Killing to pay for a life—it’s only right and proper, but when strung together like that, it always sounds a bit frightening.
A man named Cain killed his brother Abel out of jealousy. Later, the divine being cursed Cain, who complained that the punishment was too severe. So the divine one said to him, “Whoever kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.”
Retribution sounds exhilarating in theory, but for me, it’s seven times over. Even if I’ve since forgotten many details of those stories and their lessons, I’ve never turned from a pushover who gets slapped on the left cheek and then offers the right into a vindictive woman who settles every score.
I avoid conflict and dodge confrontations. If we’re arguing face-to-face, it’s like I’ve already been thrown into the hell of tongue-pulling—my mouth won’t work right. If this were a TV drama, the audience would be pissed off for twenty episodes on my behalf.
I’ve never even considered using some method to kill that murderer.
In fact, when I learned the killer had gone to prison, I calmly accepted it, like someone set a fire, the flames died out, and I just nodded at the result—the ashes from sweeping a house. Later, when I heard the killer had gotten out early, I calmly accepted that too, like the wind blew away the ruins of my house, and I just rebuilt on the spot.
I’ve never thought to chase down the arsonist, pay them back in kind by torching their house, or even set them ablaze to vent my hatred. That’s not even in my realm of imagination—the most vicious dream never featured that plot.
So Gan Ling’s question left me a bit puzzled. Just as I was about to deny it, a strange impulse surged in my throat, like some earth-shattering words were about to burst out. I quickly clamped my mouth shut, opened the bedroom door, and Gan Ling snatched the phone from my hand.
“What did you see?”
“I looked at the maps, WeChat—I saw your pinned chat.” I answered honestly, like a elementary school kid caught secretly playing on their phone.
Gan Ling shot me a sideways glare but didn’t bother checking the phone herself. Instead, she grabbed my clothes and dragged me out.
I hurriedly clutched her hand and hiked up my shirt to keep the collar from gaping open and stripping me bare.
I got tossed onto the sofa like a bundle of dirty laundry stuffed into the corner. Gan Ling flung the phone into another corner. I curled up, afraid she’d hit me, and shielded my head with my arms.
In my own home, getting manhandled like this by an outsider—normal people wouldn’t be such a wimp about it. But I’d used up 200% of my courage snatching Gan Ling’s phone earlier; now that it was spent, I couldn’t muster any urge to fight back.
The sofa suddenly sank—Gan Ling had sat down. I hugged my head even tighter. She pried at my arms like peeling a head of cabbage. My resistance was feeble; she easily pulled them away, exposing my dejected face.
“What’s with your face?” Gan Ling asked me.
I was still lost in thoughts of revenge on the killer, touching my cheek absentmindedly. Gan Ling poked it with her finger, hitting the thin scab from the corn leaf scratch.
“Oh… the cornfield…”
“Oh.” Gan Ling didn’t press. I tugged my shirt back onto my shoulders.
After a moment, Gan Ling picked up the notebook where I’d drawn the talismans, squinting as she counted them. I had no idea how many she ended up with. She set the hardcover notebook on her lap, pinched a page and flipped backward to a blank one, then fanned it out with a rustle. Then she began: “I feel like you want to know why I’m not with Ningning… It’s simple. I didn’t want her anymore. I abandoned my child and ran off to another place—first Beijing, then Shenzhen. Big cities have more opportunities.”
Gan Ling spoke in a flat, straightforward tone. Even when soft, it carried the chill of a blade, like she might raise her voice and slash me with it at any moment.
She repeated, “It was me who didn’t want her. I was irresponsible. There’s nothing to discuss about it.”
“Why did you run off to another place?”
“Uh, don’t interrupt.” Gan Ling clearly wasn’t pondering but still pretended I’d broken her train of thought. Naturally, she picked up the phone and asked where the charging cable was. I said it was really in the bedroom, by my bedhead. She went in. “Not this one.”
“Pull open the drawer—there’s a three-in-one cable.”
A clatter and crash—I could tell by the sounds that she roughly jammed the charger into the outlet.
She came back out and sat down again.
The woman’s hair was much neater than when we’d first met, tied in a ponytail. She leaned against the sofa facing me, pillowing her head on one arm. It felt weird to me, so I scooted farther away. Gan Ling turned her head too, resuming her TV-watching pose, but her words were directed at me: “Because I’m a selfish person, super self-centered… Whatever, you’re not a psychologist. Why am I even telling you this?”
I said the kids often pour out their psychological woes to me too, and children’s mental health issues deserve attention. Rounding up, I’m half a psychologist.
That sounded way too presumptuous. Once it was out, I realized how off it was. Not wanting to seem cheeky, I hastily backpedaled: “I don’t want to know your psychological issues… I just think, um… if you… um…”
My mouth rusted shut again.
Gan Ling stayed indifferent, her face tinged with hatred. She let out a long breath: “Then I won’t say it.”
“No… then vent to me.”
“I wasn’t planning to vent!” Gan Ling shot me a piercing glare. I ducked my head meekly. After a bit, she settled back down: “Why did I run off to another place… Because Neng County is a shithole.”
