ran after him. After regrouping, Old An advised them to prepare bows and arrows in case the creature returned.

Sure enough, the next day, the monster appeared again. Everyone fired their arrows at once, and the creature fled in fear. For the next two or three days, it didn’t show up again.

Once the buckwheat was threshed and stored in the granary, the field was left littered with straw. Old An told the workers to gather it into a haystack. He climbed up himself to stomp it down, the stack standing several feet high.

Suddenly, he looked up and cried out, “The monster is coming again!” The others rushed to fetch their bows, but the creature had already lunged at Old An, knocking him down and biting off a palm-sized piece of his forehead before fleeing.

When the workers climbed to the top of the haystack, they found Old An unconscious, a large chunk of his forehead missing. They quickly carried him home, but he died shortly after. The monster was never seen again. No one ever figured out what kind of demon it was.

The Haunted House

In Changshan County, there lived a Mr. Li, nephew of the Grand Justice Minister. Strange and supernatural occurrences were often reported in his residence.

One day, Mr. Li saw a long bench in one of the rooms. It was flesh-pink in color, smooth and glossy. Since he had never seen such a piece of furniture before, he approached it and pressed his hand against it. The bench began to twist and bend under his touch, soft and pliable like flesh. Alarmed, he backed away. When he turned to look again, the bench was moving on four legs, slowly crawling into the wall and disappearing.

On another occasion, Mr. Li noticed a slender white rod leaning against the wall. It was sleek and polished. As he reached out to touch it, the rod collapsed softly, then slithered like a snake into the wall and vanished.

In the seventeenth year of the Kangxi reign, a scholar named Wang Junsheng was hired to teach children at the Li residence. One evening, just after lighting the lamp, Wang lay on the bed with his shoes still on, resting.

Suddenly, he saw a tiny figure—just over three inches tall—walk in from outside. It circled the room briefly, then left. Moments later, the little man returned, carrying two miniature benches. He placed them in the center of the room. The benches looked like toys made from sorghum stalks.

Soon after, two more tiny figures entered, carrying a small coffin about four inches long. They placed it on the benches. Before it was even settled, a woman entered, accompanied by several servant girls. All of them were as small as the earlier figures. The woman wore mourning clothes, a hemp rope around her waist, and her head wrapped in white cloth. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and wept softly, her voice buzzing like a giant fly.

Wang watched in horror. His hair stood on end, and his body turned cold as if frozen. He cried out and tried to flee, but fell off the bed, trembling uncontrollably and unable to crawl away.

The others in the school heard his screams and rushed in. But by then, the tiny figures, the coffin, and the benches had all vanished without a trace.

Wang Liulang

There was a man surnamed Xu who lived in the northern part of Zichuan and made his living by fishing. Every night, he would bring wine to the riverbank, drinking as he fished. Before drinking, he would always pour a little wine onto the ground and pray, “Spirits of the drowned in this river, please come and drink.” This became his nightly ritual. Others who fished there rarely caught anything, but Xu always returned with baskets full.

One night, as Xu was drinking alone, a young man lingered nearby. Xu invited him to join, and the youth readily accepted. That night, however, Xu didn’t catch a single fish and felt disappointed. The youth stood up and said, “Let me go downstream and drive the fish toward you.” He drifted away and soon returned, saying, “The fish are coming!” Sure enough, the river echoed with the sounds of fish splashing. Xu cast his net and caught several fish, each over a foot long. Overjoyed, he thanked the youth and offered him the fish, but the youth declined.

“I’ve enjoyed your fine wine many times,” he said. “Helping you catch fish is a small favor. If you don’t mind, I’d love to keep doing this.” Xu replied, “We’ve only shared one night of wine—how can you say ‘many times’? But if you’re willing to come again, I’d be honored. I only regret I have no way to repay your kindness.” Xu asked for his name. The youth replied, “My surname is Wang. I have no formal name—just call me Wang Liulang.” Then they parted ways.

The next day, Xu sold the fish and bought more wine. That evening, he returned to the river and found Wang Liulang already waiting. They drank happily, and after a few cups, Wang went off to drive the fish again.

This continued for half a year.

One day, Wang suddenly said, “Since meeting you, I’ve felt closer than to my own brothers. But our time together is coming to an end.” His voice was sorrowful. Xu was startled and asked why. Wang hesitated several times before finally saying, “Our bond is deep, so I hope you won’t be too shocked. I’m actually a ghost. I loved drinking in life, and one night I drowned here in a drunken stupor. That was years ago. The reason you’ve caught more fish than others is because I’ve secretly been driving them to you, repaying your nightly offerings of wine. Tomorrow, my time as a ghost ends. Someone else will take my place, and I’ll be reborn into the living world. Tonight is our last night together.”

Xu was stunned to learn Wang was a ghost, but after months of friendship, he no longer felt fear—only sorrow. He poured a full cup of wine and said, “Liulang, drink this and don’t be sad. It’s painful to part so soon after meeting, but your suffering is ending. That’s something to celebrate.”

They drank together again. Xu asked, “Who will take your place?” Wang replied, “My brother is watching the river. Tomorrow at noon, a young woman crossing the river will drown. She’s the one.”

The village roosters crowed, and the two tearfully said goodbye.

The next day, Xu waited by the river to witness the strange event. At noon, a young woman carrying a baby approached and fell into the water. The baby landed safely on the shore, crying loudly. The woman sank and surfaced repeatedly, then suddenly climbed out, soaked and exhausted. After resting, she picked up her child and walked away.

Xu had wanted to save her but remembered she was meant to replace Wang Liulang, so he held back. When she survived, he doubted Wang’s words.

That evening, Xu returned to fish. Wang Liulang appeared again and said, “We meet once more—no need to speak of parting.” Xu asked why. Wang replied, “She was meant to replace me, but I pitied her child. I couldn’t bear for two lives to be lost just to replace one ghost. So I let her go. I don’t know when someone else will come. Perhaps our fate together isn’t over yet.” Xu said, “Such compassion—heaven will surely take notice.”

They resumed their nightly drinking.

A few days later, Wang came to say farewell again. Xu suspected someone else had come to replace him. But Wang said, “Not this time. Heaven saw my compassion and has appointed me as the local earth god of Wu Town in Zhaoyuan County. I’ll take office in a few days. If you still value our friendship, come visit me. Don’t worry about the distance.”

Xu congratulated him: “You’ve become a god through virtue—how wonderful! But mortals and gods live in different worlds. Even if I’m willing to travel, how could I see you?” Wang replied, “Just come. Don’t worry.” After repeated reminders, Wang departed.

Back home, Xu prepared to travel east to visit Wang. His wife laughed, “Wu Town in Zhaoyuan is hundreds of miles away. Even if it exists, how could you talk to a clay statue?” Xu ignored her and went anyway.

Upon arrival, he asked locals about Wu Town and found it did exist. He stayed at an inn and asked the innkeeper where the earth god’s temple was. The innkeeper was startled and asked, “Are you Mr. Xu?” Xu said yes. “Are you from Zichuan?” Again, yes. The innkeeper didn’t explain and rushed out.

Soon, men carrying children, women, and girls crowded the doorway. The whole town gathered, surrounding Xu like a wall. He was bewildered. They explained, “A few nights ago, the earth god appeared in our dreams and said, ‘My friend Xu from Zichuan is coming. Please prepare gifts for him.’ We’ve been waiting for you.”

Amazed, Xu went to the temple and offered a prayer: “Since our parting, I’ve missed you day and night. Now I’ve come to fulfill our promise. You even told the townspeople to help me—my heart is full of gratitude. I have no grand offerings, only a cup of humble wine. If you don’t mind, please drink it as you did by the river.”

He burned paper money. A gust of wind swirled behind the altar and slowly faded.

That night, Xu dreamed of Wang Liulang, now dressed in formal robes, looking very different. Wang thanked him: “You came all this way—I’m moved to tears. But now that I’m a minor official, I can’t meet you freely. Though we’re close, it feels like we’re worlds apart. The townspeople will give you some gifts—that’s my token of friendship. When you decide to leave, I’ll come to see you off.”

Xu stayed for several days. The locals treated him warmly, hosting meals and drinks day and night. When he insisted on leaving, they brought gifts and farewells. By morning, his bag was full. As he departed, the entire village—old and young—came to see him off.

Just outside the village, a whirlwind rose from the ground and followed him for ten miles. Xu bowed repeatedly and said, “Liulang, take care. Don’t trouble yourself to escort me further. Your kindness will surely bless this land—you don’t need my advice.” The wind circled for a while, then faded. The villagers returned, marveling at what they had witnessed.

