Ghost Bride

Few people would believe it if I told them. Ever since I could remember, I had never slept in a bed. Instead, I slept in an ancient coffin—its inner diameter was 57 centimeters at the front bottom, 42 centimeters at the top opening, and 60 centimeters tall, a standard size for a coffin.

Every night before I slept, Grandpa would light three sticks of worship incense in the western corner of the coffin. The incense was agarwood, with a soothing scent that just managed to cover the faint stench of decay inside the coffin.

It hadn’t been so bad before I turned five. I didn’t know what a coffin was back then, and since it was covered with a white quilt and wide enough to sleep in, I never thought much of it—it was just a place to sleep, after all.

But after I turned five, the coffin started to feel cramped, so much so that I couldn’t even roll over. I couldn’t help but ask Grandpa if I could sleep in a big bed like him.

Not only did Grandpa refuse my request, but he also gave me a severe beating and ordered me to sleep in the coffin every single night, no exceptions.

The countryside was full of superstitions, and Grandpa was the most superstitious old man in the village. He often presided over funerals and grave relocations, and he also read feng shui—both for yin houses (graves) and yang houses (residences). He was always muttering about supernatural things.

Before I turned five, I had no playmates. Besides Grandpa, there was no one else at home; even the villagers didn’t know I existed. I was a sensible child from an early age. When Grandpa told me not to go out, I never cried or made a fuss. Sometimes, I could play with Grandpa’s old pipe for an entire afternoon.

I didn’t know why things were this way. After all, I was still young. After being beaten by Grandpa, I became even more afraid to mention sleeping in a big bed again.

When I turned six, it was time to start school, and that’s when I first came into contact with people other than Grandpa. But Grandpa never allowed me to bring any friends home to play. If my friends came looking for me, I was absolutely forbidden to let them enter my room. In truth, there was nothing in my room except that coffin placed right in the middle.

Six years old is typically the first rebellious phase after a child starts to understand things. The more Grandpa forbade me from bringing people home, the more I wanted to do it. One day, while Grandpa was out, I snuck a friend into my room.

That friend was chubby, and everyone called him Chubby. As soon as he walked into my room, he spotted the coffin and screamed, “Jack, why is there a coffin in your room? Where’s your bed?”

I pointed to the coffin and said, “This is my bed.”

As soon as I finished speaking, Chubby turned and ran, shouting, “You’re a dead man! Only dead people sleep in coffins!”

Word of this spread through the village in an instant. The adults didn’t say much—after all, they all knew what kind of man Grandpa was—but the kids went crazy. Chubby’s grandpa ran a coffin shop in town, and everyone said coffins were extremely unlucky. And just like that, I became an “unlucky person.”

From then on, I had even fewer friends. At school, my classmates stayed far away from me, calling me “Coffin Ghost.” The adults also told their kids not to play with me.

After that incident, Grandpa hung me up and beat me severely. I vaguely understood why Grandpa didn’t let me bring people into my room, but I still didn’t understand why he made me sleep in the coffin all the time.

Kids never learn their lesson from a beating. Once I found out that coffins were for the dead, I started resisting sleeping in it. One night, I snuck into Grandpa’s room, but he caught me. That time, Grandpa starved me for three whole days, and in the end, I had to give in, never daring to go against his wishes again.

Grandpa often left early and came back late, and my personality grew more and more withdrawn. With no friends around, and no dogs, pigs, or chickens at home—unlike other families—the only companions I had were a few mice that occasionally scurried by. When I was bored, I would talk to them.

Those lonely days continued until one night in the summer when I was six. It was swelteringly hot, and all the dogs in the village were barking. The adults grabbed flashlights, carrying shoulder poles and hoes, and ran outside, as if they were chasing a thief.

Kids love to be where the action is, and I was no exception. But Grandpa had said I couldn’t go out after the sun went down, or he’d starve me for another three days. So I had to open the window and lean on the windowsill to watch.

Before the villagers could get close, I saw a black shadow slither over and slip into my room through the window. I saw it clearly—it was a blue snake, as thick as my arm.

Shortly after the snake slipped in, dozens of villagers ran to my doorstep. I quickly closed the window. Since everyone in the village disliked me, letting them see me would only bring me countless stares of disdain.

I turned to look inside the room, but the blue snake was gone. My room had no other exits besides that one window—could the snake have crawled into my coffin?