I stayed silent. Gan Ling breezily moved to the next topic: “How did I finally hear the news… Over the seven years, I kept in touch with Ningning’s grandma—you know, the pinned WeChat contact. She kept hitting me up for money, saying it was for raising Ningning—school fees one day, clothes the next…
“I told her, I’m saving money for Ningning’s college. Her grandma said no money, no junior high for Ningning. So I sent it.”
Gan Ling finished, glancing at me again. I huddled there like a motionless rock.
She went on: “Then I said, I’ve sent the money—let me see Ningning. Video call. They said they didn’t know how to use WeChat. I said have Ningning do it. No video? A photo’s fine. They said okay. A bit later, they said Ningning doesn’t want a photo, doesn’t want to see me. She hates me.”
Gan Ling looked down, rubbing her crumpled fingers together, lips pressing thin as her eyes curved up.
It was the first time I’d seen her smile without sarcasm or bitterness.
Her mouth corners slowly lifted, a bit embarrassed, a bit sorrowful. She opened wide several times, but the rest came out as mere breaths.
I scooted over on the sofa. Beneath her disheveled hair, Gan Ling’s face blurred like mist.
“I believed it. She… had reason to hate me.” Gan Ling finally breathed out the words. One hand kept combing her hair, gathering it to her cheek to hide her face.
“And then… that day, voice call, I lost my temper. Cursed a bit. Then on the other end, the old lady seemed to bump into something, and went quiet. The call didn’t hang up. I shouted, no response. So I got a nucleic acid test, quit my job, bought a ticket, and came back. That’s when I learned… Ningning was dead.”
Gan Ling bit her lower lip hard, forcing out a twisted smile. She glanced at me, rolled her neck, and switched tones: “I wandered the graves for days, then found Ningning’s… At night, ghosts crawled out—barefoot, hats on, marching in a line to stare at me. They took turns saying Ningning died so pitifully, dead seven years ago, right after I left. Loads of ghosts—I asked if they’d seen Zheng Ningning. They said no…
“They said she’d been dead seven years, reincarnated long ago. No family to send her off. Died alone and unknown… Nobody knew her.”
Gan Ling started spouting mad ravings. I knelt before her, grabbing the woman’s arm and shaking it hard.
Gan Ling lowered her eyes, smirking ambiguously at me: “I followed the ghosts. They went east, I went east. Walking along, I saw the Hall of Yama, the Yellow Springs Road—tons of ghosts shuffling. I searched for Ningning inside, found her—one shoe on, half a head dangling from her neck. I said, who did this to you? She said she couldn’t see clear. I said, who saw what the killer looked like? I’ll avenge you. She said, Teacher Xiao Jiang from the kindergarten knows. Teacher Xiao Jiang saw everything, remembers what the killer looks like—”
At that, Gan Ling burst into laughter.
I trembled a little, standing there at a loss.
Goblins and ghousts, the ghost soul lingering forever on the portrait—Gan Ling and I shared the same eerie secret.
Gan Ling’s smile faded, her gaze still gloomy as it landed on my face. She pursed her lips uncomfortably, tongue flicking over her teeth, looking like she was pondering something creepy.
I said, can you hear the ghosts’ voices too?
“Teacher Xiao Jiang,” Gan Ling suddenly gripped my shoulders, fingers like claws digging into my bones. “The ghost stuff? I made it up. Don’t take it to heart.”
Her eyes darted. I saw Gan Ling like a hazy plastic bag. Only then did I realize I was a bit dazed and confused.
Finally managing to focus my eyes, a bamboo grove rushed toward me. Hongzhi Elementary School rushed toward me. The plum tree strode forward too, flipping in through the window and rooting itself in our home out of nowhere. There were no children around, but I heard the rustling sounds of growth again—bamboo shooting up joint by joint, children growing, ghosts swirling thickly like a pot of steamed buns, eerie with ghostly qi. Zheng Ningning’s corpse rumbled muffledly in the coffin, gurgling and rolling.
“Made up…” I was at a bit of a loss for what to say to Gan Ling. She was clearly recounting how she came back and learned the news of Zheng Ningning’s death, yet she deliberately spun a ghost story. She must really be able to see Zheng Ningning’s wronged soul drifting about. I’d believed in gods before, later became like a ghost myself. Between life and death, Buddha, God, Allah, Brahma, Zeus—countless deities all pressed their right hands down, urging me to believe that Zheng Ningning’s ghost was lingering unwillingly.
“What I made up. You…”
It was the first time I saw Gan Ling hesitate. She loosened her grip on my hand just a little, and I felt like I couldn’t walk, on the verge of toppling over—I didn’t even know how to breathe, suddenly short of oxygen.
Gan Ling immediately chased after me. With a thud, her knee hit the tea table, her legs bending, but she still grabbed my waist to cushion the fall. We tumbled down together.
Lying on the ground, the ghost mist dispersed. I took a long breath and suddenly understood why Gan Ling had suddenly lied.
I got it, so I answered, “Gan Ling, it’s not that I don’t want to kill the murderer… I really do. But I can’t.”
“If I go kill him, what does it have to do with you?”
“You have more standing than me… but in my eyes, you can’t even more… becoming that kind of person.”
—