Back home, Xu gradually became wealthy and gave up fishing. Later, when he met people from Zhaoyuan, they said the earth god was very effective and answered every prayer. Others claimed Wang Liulang was actually appointed to Shikeng Village in Zhangqiu County. No one knew for sure.

The Historian of Strange Tales comments:

To rise to high office and still remember humble friends—that’s why Wang Liulang became a god. Look at today’s officials riding in carriages—how many would recognize their old companions in straw hats?

In my hometown, there was a poor scholar whose childhood friend became a well-paid official. Hoping for help, he spent all his money preparing for the journey. But when he arrived, he was bitterly disappointed. He had to sell his horse just to get home.

His witty cousin mocked him with a satirical “monthly chronicle”:

“This month, elder brother arrived. His fur hat came off, his parasol stayed folded, His horse turned into a donkey, and his boots finally stopped squeaking.”

Read it and laugh.

Stealing Peaches

Before I passed the county-level imperial exam, I went to Jinan to take the prefectural exam, which happened to coincide with the Spring Festival. According to old customs, on the day before the Beginning of Spring, shops and businesses of all trades would erect colorful archways and beat drums and gongs as they marched to the provincial office to offer their greetings. This was called “Welcoming Spring.” I went along with some friends to join the festivities.

That day, the crowd was enormous, surrounding the area like walls. On the main hall of the yamen, four officials dressed in red robes sat facing each other from east to west. I was still young then and didn’t know what ranks they held—only that the noise around was deafening, with drums and gongs shaking the air. Suddenly, a man carrying a shoulder pole and leading a disheveled-haired child stepped forward and knelt, seemingly saying a few words. Amid the clamor, I couldn’t hear what he said, but the officials laughed. Then a man in a blue robe loudly ordered him to perform a magic trick.

The man agreed and stood up, asking, “What trick should I perform?” The officials conferred and sent a subordinate to ask what he was good at. He replied, “I can produce things that don’t grow in season.” The subordinate reported this back, and soon returned with the order: produce peaches.

The magician agreed. He took off his robe and draped it over a square bamboo basket, then pretended to complain: “The officials are unreasonable—thick ice hasn’t even melted yet, where can I find peaches? If I don’t look, I’ll anger the officials. What should I do?” His son said, “Father, you’ve already agreed. How can you back out now?” The magician fretted for a while and said, “I’ve thought long and hard. It’s the icy early spring—where on earth can I find peaches? Only in the heavenly peach orchard of the Queen Mother of the West, where fruit trees bloom year-round. I’ll have to steal them from heaven.” His son asked, “Whoa! Can you climb to heaven on steps?” The father replied, “I have magic.”

He opened the basket and took out a long rope, dozens of meters in length. He unraveled one end and tossed it skyward. The rope immediately hung in midair, as if hooked onto something. Soon, it rose higher and higher, disappearing into the clouds. The man handed the rope to his son, saying, “Come, child! I’m old and weak, too clumsy to climb. You’ll have to go.” He gave the rope to the boy and said, “Just hold it and climb.” The boy hesitated, complaining, “Father, you’re being foolish. This thin rope—how can I climb to the heavens? If it snaps halfway, where will my body end up?” The father coaxed him, saying, “I’ve already promised. It’s too late to regret. Please go. Don’t complain. If you steal the peaches, the officials will reward us with silver. I’ll find you a beautiful wife.” The boy finally grabbed the rope and began climbing, moving like a spider on silk, rising higher and higher until he vanished into the clouds.

After a long time, a peach fell from the sky—about the size of a bowl. The magician was delighted and presented it to the officials. They passed it around, unsure if it was real. Suddenly, the rope fell to the ground. The magician panicked: “This is bad! Someone cut the rope—how will my son get down?” A moment later, something dropped—it was his son’s head. The man clutched it and wailed, “He must’ve been caught stealing peaches! My son is doomed!” Then a foot fell, followed by limbs and torso, piece by piece. Nothing else came down.

Grief-stricken, the magician gathered the body parts into the basket and covered it. “I only had one son,” he cried. “He followed me everywhere. Now, obeying the officials’ command, he’s died so horribly! I must take him home and bury him.” He knelt before the officials and pleaded, “All this for a peach—my son is dead! If you pity me, help me bury him. I’ll repay your kindness in the next life.” The officials were shocked and quickly gave him silver. The magician tied the money around his waist, then tapped the basket and said, “Son, aren’t you going to come out and thank the officials?” Suddenly, the scruffy-haired boy pushed open the lid and crawled out, bowing to the officials—it was the magician’s son, alive and well.

Because of the magician’s extraordinary skills, I remember this event vividly. Later, I heard that the White Lotus Sect could perform similar tricks. I wondered—could that father and son have been descendants of the White Lotus?

Planting a Pear

There was a countryman selling pears at the market. The pears were fragrant and sweet, but very expensive. A Taoist priest, wearing a tattered headscarf and a ragged cotton robe, came to the pear cart and begged for one to eat. The countryman scolded him, but the Taoist didn’t leave. The countryman grew angry and cursed at him. The Taoist said, “You’ve got hundreds of pears here. I only ask for one. It’s no great loss to you—why get so worked up?” Onlookers urged the countryman to just give him a bruised pear and be done with it, but he stubbornly refused.

A shop assistant nearby, seeing the commotion, took out some money and bought a pear for the Taoist. The Taoist thanked him and said to the crowd, “We monks don’t cling to possessions. I have good pears myself—soon I’ll share them with you.” Someone asked, “If you have pears, why not eat your own?” The Taoist replied, “I only need this pear’s seed to grow one.” Then he held the pear and took big bites.

After finishing, he held the seed in his hand, took the iron spade from his shoulder, and dug a hole several inches deep in the ground. He placed the seed inside, covered it with soil, and asked the crowd for hot water to water it. A curious bystander fetched a pot of boiling water from a nearby shop. The Taoist poured it into the hole.

Before everyone’s eyes, a pear sprout broke through the soil and began to grow. In moments, it became a lush tree full of branches and leaves. It bloomed, then bore fruit—large, sweet pears covering the tree. The Taoist climbed up and picked the pears, handing them out to the crowd. Soon, all the fruit was gone.

Then the Taoist took his spade and began chopping down the tree. “Clang, clang,” he chopped for a long time until the tree fell. He hoisted the leafy trunk onto his shoulder and walked away calmly, unhurried.

At first, the countryman had been among the crowd, craning his neck and staring in awe, completely forgetting about his pear cart. After the Taoist left, he turned back—only to find that not a single pear remained. He suddenly realized: the pears the Taoist had handed out were all his own. Looking closer, he saw that one of the cart’s handles was missing—it had been freshly chopped. Furious and regretful, he rushed off to chase the Taoist. Turning a corner, he saw the broken cart handle tossed beneath a wall. Only then did he understand: the “pear tree” trunk was his cart handle. The Taoist had vanished. The whole market burst into laughter.

Commentary by the Historian of Strange Tales:

The countryman was muddled and foolish, and the crowd’s mockery was well deserved. In the countryside, one often sees so-called “local tycoons” who, when asked by a friend to lend a little grain, immediately grow sour-faced and grumble, “That’s several days’ worth of food!” If urged to help someone in dire straits or feed the helpless, they’ll angrily calculate, “That’s enough for five or ten people!” Even among family, they’ll haggle down to the last penny. Yet when seduced by gambling or prostitution, they’ll throw money around like dirt. When facing execution for a crime, they’ll pay ransom without hesitation. People like this are too many to count. So what’s so surprising about one foolish pear seller?

The Taoist of Mount Lao

There was a scholar in our county named Wang, seventh in his family, born into a once-prominent clan. From a young age, he admired Taoist arts and, hearing that many immortals lived on Mount Lao, he packed his belongings and went to seek them.

One day, he reached the summit and saw a quiet Taoist temple. Inside sat a Taoist priest on a mat, white hair draped over his neck, with a radiant and refined demeanor. Wang approached and spoke with him, finding his words profound and mysterious. He asked to become his disciple. The priest said, “You’re probably pampered and lazy—can you endure hardship?” Wang replied, “I can.”

The priest had many disciples, who returned by evening. Wang greeted them all and stayed at the temple. At dawn, the priest gave Wang an axe and told him to join the others in chopping wood. Wang followed instructions carefully. After more than a month, his hands and feet were covered in thick calluses. Unable to bear the toil, he secretly longed to return home.

One evening, after returning from chopping wood, Wang saw two guests drinking with the master. It was dark, and no lamps were lit. The priest cut a round piece of paper like a mirror and stuck it to the wall. Soon, it turned into a bright full moon, lighting the room so clearly that even fine hairs were visible. The disciples bustled about serving the guests.