I walked slowly to the coffin, and sure enough, the snake was inside. It coiled into a spiral, looking up at me with its blue eyes, which were as beautiful as sapphires. It had six wounds on its body, oozing scarlet blood that turned its blue scales purple. It looked so pitiful.

“Are you okay?” I quickly climbed into the coffin and leaned over to ask, concerned.

As soon as I finished speaking, Grandpa pushed open my door with a few other men. “Jack, did you see a big blue snake?” he asked.

At the sound of Grandpa’s voice, the snake immediately burrowed under the quilt, as if it was terrified.

I felt a surge of compassion for it. It looked so可怜, and I had no toys—I’d long grown tired of playing with the mice. Now that such a beautiful snake was here to keep me company, there was no way I was going to tell them. In my heart, these animals were much friendlier than people.

Pretending I’d been asleep, I climbed out of the coffin, rubbed my eyes, and said, “Grandpa, I didn’t see any snake.”

Grandpa nodded, turned around, and closed the door. “We’ll look elsewhere,” he said. “Jack, stay in the house and don’t come out, no matter what.”

After Grandpa left, I let out a sigh of relief. I lifted the quilt and said to the snake, “It’s okay, they’re gone.”

The snake seemed to be intelligent. It poked its head out and nodded at me, as if thanking me.

“Go to sleep,” I whispered. “Once your wounds heal, I’ll sneak you out.” I covered it with the quilt again.

The villagers searched for that snake for three whole days, and no one knew it was with me. From what I heard the adults talking about, the snake had killed Tilly’s dog and Chubby’s cow. It was highly venomous, an unlucky creature that had to be killed. Some even said it would become a spirit in seven years and kill everyone in the village.

Hearing the words “unlucky creature,” I became even more determined to protect the snake. Because I was also called an unlucky creature by them.

Three days later, the snake’s wounds were completely healed. When I told it I was going to send it away, it burrowed under the quilt, seemingly unwilling to leave. I’d grown used to its presence over those three days, so I was happy it didn’t want to go. It was beautiful, and it had no smell at all.

To keep Grandpa from finding it, I used a saw to make a small hole in the bottom of the coffin when he was away. The bottom of the coffin was five centimeters above the ground, so when I wasn’t there, it could hide underneath. Even if Grandpa changed my quilt, he would never find it. Every day after school, I would catch frogs or mice to feed it. It ate very little—only once a week was enough.

And so, I slept with a snake for six whole years. Every day after school, I would finish my homework and climb into the coffin right away. Every time I climbed in, it would come out and wrap around me to play. Its body felt nice—cool and refreshing in the summer, and warm in the winter. Every night, I would sleep with my head on its body, feeling peaceful and secure.

I was twelve years old then. I remember it was the night before my birthday. Grandpa came in to light incense as usual, but this time, he held more than just three sticks—he had a whole bunch. Besides the worship incense, he was also carrying a big bag of paper money. I followed behind him, wondering why he was acting so strange tonight.

Grandpa didn’t say a word when he walked in. After lighting the paper money, he said, “Jack, stay here and keep burning the paper. The next seven nights are crucial. If you get through them safely, you’ll live. If not, it’s your fate.”

“Grandpa, what do you mean?” I asked, confused.

Grandpa sighed. “You’re old enough now. There are some things I can tell you. Do you know why I’ve made you sleep in the coffin all this time?”

I kept burning the paper while looking at Grandpa, waiting for him to go on. I’d asked him many times when I was little, but every time I did, I got a beating. This time, I didn’t dare ask again.

Grandpa said, “Your birth chart is an extremely yin fate—a fate that only one in ten thousand people has.”

“Grandpa, what’s an extremely yin fate?” I asked, blinking my eyes.

Grandpa lit the incense while saying, “Fate is divided into yin and yang. Yang gathers humans; yin attracts ghosts. Extremely yin and extremely yang fates are the two extremes of destiny. An extremely yang fate is the fate of an emperor, while an extremely yin fate…”

Grandpa paused. I looked at him in confusion and asked, “Grandpa, what about an extremely yin fate?”

Grandpa sighed again. “An extremely yin fate is a ‘fate seized by ghosts.’ Twelve is the number when fate reveals itself. After midnight tonight, you’ll be twelve. Seven is the number of soul return. Your extremely yin fate will slowly reveal itself, reaching its peak in seven days. When that happens, all the lonely ghosts within a hundred miles will come to seize your body.”