One guest said, “Such a beautiful night should be shared.” He picked up a wine pot and poured drinks for the disciples, urging them to drink freely. Wang thought, “Seven or eight people—how can one pot of wine be enough?” Yet everyone grabbed cups and jars, eagerly pouring wine, fearing it would run out. But no matter how much they poured, the wine pot never emptied. Wang was amazed.

Later, a guest said, “Though you’ve gifted us moonlight, drinking in silence is dull. Why not summon Chang’e?” He tossed a chopstick into the moon, and a beautiful woman floated out of the light. At first, she was less than a foot tall, but upon landing, she grew to normal size. Her slender waist and graceful neck were enchanting. She danced the “Rainbow Feather Dress Dance,” then sang:

“Gracefully I dance! Come back to me! Why do you confine me in the Moon Palace?”

Her voice was clear and melodious, like a flute. After singing, Chang’e spun upward, landed on the table, and turned back into a chopstick. The Taoist and guests burst into laughter.

Another guest said, “Tonight has been delightful, but I can’t drink anymore. May I take my farewell feast in the Moon Palace?” With that, the three of them, along with the wine and food, slowly flew into the moon. Everyone watched them sit inside, drinking—so clearly that even their eyebrows and beards were visible, like reflections in a mirror.

After a while, the moon dimmed. The disciples lit candles. Only the Taoist remained; the guests had vanished. The food and fruit were still on the table. The moon on the wall was just a round piece of paper. The Taoist asked, “Have you all had enough to drink?” Everyone replied, “Yes.” “Then sleep early, so you won’t delay tomorrow’s woodcutting.” They agreed and left. Wang, secretly delighted and envious, abandoned thoughts of going home.

Another month passed. Wang could no longer endure the hardship, and the Taoist still hadn’t taught him any magic. Wang gave up waiting and said farewell: “I came hundreds of miles to learn the Way. Even if I can’t gain immortality, learning a small spell would comfort my heart. But after two or three months, all I’ve done is chop wood. I’ve never suffered like this at home.”

The Taoist laughed, “I knew you couldn’t endure hardship. Tomorrow morning, I’ll send you home.” Wang said, “I’ve worked hard here—please teach me a small trick so my trip won’t be wasted.” The Taoist asked, “What do you want to learn?” Wang replied, “I’ve seen you walk through walls. If I could learn that, I’d be satisfied.” The Taoist agreed with a smile.

He taught Wang a spell and told him to recite it. Then he said, “Go ahead—walk in.” Wang hesitated before the wall. The Taoist urged, “Try stepping forward.” Wang slowly approached but was blocked. The Taoist said, “Lower your head and charge forward—don’t hesitate!” Wang ran toward the wall from a few steps away. Inside, it felt empty. Looking back, he was already outside the wall. Overjoyed, he bowed in thanks. The Taoist said, “Live an honest life, or the magic won’t work.” He gave Wang travel money and sent him home.

Back home, Wang boasted that he’d met an immortal and learned magic—solid walls couldn’t stop him. His wife didn’t believe him. So Wang mimicked the spell, ran toward the wall from a few feet away—and slammed into it. He fell hard. His wife helped him up and saw a lump on his forehead the size of an egg. She mocked him. Wang, ashamed and angry, cursed the Taoist as a fraud.

Commentary by the Historian of Strange Tales:

Everyone who hears this story laughs, but they don’t realize there are many people like Wang in the world. Today, some crude and ignorant people crave harmful things like poison, yet fear medicine that could heal them. Flatterers cater to their desires by offering violent, domineering methods, saying, “Master this magic, and you’ll be unstoppable.” At first, these tricks may seem effective, so they believe they can do anything. But such people won’t stop until they crash into a wall and bleed from the head.

The Monk of Changqing

In Changqing, there was an elderly monk known for his virtuous conduct. Though over eighty years old, he remained strong and healthy. One day, he suddenly collapsed and couldn’t get up. By the time the monks in the temple rushed to help, he had already passed away.

Unaware of his own death, the monk’s soul drifted away from his body and wandered into Henan province. There, the son of a former official was out hunting hares with a dozen attendants, riding horses and flying falcons. Suddenly, his horse was startled and bolted. The young man was thrown off and died from the fall. At that moment, the monk’s soul happened to arrive and abruptly merged with the corpse. Slowly, the body revived.

The servants rushed over to help. As he opened his eyes, he asked, “How did I end up here?” They supported him and brought him home. Upon entering the house, many elaborately dressed women came to greet him. He was startled and said, “I’m a monk—how did I come to be here?” The family thought he was delirious and tried earnestly to persuade him to come to his senses. He stopped explaining and simply closed his eyes, saying nothing. When meals were served, he only ate coarse rice, refusing wine and meat. At night, he slept alone, not allowing his wives or concubines to attend him.

A few days later, he suddenly wanted to go out. Everyone was delighted. Once outside, as things quieted down, many stewards and servants came forward to consult him about finances, accounts, and household matters. He declined, citing illness and fatigue, and asked, “Do you know Changqing County in Shandong?” They all replied, “Yes.” He said, “I feel restless and bored. I’d like to visit there. Prepare my travel gear.” They tried to dissuade him, saying he had only just recovered and shouldn’t travel far, but he wouldn’t listen. The next day, they set off.

Upon arriving in Changqing, he found the scenery unchanged. Without asking directions, he went straight to the temple. His former disciples, seeing an honored guest arrive, respectfully welcomed him. He asked, “Where is the old monk?” They replied, “Our master passed away some time ago.” He then asked to see the monk’s grave. They led him there: a solitary mound three feet high, with sparse grass still growing. The monks didn’t understand his intentions. After viewing the grave, he prepared to leave and said, “Your master was a strict adherent to Buddhist discipline. You must preserve his writings and belongings with reverence—do not let them be damaged.” The monks all agreed. Then he departed.

Back home, he became like a withered tree, sitting silently all day, no longer managing household affairs.

After several months, he quietly slipped away and returned to the temple. He told the disciples, “I am your master.” They thought he was speaking nonsense and laughed among themselves. He then explained how his soul had returned, and recounted the monk’s deeds in life—all matching the facts. Only then did they believe him, and invited him to stay in his former quarters, serving him as before.

Later, the noble family sent carriages and horses many times, begging him to return. He ignored them completely. Over a year later, the young man’s wife sent capable servants with many gifts. He refused all gold and silk, accepting only a simple cloth robe. Occasionally, friends of the young man came to visit him respectfully. They found him quiet and sincere, plain in manner. Though only thirty years old, he often spoke of events from his eighty-plus years of life.

Commentary by the Historian of Strange Tales:

When a person dies, their soul usually disperses. This monk’s soul traveled a thousand miles without dissipating—because of the strength of his character. What amazes me is not his resurrection, but that he arrived in a place of wealth and luxury and still rejected worldly pleasures. In the blink of an eye, he could have enjoyed all the splendors of life—something most people would gladly die for. And yet, he was a humble monk. That is truly remarkable.

The Snake Man

In Dongjun, there was a man who made his living performing snake tricks. He had once trained two green snakes, calling the larger one Daqing and the smaller one Erqing. Erqing had a red mark on its forehead and was especially clever and obedient. It could follow commands to coil and twist in any direction, performing flawlessly. Because of this, the snake man adored it and treated it differently from the others.

A year later, Daqing died. The snake man wanted to find another to replace it but hadn’t gotten around to it. One night, he stayed at a mountain temple. At dawn, he opened his bamboo box and found Erqing missing. He was devastated and furious. He searched desperately, calling out loudly, but found no trace. In the past, whenever he entered dense woods or thick grass, he would let the snakes out to relax, and they would always return. So he hoped Erqing might come back on its own. He waited until the sun was high, and when all hope seemed lost, he left in disappointment.

Just a few steps outside the temple, he heard rustling in the underbrush. He stopped and looked—Erqing had returned. Overjoyed, he felt as if he’d recovered a precious gem. He set down his load by the roadside, and the snake stopped beside him. Behind it was a smaller snake. The snake man stroked Erqing and said, “I thought you’d run away. Is this little one your recommendation?” He took out snake food and fed Erqing, offering some to the little snake too. The small snake stayed close but curled up, afraid to eat. Erqing picked up food in its mouth and fed it, like a host offering a guest a meal. Only after the second offering did the little snake eat. Afterward, both snakes entered the bamboo box.

The snake man began training the new snake. It coiled and twisted just as required, no different from Erqing. He named it Xiaoqing. With both snakes, he performed everywhere and earned a good income.

Generally, snakes used for performing should be under two feet long—any longer and they become too heavy and must be replaced. Erqing had grown beyond two feet, but because it was so obedient, the snake man kept it. After another two or three years, Erqing was over three feet long and filled the bamboo box. The snake man decided to release it.

One day, he went to the eastern hills of Zichuan County, fed Erqing the best food, offered prayers, and let it go. After a while, Erqing returned, coiling around the bamboo box. The snake man waved it away, saying, “Go now—no feast lasts forever. Hide in the deep mountains and valleys. Someday you’ll become a divine dragon. You can’t stay in a bamboo box forever.” Erqing left. But soon it came back again. The snake man tried to drive it off, but it wouldn’t go. It kept nudging the box with its head. Xiaoqing stirred restlessly inside. The snake man suddenly understood: “You want to say goodbye to Xiaoqing?” He opened the box. Xiaoqing darted out, and the two snakes touched heads and necks, flicking their tongues as if speaking to each other. After a while, they slithered off together.

The snake man thought Xiaoqing wouldn’t return, but soon it came back alone and curled up inside the box. From then on, the snake man kept looking for new snakes but never found a suitable one. Xiaoqing grew larger and was no longer fit for performing. Later, he found another snake—obedient, but not as talented as Xiaoqing. By then, Xiaoqing was as thick as a child’s arm.

Before this, many woodcutters had seen Erqing in the mountains. A few years later, it had grown several feet long and as thick as a bowl. It began chasing people, and travelers warned each other to avoid the area.

One day, the snake man passed through that place. A huge snake burst out like a gust of wind. Terrified, he ran. The snake chased faster. Looking back, he saw the red mark on its head—it was Erqing. He dropped his load and called out, “Erqing! Erqing!” The snake stopped, raised its head, and after a long pause, leapt forward and coiled around him like in their old performances. The snake man felt no malice, but its body was so large and heavy that he collapsed and begged for mercy. Erqing released him.

Then it nudged the bamboo box. The snake man understood and opened it, releasing Xiaoqing. The two snakes met and entwined tightly, like they were glued together with honey, and didn’t separate for a long time. The snake man said to Xiaoqing, “I’ve long wanted to say goodbye. Now you have a companion.” Then to Erqing: “You brought Xiaoqing to me—now you may take it away. One last word: the deep mountains have plenty to eat and drink. Don’t disturb travelers, or Heaven will punish you.” The two snakes lowered their heads, as if accepting his advice. Then they slithered away—Erqing in front, Xiaoqing behind. Wherever they passed, the grass and trees parted to either side. The snake man stood watching until they disappeared.

From then on, travelers could safely pass through that area again. No one knew where the two snakes had gone.

Commentary by the Historian of Strange Tales:

A snake is just a dull, ugly reptile, yet it still shows affection for old companions and listens to advice. What I find strange is that some people—who look human—will betray close friends of ten years, or benefactors who’ve helped their family for generations, without hesitation. Others reject sincere, well-meant advice and treat the giver like an enemy. Truly, they are worse than snakes!

Slashing the Python

In Hutian Village, there lived a man surnamed Hu. He and his brother went into a deep mountain valley to chop wood. There, they encountered a giant python. The elder brother walked ahead and was suddenly seized and swallowed by the snake. At first, the younger brother was terrified and wanted to flee. But seeing his brother being devoured, he was overcome with rage. He drew his woodcutting axe and struck the python’s head.

Though wounded, the python continued to swallow. The elder brother’s head had already disappeared into its mouth, but fortunately, his shoulders got stuck at the jaws and couldn’t go further. The younger brother, desperate and helpless, grabbed his brother’s legs with both hands and pulled with all his strength, wrestling against the snake. Miraculously, he managed to drag his brother back out. The injured python slithered away in pain.

Looking at his brother, the younger man saw that his ears and nose had already dissolved, and he was barely breathing. He carried his brother home on his back, resting more than ten times along the way. After medical treatment and months of recovery, the elder brother finally healed. To this day, his face remains scarred, and only holes remain where his nose and ears used to be.

Ah! Among the rustic farmers of the mountains, there exists such a devoted younger brother! Some say, “The python didn’t finish swallowing the elder brother because it was moved by the younger brother’s virtue and righteousness.” That may truly be the case!

The Hail God

Wang Gong, styled Jun Cang, was appointed as an official in the region of Chu. On his way to assume office, he planned to visit Zhang Tianshi (Celestial Master Zhang) on Mount Longhu. When he reached the shores of Lake Poyang and had just boarded a boat, a man arrived in a small vessel and asked the crew to inform Wang Gong of his request to meet. Wang Gong received him and saw that the man was dignified and imposing. He took out a name card from his robe and said, “Knowing your esteemed self is coming, the Celestial Master sent me ahead to welcome you.”

Wang Gong was astonished that Zhang Tianshi could foresee his arrival and regarded him even more as a divine being. He proceeded with sincere reverence to visit the master. Upon reaching the mountain, Zhang Tianshi hosted a banquet in his honor. The attendants at the feast wore unusual garments and had long beards, quite unlike ordinary people. The messenger from earlier was also present, serving at the side.

After a while, the messenger whispered something to Zhang Tianshi. The master turned to Wang Gong and said, “This gentleman is from your hometown. Don’t you recognize him?” Wang Gong asked who he was. Zhang Tianshi replied, “This is the legendary Hail God, Li Zuoche.” Wang Gong was stunned, his expression changed. Zhang Tianshi continued, “He just informed me that he has received orders to go and deliver hail, so he must take his leave.”

Wang Gong asked, “Where will the hail fall?” The master answered, “In Zhangqiu.” Since Zhangqiu bordered Wang Gong’s hometown, he became deeply concerned and rose from his seat to plead for mercy. Zhang Tianshi said, “This is a decree from the Jade Emperor. The amount of hail is fixed—I cannot alter it on a whim.” Wang Gong continued to beg earnestly. After a long pause, Zhang Tianshi finally turned to the Hail God and instructed, “Let most of the hail fall in the valleys. Try not to damage the crops.” He added, “We have an honored guest here. Leave gently, not rashly.”

The Hail God stepped into the courtyard. Suddenly, smoke rose from beneath his feet and clouds swirled around him. After about fifteen minutes, he leapt upward with great force, first reaching just above the trees, then soaring past the rooftops. With a thunderclap, he flew northward. The buildings trembled, and the dishes on the banquet table shook and clattered. Wang Gong, startled, asked, “Does his departure always bring thunder?” Zhang Tianshi replied, “I warned him earlier, so he left slowly. Otherwise, he would have vanished with a sudden thunderclap.”

After bidding farewell to Zhang Tianshi, Wang Gong recorded the date and sent someone to inquire in Zhangqiu. Sure enough, on that very day, a heavy hailstorm struck. The rivers and ditches were filled with hailstones, but only a few landed in the fields, leaving the crops mostly unharmed.

Fox Wedding

Yin Tianguan of Licheng County came from a poor family in his youth, but he was bold and perceptive. In the county, there was a vast, abandoned mansion once owned by an aristocratic family, spanning dozens of acres, filled with pavilions and towers. Due to frequent reports of ghosts and strange happenings, no one dared live there, and it gradually became overgrown with weeds and wild grasses. Even in broad daylight, people avoided entering.

One day, Yin was drinking with fellow scholars when someone joked, “Whoever dares spend a night in that haunted place, we’ll all chip in for a banquet in his honor.” Yin immediately stood up and said, “That’s nothing!” That night, he took a mat and went to the mansion. The others escorted him to the gate, teasing, “If you see any ghosts or fox spirits, shout for help!” Yin laughed, “If I do, I’ll catch one as proof.” With that, he entered.

Inside, tall sedges blocked the paths, and mugwort grew thick. It was early in the lunar month, and the crescent moon offered only dim light, just enough to make out doors and windows. He made his way through several courtyards and reached a rear tower. Climbing the terrace, he found it smooth and clean, quite pleasant, so he decided to stay there. Looking west, the moon hung faintly over the mountains. He sat for a long time, seeing nothing unusual, and chuckled at the rumors. Then he lay down, using a stone as a pillow, gazing at the stars Vega and Altair.

Around midnight, just as he was drifting off, he heard chaotic footsteps below. Someone was coming upstairs. He pretended to sleep, squinting to peek. A man in green robes carrying a lotus lantern appeared, startled to see Yin, and stepped back. “There’s a living person here,” he said. “Who is it?” someone below asked. “I don’t know,” replied the man.

Soon, an old man came up, examined Yin closely, and said, “This is Lord Yin, sleeping soundly. Let’s proceed with our business. He’s easygoing and won’t mind.” People began entering the tower, and all the doors were opened. More and more guests arrived, and the place lit up like daytime.

Yin stirred and sneezed. The old man came out, knelt, and said, “My daughter is getting married tonight. I didn’t expect to disturb your rest. Please forgive us.” Yin rose and helped him up. “I didn’t know tonight was your joyous occasion. I’m sorry I didn’t bring a gift.” The old man replied, “Your presence alone wards off evil and brings us fortune. If you’d honor us by joining the celebration, it would be a great blessing.” Yin gladly agreed.

Inside, the decorations were lavish. A woman in her forties came out to greet him. “This is my wife,” said the old man. Yin bowed to her.

Soon, music erupted. Someone rushed in, announcing, “They’ve arrived!” The old man went to greet them, and Yin stood by. A procession of red silk lanterns led in the groom—a handsome, refined youth of seventeen or eighteen. He bowed to Yin first. Yin returned the gesture as a ceremonial host. Then the groom and his father-in-law exchanged formal bows, and everyone sat down for the feast.

Painted maids bustled about, serving food and drink. Steam rose from the dishes, and golden bowls and jade cups sparkled under the lights. After several rounds of wine, the old man sent a maid to fetch the bride. She didn’t return for a while, so he went himself to urge her. Eventually, several maids escorted the bride out. Her ornaments jingled, and the scent of orchids and musk filled the air. She bowed to Yin, then sat beside her mother. Yin glanced at her—she wore a phoenix hairpin and pearl earrings, her beauty unmatched.

Later, a massive golden goblet was brought out for toasts. Yin thought, “This would be perfect proof for my friends,” and quietly slipped it into his sleeve. He pretended to be drunk and slumped over the table. “The lord is drunk,” people said. Soon, the groom took his leave, music flared again, and the guests departed.

After the feast, the hosts cleaned up and found one golden goblet missing. Some whispered that Yin had taken it, but the old man hushed them, fearing Yin might hear. Eventually, silence returned. Yin got up—everything was pitch dark, with only lingering scents of perfume and wine. Dawn was breaking. He calmly walked out, checked his sleeve, and the goblet was still there.

At the gate, the scholars were already waiting. They suspected Yin had left during the night and returned in the morning. Yin showed them the goblet. Amazed, they asked what happened, and he told them everything. Seeing the goblet, they believed him.

Later, Yin passed the imperial exam and became an official in Feiqiu. A prominent local family named Zhu hosted a banquet for him. The host asked for a large wine cup, but it didn’t arrive. A servant whispered something, and the host’s face darkened. Soon, a golden goblet was brought out. Yin recognized it instantly—it was identical to the fox spirit’s goblet. Curious, he asked where it came from.

The host said, “There were eight of these, crafted by artisans when my ancestor served in the capital. They’ve been treasured for generations. Today, we found only seven. We suspected theft, but the dust on the chest was undisturbed. It’s baffling.” Yin laughed, “Perhaps one became a spirit and flew away! But heirlooms shouldn’t be lost. I have one just like it—I’ll return it to you.”

After the banquet, Yin sent the goblet back. The host examined it, shocked, and came personally to thank him. Yin recounted the entire tale. Only then did people realize that fox spirits could retrieve objects from far away—but dared not keep them permanently.

Jiao Na – A Tale of Fox Spirits and Human Bonds

Kong Xueli, a descendant of Confucius, is a gentle and poetic scholar. Invited by a friend to serve in Tiantai County, he arrives only to find his friend has died. Stranded and unable to return home, Kong takes refuge in Putuo Temple, where he earns a living copying scriptures.

Near the temple lies an abandoned mansion once owned by the Shan family. One snowy day, Kong passes by and meets a handsome youth named Huangfu, who invites him inside. The mansion is elegantly adorned, and Kong is impressed by the rare books and refined atmosphere. Mistaking Huangfu for the owner, Kong is surprised to learn he is merely a guest, having fled a fire in his ancestral home in Shaanxi.

Moved by Kong’s plight, Huangfu offers to become his student. Kong humbly accepts him as a friend instead. The next morning, Huangfu’s father, a white-haired gentleman, thanks Kong for teaching his son and gifts him fine clothes and food. Kong notices the household’s luxurious furnishings and unusual customs.

Huangfu is brilliant, quickly mastering classical poetry. Every five days, they drink together, always accompanied by Xiangnu, a stunning maid who plays haunting melodies on the pipa. Kong becomes infatuated with her, and Huangfu promises to find him a wife just as beautiful.

One summer, Kong falls gravely ill with a massive abscess. Huangfu sends for his sister, Jiao Na, a graceful girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her presence alone lifts Kong’s spirits. She diagnoses his illness and performs a delicate surgery using a golden bracelet and a blade thin as paper. She then heals him with a magical red pill, restoring him completely.

Kong is captivated by Jiao Na’s beauty and kindness. Though Huangfu offers another relative, Songniang, as a bride, Kong initially declines, quoting poetry to express his longing for Jiao Na. Eventually, he agrees to marry Songniang after seeing her beauty. Their wedding is grand, and Kong feels as if he’s married a celestial maiden.

Later, Huangfu reveals that the Shan family is reclaiming the mansion, and his family must leave. He offers to magically transport Kong and his wife home. With eyes closed, Kong feels himself lifted into the air, and when he opens them, he’s back in his hometown. Huangfu vanishes, confirming his supernatural nature.

Kong becomes a magistrate in Yan’an, and Songniang bears a son, Xiao Huan. After losing his post, Kong meets Huangfu again while hunting. He visits Huangfu’s village, now revealed as a fox spirit enclave. Jiao Na, now married, still cherishes Kong and plays with his child, joking about their intertwined fates.

One day, Huangfu warns Kong of an impending heavenly punishment. He reveals that his family are fox spirits facing divine retribution. Kong vows to protect them. During a thunderstorm, he stands guard with a sword. A demon appears and seizes Jiao Na. Kong leaps and strikes the demon, saving her but dying in the process.

Jiao Na revives Kong using the red pill and mouth-to-mouth breath. He awakens, and the family rejoices. They decide to return to Kong’s hometown. Tragically, Jiao Na’s husband’s family perishes in a similar calamity, prompting her to join Kong’s household.

Kong settles his fox spirit friends in a secluded garden. He and Huangfu continue to share wine, chess, and conversation. Xiao Huan grows up clever and charming, known as the child of a fox spirit.

The Monk’s Sin

A man surnamed Zhang died suddenly. His soul was escorted by underworld guards to face the King of Hell. Upon checking the Book of Life and Death, the King discovered that Zhang had been mistakenly taken and angrily ordered the guards to return him to the living world.

Before leaving, Zhang secretly begged the guards to let him tour the underworld. They agreed and led him through the nine levels of hell, showing him the infamous punishments—mountains of blades, forests of swords, and other gruesome torments.

Eventually, they arrived at a place where a monk was hanging upside down, suspended by ropes threaded through his thighs. The monk screamed in agony, his suffering unbearable. Zhang approached and was horrified to recognize the monk as his own elder brother.

Shocked and distressed, Zhang asked the guards, “What crime did he commit to deserve such punishment?”

The guards replied, “Though a monk, he greedily collected donations and squandered them on food, drink, and prostitutes. This punishment is his retribution. To be freed, he must sincerely repent.”

Zhang awoke from his death-like state, convinced his brother must have died. He rushed to Xingfu Temple, where his brother lived. As he entered, he heard cries of pain. Inside, he found his brother hanging upside down from the wall, with festering sores between his thighs, oozing pus and blood—exactly as he had seen in hell.

Terrified, Zhang asked why he was hanging like that. His brother replied, “Only by hanging my legs can I ease the pain. Otherwise, it feels like my flesh is being gouged out.”

Zhang recounted his vision of hell and what he had seen. His brother was so frightened that he immediately gave up meat and alcohol, and began chanting scriptures with sincere devotion. Within half a month, the sores healed. From then on, he became a devout monk, strictly observing Buddhist precepts.

Sorcery

Yu Gong was a man of great strength and chivalry in his youth. He loved martial arts and could lift a tall wine jar and spin it like a whirlwind. During the Chongzhen reign of the Ming dynasty, he traveled to the capital to take the imperial exam. While staying at an inn, his servant fell ill with a contagious disease, and Yu Gong grew anxious.

In the marketplace, he heard of a fortune-teller who could predict life and death. Before Yu could speak, the man said, “You’ve come to ask about your servant’s illness, haven’t you?” Yu nodded, surprised. The fortune-teller continued, “Your servant will recover—but you are in danger.” After casting a divination, he declared, “You will die within three days.”

Yu was stunned. The fortune-teller offered to perform a protective ritual for ten taels of silver. Yu, skeptical, declined. “Don’t regret it,” the man warned. Friends urged Yu to pay, but he refused.

The Third Night

On the third day, Yu sat upright in his room, sword in hand, waiting. Nothing happened during the day. At night, he locked the doors and lit a lamp. Near midnight, he heard rustling at the window. A tiny figure carrying a halberd squeezed through the crack and grew to human size. Yu leapt up and struck with his sword, but missed. The figure shrank again, trying to escape. Yu slashed—down it fell. It was a paper effigy, cut in half.

Soon after, a grotesque creature burst through the window. Yu struck it down, but its body writhed. He hacked repeatedly. It was a clay figurine, shattered into pieces.

Later, heavy breathing came from outside. Something massive pushed against the window, shaking the walls. Yu rushed out and saw a giant demon, as tall as the eaves, with coal-black skin and glowing yellow eyes. It held a bow and arrows.

The demon fired. Yu deflected the arrow. Another pierced the wall. Enraged, the demon drew a saber and attacked. Yu dodged nimbly. The blade struck a stone—splitting it. Yu darted between the demon’s legs and slashed its ankle. The demon roared and swung again, slicing Yu’s robe. Yu slipped under its ribs and stabbed. The demon collapsed.

Yu hacked at it repeatedly. It was a wooden puppet, life-sized, with blood oozing from sword wounds. He stayed awake until dawn, realizing the fortune-teller had sent these creatures to kill him—just to prove his prediction true.

Justice

The next day, Yu told his friends. They went to confront the fortune-teller. Seeing Yu, the man vanished. Someone said, “Dog’s blood breaks invisibility.” Yu prepared accordingly.

When the man vanished again, Yu splashed dog’s blood where he had stood. The man reappeared, smeared and ghastly. Yu arrested him and handed him over to the authorities, who sentenced him to death.

Commentary by Yi Shi

“Paying for fortune-telling is foolish. Few can truly predict death. And even if they could—what good would it do? Worse still are those who commit murder to prove their predictions. That is truly terrifying.”

Wild Dog

During the suppression of the Rebellion of the Seventh Prince, killing was rampant. A villager named Li Hualong had just returned from hiding in the mountains when he encountered government troops marching at night. Fearing they might slaughter innocent civilians, he panicked and couldn’t find a place to hide. In desperation, he lay motionless among a pile of corpses, pretending to be dead.

After the troops passed, he still didn’t dare move. Suddenly, he saw several mutilated bodies—missing heads and limbs—begin to stand up, like a forest of the dead. One corpse, whose severed head still hung loosely from its shoulders, spoke: “The wild dog is coming. What do we do?” The others echoed in disarray: “What do we do?” Then, all at once, they collapsed again, and silence returned.

Just as Li Hualong, trembling with fear, was about to flee, a monster appeared. It had the head of a beast and the body of a man, crouching as it gnawed on human skulls, sucking out brain matter one by one. Terrified, Li buried his head beneath the corpses. The creature crawled toward him, pawing at his shoulders, trying to find his head. Li wriggled deeper under the bodies to keep it hidden.

The monster pushed aside the corpses covering him, and Li’s head was exposed. In a panic, he reached under his waist and found a large stone, about the size of a bowl, and gripped it tightly. Just as the creature lowered its head to bite, Li sprang up, shouted loudly, and smashed the stone into its face, striking its mouth. The monster shrieked like an owl, clutching its jaw in pain, and fled, leaving a trail of blood on the road.

Li cautiously approached and found two teeth in the blood—curved in the middle, sharp at both ends, and over four inches long. He took them home to show others, but no one could identify what kind of creature it was.

Three Lives

A scholar named Liu could remember his past lives. He once recounted them in detail to his elder brother Wen Ben, who had passed the imperial exam in the same year.

In his first life, Liu was a government official who committed many immoral acts. He died at the age of sixty-two. Upon arriving in the underworld, the King of Hell treated him with the courtesy reserved for village gentry—offering him a seat and serving tea. Liu noticed that the king’s cup held clear tea, while his own was murky like fermented brew. He guessed it must be the soul-clouding tea of the underworld. While the king looked away, Liu secretly poured out the tea and pretended to have drunk it.

Soon, the King of Hell discovered Liu’s record of wrongdoing and flew into a rage. He ordered the ghosts to drag Liu away and sentenced him to be reborn as a horse. A fierce ghost bound him and led him to a household. At the doorstep, Liu hesitated, unable to cross the high threshold. The ghost struck him hard, and he collapsed. When he looked again, he was lying beneath a manger. Someone said, “The black mare has given birth to a colt—a male.” Liu remained conscious but could no longer speak. Starving, he had no choice but to nurse from the mare.

After four or five years, he grew strong and tall, but was terrified of being whipped. At the sight of a raised whip, he would flee in panic. When his master rode him with proper gear and loose reins, he could bear it. But when servants rode bareback and clamped their heels into his sides, the pain was unbearable. Furious, he refused to eat for three days and died.

Back in the underworld, the King of Hell saw that Liu’s punishment term was not yet complete. Accusing him of evading punishment, the king stripped off his horsehide and sentenced him to be reborn as a dog. Liu was devastated and refused to go. The ghosts beat him again, and he fled into the wilderness. In despair, he threw himself off a cliff. When he awoke, he was lying in a dog’s den, being licked and nursed by a mother dog.

As he grew, he recognized filth but found its smell oddly pleasant. He resolved not to eat it. For over a year, he often contemplated suicide, but feared the King of Hell would accuse him of escaping punishment. His master treated him kindly and refused to kill him. So Liu bit a chunk out of his master’s thigh. Enraged, the master beat him to death with a club.

The King of Hell, furious at Liu’s violent behavior, had him flogged hundreds of times and sentenced him to be a snake. Liu awoke in a pitch-dark chamber, confined and suffocating. He crawled up the wall, broke through the roof, and found himself in a dense thicket—now a snake. Determined not to harm any living creature, he fed only on plants and fruit.

After more than a year, he longed for a dignified death. Suicide was forbidden, and provoking others to kill him would only bring harsher punishment. One day, he lay in the grass and saw a cart approaching. He darted into the road and was crushed beneath its wheels.

The King of Hell was astonished to see him return so soon. Liu knelt and confessed his intentions. Since he had died without guilt, the king forgave him and allowed him to be reborn as a human. Thus, Liu was born again.

From birth, Liu could speak fluently and memorize texts after a single reading. In the year of Xinyou, he passed the imperial exam. He often advised others: “When riding a horse, always use proper gear. Clamping the horse’s belly with your heels is more painful than whipping.”

Commentary by Yi Shi

Among beasts with fur and horns, there are nobles. And among nobles, there are beasts in robes. When the humble do good, it’s like planting a tree to one day see flowers. When the noble do good, it’s like nurturing the roots of a tree already in bloom. A planted tree can grow; a rooted tree can endure. Otherwise, one may be punished as a horse—bearing burdens and enduring restraints; Or as a dog—eating filth and suffering abuse; Or as a snake—slithering in scales, destined to die in the belly of a crane.

Fox in the Bottle

Adapted from a Liaozhai tale

In the quiet village of Wan, a young woman married into the Shi family found herself haunted by a fox spirit. It came not with claws or fangs, but with whispers, illusions, and nightly invasions that left her drained and terrified. Though she loathed the creature, she could never catch it—each time her father-in-law entered the house, the fox would vanish, slipping into an old ceramic bottle behind the door.

She had seen this happen more than once. The bottle, dusty and unremarkable, had become the fox’s refuge. She told no one, but in her heart, she began to plan.

One cold morning, the fox returned. As soon as it darted into the bottle, she acted. With swift hands, she stuffed the mouth of the bottle with cotton, sealing it tight. Then she placed the bottle into a pot and lit the fire beneath it. Water boiled. Steam rose. The bottle began to tremble.

Inside, the fox cried out, “It’s too hot! Please, don’t play tricks on me!” She said nothing. The cries grew louder, more desperate. Then—silence.

When the water had cooled, she removed the stopper. Inside lay only a few clumps of fox fur and flecks of blood.

Ghosts Weeping

During the chaos of Xie Qian’s rebellion, government residences were seized by rebel forces. The estate of Wang Qixiang, the provincial education commissioner, became a stronghold for bandits. When imperial troops retook the city, they slaughtered the rebels en masse—bodies piled across the courtyard steps, and blood flowed out through the main gate.

After the city was secured, Wang Qixiang returned, cleared the corpses, scrubbed away the blood, and moved back in. But the estate remained haunted. Even in broad daylight, ghosts would appear. At night, ghostly flames flickered beneath the bed, and cries echoed from the corners of the walls.

One evening, a scholar named Wang Haodi was staying at the house. He heard a faint voice calling from under the bed: “Haodi… Haodi…” The voice grew louder: “I died in such agony!” Then it began to sob, and soon the entire courtyard was filled with the sound of weeping.

Wang Qixiang stormed in with a sword, shouting, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Commissioner Wang!” But the ghosts responded with a chorus of mocking laughter.

Embarrassed and shaken, Wang Qixiang organized a ritual to appease the spirits. He invited monks and Taoist priests to chant scriptures and perform rites. That night, as offerings were scattered across the courtyard, ghost lights flared up from the ground.

At the time, the estate’s gatekeeper—also surnamed Wang—was gravely ill and had been unconscious for days. That night, he suddenly stretched his limbs as if waking from sleep. His wife tried to feed him, but he said, “I’m not hungry. Just now, the master gave out food in the courtyard. I ate with the others and came back full.”

From that night on, the hauntings ceased. Had the rituals truly worked?

Commentary by Yi Shi

Ghosts and demons can only be subdued by virtue. When imperial troops stormed the city, Wang Qixiang held great power—his voice alone could make men tremble. Yet ghosts dared to mock him. Perhaps they foresaw his downfall. So let this be a warning to all high officials: If your human face can’t scare ghosts, don’t wear a ghost’s face to scare people.

The Girl from Zhendin

Adapted from a Liaozhai tale

In a rural corner of Zhendin County, a child bride lived quietly in her husband’s household. She was no more than six or seven years old when she was taken in—an orphan with no dowry, no protection, and no understanding of the world she had entered.

At first, she was treated like a daughter, or perhaps a pet—fed, clothed, and occasionally scolded. But as months passed, her husband, a grown man, began to approach her differently. His touches lingered. His words grew soft and strange. She didn’t understand what he wanted, only that she felt confused and afraid.

One day, her belly began to swell. She thought she was sick. Her body felt foreign, heavy, and sore. She told her mother-in-law, who frowned and asked, “Does it move inside?” The girl nodded. “Yes. It moves.”

The old woman stared at her, stunned. The child was too young—her limbs still thin, her voice still high. Could it be true? She didn’t dare say more.

Weeks later, the girl gave birth to a baby boy. The mother-in-law held the infant in her hands and sighed, “A mother no bigger than a fist, giving birth to a child the size of a needle tip.”

Social Context and Reflection

In the Qing dynasty countryside, child brides were not uncommon. Poverty made girls expendable, and families often gave them away in informal arrangements—sometimes as future wives, sometimes as servants. The law was silent. The village was complicit. And the girl, too young to name her pain, became a mother before she understood what it meant to be a child.

This story, told in a few lines in Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, is not just a ghost story—it’s a quiet scream. It reveals the cruelty hidden beneath domestic order, the violence that masquerades as tradition, and the tragedy of innocence devoured before it can bloom.

Jiao Ming the Exorcist

The household of Dong Mo’an, a scholar at the Hanlin Academy, was plagued by a fox spirit. Without warning, bricks and tiles would rain down like hail, forcing the family to flee in panic. Only after the fox had finished its rampage would they dare resume their daily tasks.

Distressed, Dong moved into the residence of Sima Sun Zuoting, hoping to escape the torment. But the fox followed him there, causing the same chaos.

One morning, while waiting to attend court, Dong shared his troubles with fellow officials. A minister told him, “There’s a Taoist priest from the northeast named Jiao Ming. He lives in the inner city and is known for his powerful talismans and exorcisms.”

Dong immediately sought him out. Jiao Ming drew a charm in cinnabar and instructed Dong to paste it on the wall. But the fox was undeterred—its attacks grew even fiercer.

Dong returned to report the failure. Angered, Jiao Ming came in person, built a ritual altar, and began his incantations. Soon, a large fox appeared, crouching beneath the altar.

The Dong family, long tormented, were filled with hatred. A maid stepped forward to strike the fox—but collapsed instantly, lifeless.

Jiao Ming said, “This creature is extremely defiant. Even I cannot subdue it instantly. How could you dare provoke it?” Then he added, “Still, we can use her to interrogate the fox.”

He pressed his index and middle fingers together, chanted a spell, and the maid suddenly rose, kneeling upright. When asked where she came from, she spoke in the fox’s voice: “I was born in the Western Regions. Eighteen foxes entered the capital.”

Jiao Ming declared, “This is the emperor’s city. Beasts like you have no place here. Leave at once!” The fox said nothing.

Jiao Ming slammed the table. “You dare defy me? Delay any longer, and my magic will not spare you!” The fox finally showed fear and agreed to leave.

Jiao Ming urged it to go quickly. The maid collapsed again, unconscious for a long time before waking.

Moments later, the household saw four or five glowing white orbs, round like balls, gliding along the eaves, chasing one another. Soon, they vanished.

From that day on, the Dong residence was peaceful.

Ye Sheng

In Huaiyang County, there lived a scholar surnamed Ye—his given name is lost to time. His essays and poetic compositions were considered among the finest of his generation, yet his luck was poor, and he repeatedly failed the imperial examinations.

At that time, a magistrate from the northeast named Ding Chenghe was appointed to the county. Upon reading Ye’s writings, he was deeply impressed and invited Ye for a conversation. They spoke at length and found great mutual understanding. Ding arranged for Ye to live at the county office, provided him with funds for study and living expenses, and often sent money and grain to support Ye’s family.

When the provincial exams approached, Ding praised Ye before the education commissioner, and Ye earned top marks in the qualifying exam for the upcoming imperial examination. Ding placed high hopes on him. After the exam, Ding read Ye’s essay and praised it repeatedly. But fate is fickle—talent often clashes with destiny. When the results were announced, Ye had failed once again.

Ashamed of disappointing his benefactor, Ye returned home in despair. He grew thin and lifeless, like a puppet without strings. Ding summoned him and offered comfort. Ye wept bitterly. Moved by his sorrow, Ding promised to take Ye to the capital once his term ended. Ye was deeply touched and returned home, shutting himself away.

Soon after, Ye fell ill. Ding sent gifts and medicine, but nothing helped. Around this time, Ding was dismissed from office due to political missteps. Before leaving, he wrote to Ye: “I’ve delayed my departure only to wait for you. If you arrive in the morning, I’ll leave that evening.” Ye cried upon reading the letter and asked the messenger to tell Ding: “My illness is too severe. Please go ahead without me.”

Ding refused to leave. Days later, the gatekeeper announced Ye’s arrival. Ding rushed out joyfully. Ye said, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m well enough now to accompany you.” Ding packed his belongings, and they set off the next morning.

Back in Ding’s hometown, he asked his son, Zai Chang, to study under Ye. The boy, sixteen years old, had never written a formal essay, but he was exceptionally bright. After a year of tutoring, he could compose with ease. With his father’s influence, he entered the county school. Ye copied his own exam essays for Zai Chang to study. When the boy sat for the imperial exam, every topic matched what he had prepared. He passed sixth in rank.

One day, Ding said to Ye, “You’ve given my son success with just a fraction of your talent. Yet true talent like yours remains buried—how can that be right?” Ye replied, “Perhaps it’s my fate. But thanks to your kindness, my writings have gained recognition. That alone brings me peace. To have a true friend is enough. Why must one rise in rank to feel fortunate?”

Ding, worried Ye might miss the annual hometown exam, urged him to return. Ye was reluctant, and Ding didn’t press him. Instead, he asked his son to purchase Ye a student title at the Imperial Academy. Zai Chang later passed the metropolitan exam and became a ministry official. He took Ye with him to his post, and they remained close.

A year later, Ye passed the capital’s provincial exam and became a certified scholar. Around this time, Zai Chang was assigned to river work near Ye’s hometown. He said, “You’ve struggled for years and finally succeeded. Now is the time to return home in glory.” Ye was delighted. They chose an auspicious date and set off.

Upon reaching Huaiyang, Zai Chang sent a servant to escort Ye home. But Ye found his house in ruins. Saddened, he wandered into the courtyard. His wife came out carrying a winnowing basket. Upon seeing him, she dropped it and fled in terror.

Ye called out, “I’ve returned in honor. After just a few years apart, how can you not recognize me?” From a distance, she replied, “You’ve been dead for years. What honor? I kept your coffin unburied because we were poor and the children were young. Now our eldest is grown, and we’re preparing to bury you. Please don’t haunt us.”

Ye stood stunned. He entered the house and saw his own coffin. With a sigh, he collapsed—and vanished.

His wife approached and found only his clothes, hat, and shoes lying on the ground like a shed skin. She wept bitterly, clutching the garments. Their son returned from school and, seeing a horse tied outside, asked what had happened. His mother tearfully explained. They questioned the servant who had accompanied Ye and learned the full story.

When the servant returned, Zai Chang was heartbroken. He rushed to Ye’s home, mourned at his coffin, and paid for a proper burial with full honors. He also gave Ye’s son money and hired a tutor. After recommending him to the education commissioner, the boy passed the county exam the following year.

Commentary by Yi Shi

Can a soul follow its dearest friend and forget it has died? Some may doubt this tale, but I believe it. Like the maiden in Record of the Departed Soul, who left her body for love; Like Zhang Min and Gao Hui, who met in dreams across great distances— So too does a scholar’s soul live in his words, and in the heart of one who truly understands.

To meet a kindred spirit is rare. Most suffer alone, misunderstood. The proud are often cast aside, mocked even by ghosts. Fail the exams, and every hair is ugly; pass, and every word is praised.

Who will be the true judge of talent? Who will be the next Ding Chenghe, to walk with the forgotten, even beyond death?

Forty Strings of Cash

In the household of Grand Marshal Wang of Xincheng, there was a steward in charge of accounting. Though he held no official rank, he was wealthy and well-established.

One night, he dreamed of a man rushing in and saying, “You owe me forty strings of cash. It’s time to repay the debt.” When he asked who the man was, the figure said nothing and walked straight into the inner chamber.

Upon waking, he learned that his wife had just given birth to a son. He immediately understood: this child was the embodiment of his karmic debt. So he tied up forty strings of cash and placed them in a separate room. From that moment on, every expense related to the child—clothing, food, medicine—was drawn from that fund.

Three or four years passed. One day, he checked the room and found only seven hundred coins left. Just then, the wet nurse arrived, holding the child and playing with him. The steward looked at the boy and said, “The forty strings are nearly spent. It’s time for you to go.”

As soon as he spoke, the child’s brow furrowed, his face turned pale, his head drooped, and his eyes stared blankly. When they checked him, he was already dead.

The steward used the remaining money to buy burial supplies and laid the child to rest. This story stands as a warning to those who owe debts—whether financial or karmic.

A Monk’s Insight

Long ago, an elderly man who had no children asked a high monk why that was. The monk replied, “You owe no one, and no one owes you—how could you have a child?”

A good son may be someone repaying your past kindness. A troublesome son may be someone collecting on a debt. So, having a child is no cause for pride, and losing one is no cause for despair.

Becoming Immortal

In Wendeng County, there lived a scholar named Zhou, who had grown up studying alongside another scholar named Cheng. Despite differences in status, they became lifelong friends. Cheng’s family was poor, and he relied on Zhou’s support throughout the year. Zhou was older, so Cheng respectfully called Zhou’s wife “sister-in-law.” On holidays and festivals, Cheng would visit the Zhou household, and their bond was as close as family.

Later, Zhou’s wife died suddenly after childbirth. He remarried a younger woman named Wang. Out of propriety, Cheng never visited her. One day, Wang’s younger brother came to visit, and Zhou hosted a banquet in the inner chamber. Cheng happened to arrive, and Zhou invited him to join. Cheng declined and left. Zhou moved the banquet to the main hall and chased after Cheng to bring him back.

Just as they sat down, a servant arrived with troubling news: one of Zhou’s farmhands had been severely beaten by order of the county magistrate. The incident stemmed from a servant of the powerful Huang family, who had trampled Zhou’s fields with cattle. A quarrel broke out, and Huang’s servant reported it to his master. Huang then had Zhou’s servant arrested and flogged.

Zhou was furious. “How dare the Huang family act this way! Their ancestors once served under my grandfather. Now they’ve gained power and think they’re above everyone?” He stormed off to confront them, but Cheng held him back, pleading, “In this corrupt world, justice means nothing. Most officials today are just bandits without swords.” Zhou refused to listen, and Cheng wept as he begged him to stop. Zhou relented, but his anger lingered.

The next morning, Zhou declared, “The Huang family may be my enemy, but the magistrate is a government official. He should be impartial. Instead, he acts like a dog, attacking on command. I’ll submit a formal complaint and see how he responds.” Encouraged by his household, Zhou filed a petition. The magistrate tore it up and, enraged by Zhou’s words, had him arrested and thrown into jail.

Later that day, Cheng visited Zhou’s home and learned what had happened. He rushed to the city, but Zhou was already imprisoned. Cheng was distraught. Meanwhile, three pirates were captured, and the magistrate and Huang family bribed them to falsely accuse Zhou of being an accomplice. Based on their testimony, Zhou was stripped of his scholar status and tortured.

Cheng visited him in prison. The two wept and decided to appeal directly to the emperor. Zhou said, “I’m trapped like a bird in a cage. My young brother can only bring me food.” Cheng replied, “If I don’t help you now, what kind of friend am I?” He set off immediately.

By the time Zhou’s brother arrived with travel funds, Cheng was already gone. In the capital, Cheng struggled to find a way to submit the appeal. One day, he heard the emperor was going hunting and hid in the woods. As the imperial procession passed, Cheng threw himself to the ground, crying and pleading. The emperor accepted his petition and ordered the governor of Shandong to investigate.

Zhou had been imprisoned for over ten months and was sentenced to death. The governor, shocked by the imperial decree, reopened the case. The Huang family, terrified, plotted to kill Zhou. They bribed the jailers to starve him, and even his brother was denied entry. Cheng again petitioned the governor, who finally intervened. Zhou was found barely alive. The governor, enraged, ordered the corrupt jailer beaten to death.

The Huang family paid thousands in bribes and escaped punishment. The magistrate, however, was exiled for corruption. Zhou was released and became even closer to Cheng.

After this ordeal, Cheng lost all faith in worldly affairs and invited Zhou to retreat into the mountains. Zhou, attached to his young wife, mocked Cheng’s idealism. Cheng said nothing but quietly disappeared. Both families searched for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Zhou regularly sent money and clothes to support Cheng’s son.

Eight or nine years later, Cheng returned—now dressed as a Taoist priest. Zhou was overjoyed and asked where he’d been. Cheng smiled, “I’ve wandered like a cloud, with no fixed home. But I’ve stayed healthy.” Zhou hosted a feast. When asked to change out of his robes, Cheng simply smiled. Zhou teased, “You’re foolish to abandon your wife and child like an old shoe.” Cheng replied, “It’s not that I abandoned them. The world abandoned me.”

That night, they slept side by side. Zhou dreamed that Cheng lay naked on his chest, suffocating him. He woke in shock and called out, but Cheng was gone. Zhou realized he was now lying in Cheng’s bed. He looked in the mirror—his thick beard was gone. He called for his family, who saw Cheng’s face instead of Zhou’s. Zhou finally understood: Cheng had used magic to persuade him to leave the world behind.

Zhou tried to return to his room, but his brother didn’t recognize him and barred the way. With no way to explain, Zhou set off to find Cheng.

After days of travel, he reached Mount Lao. A Taoist told him Cheng might be at the Shangqing Temple. Zhou met a fellow scholar who mistook him for Cheng. Zhou explained the strange events, and the scholar said, “I just saw him. I thought he was you.” Zhou chased after Cheng but found only endless mountains. He sent his servant back and continued alone.

Eventually, he met a young acolyte who claimed to be Cheng’s disciple. The boy carried Zhou’s belongings and led him through forests and valleys. After three days, they arrived—not at any earthly temple, but a place blooming with flowers despite it being mid-autumn.

Cheng welcomed him warmly. They drank and talked. Strange birds with radiant feathers sang like flutes and perched nearby. Zhou was amazed but still longed for the mortal world.

At night, Cheng invited him to meditate. As Zhou sat cross-legged, his thoughts faded. He felt his body shift—his beard returned, and he was himself again.

Days later, Zhou insisted on returning home. Cheng tried to persuade him to stay but eventually agreed. On the journey back, the path was unfamiliar. Soon, Zhou saw his village in the distance. Cheng waited at the roadside and refused to go further.

Zhou returned alone. His home was deserted. At his brother’s house, he learned that his wife had been murdered by bandits who tore out her intestines. Zhou realized the dream had been real. He told his brother everything and asked him not to pursue justice.

Seeing his infant son, Zhou said, “He carries the Zhou family’s legacy. Take care of him. I’m leaving this world.” He walked away, ignoring his brother’s pleas. At the edge of the village, Cheng awaited him. They vanished together.

Years passed. Zhou’s brother, simple and kind, struggled to manage the household. The family grew poor. Zhou’s son had no tutor, so his uncle taught him himself.

One morning, the brother found a sealed letter on the desk labeled “To My Worthy Brother.” It was Zhou’s handwriting. Inside was only a long fingernail. He placed it on the inkstone and went to ask the family who had delivered it. No one knew.

When he returned, the inkstone had turned to gold. He tested the nail on copper and iron—they too turned to gold. The Zhou family became wealthy. The brother gave a thousand taels of gold to Cheng’s son, and villagers said the two families had mastered the art of alchemy.