Wang Ya said, “Let me tell you, I have a bad temper and no patience. I’ve been capturing and exorcising ghosts and demons since I was little—every ghost and yokai in the surrounding villages got cleared out while I was practicing. The ghosts I’ve obliterated could fill a truck, if not two buses, so you’re not making or breaking my tally! I rented your place, and only because your sister is decent and cares about you am I bothering to listen to this nonsense. If you throw a ghostly tantrum in front of me, watch out—I might make sure you can’t even be a ghost anymore.”
The Ghost Pen stood stock-still.
Wang Ya said, “Keep writing. What drove you to suicide, and why stay here?”
The ghost wrote slowly—perhaps unaccustomed to the brush—its characters not only ugly but huge, so a single sheet cut to talisman size held only three. By the time it finished three, Wang Ya had to swap the paper. Ghost handwriting was ugly enough; if it overlapped, she’d go blind trying to read it.
It took Wang Ya an hour to piece together the cause of death. He’d had a girlfriend for over two years. At thirty, still unmarried, his mother grew anxious and urged him to wed. His girlfriend refused without a house, so his mother sold her own to help with the down payment on this apartment. He’d even bought her a diamond engagement ring and printed the wedding invitations. Then one day, she ran off with their joint savings, sending a text: “Sorry, I’m married with a five-year-old kid. I can’t marry you.” His mother wailed inconsolably, cursing him for being useless and poor at judging people. He searched everywhere but found no trace; the police had no leads. Colleagues gossiped behind his back, relatives whispered—overwhelmed, he took his own life.
Wang Ya asked the ghost, “Why linger here? Hoping she’ll come back so you can take revenge?”
“Waiting for the police to crack the case, arrest her, and return my money.”
Wang Ya was speechless for a long while before saying, “Alright, got it. Off you go to where you’re supposed to be.”
The ghost refused, scribbling frantically on the Yellow Paper until it was a black mess of ink.
Its wish unresolved, it wouldn’t leave! Wang Ya wasn’t a cop—how would she know when they’d solve it? She picked up her mobile phone and called the Landlord Wife. It connected, and before she could speak, the Landlord Wife’s voice burst out: “Master Wang, how did it go? Did you perform Soul Delivery on my brother? My husband and I didn’t leave—we’re waiting in the security booth downstairs. Master Wang, thank you, thank you so much.”
Wang Ya coughed heavily. “Don’t thank me yet. Your brother says he’ll only go once the police solve the case, arrest his ex, and get his money back.”
The Landlord Wife nearly sobbed in panic. She explained to Wang Ya that the money was in the ex’s account with no proof it was his—even lawyers said it counted as a gift since it was in her name, so police couldn’t file a case. Weeping and pleading, she begged Wang Ya to help her brother move on to reincarnation.
Wang Ya casually asked, “How much?”
“Over three hundred thousand—all my brother saved from years of work, taken by her.”
Wang Ya felt a pang; working to thirty, scrimping for three hundred grand, only for it to vanish—who wouldn’t despair? She caught herself—inauspicious thought—and inwardly spat: Pah pah pah, childish words don’t count, childish words don’t count!
The Landlord Wife cried, “Master Wang, please, please help my brother.”
Wang Ya rubbed her forehead. “Your brother’s obsession is too deep. Even if I force him through, he’ll wander the Bardo Realm instead of reincarnating.”
The Landlord Wife wept and begged, recounting their family’s woes: her mother worsened from the shock and died within half a year; she feared her mother wouldn’t rest easy underground and might return for her brother. She was already sobbing over the phone.
Landlord Sir took the phone, apologizing profusely before begging Wang Ya to send off his brother-in-law, offering twenty thousand!
Wang Ya thought, Holy crap! Wiping sweat from her brow, she said, “Fine, fine—it’s not impossible. I’ll come down and explain.” She finished by wrapping the Ghost Pen with the red rope from the Ghost Collecting Bell, grabbing it and the unused bag of Incense, Candles, Paper, Wax from the Landlord Wife, and headed downstairs.
At the security booth, the Landlord Wife knelt at the sight of her. Wang Ya yanked her up in alarm. “Don’t kneel! You’re older than me—kneeling will shorten my lifespan!”
Landlord Sir, shedding his earlier attitude, was all humble deference: apologies first, then entreaties.
The two security guards chimed in supportively—they clearly knew of the haunting, perhaps even scared by it themselves—and treated Wang Ya like an Expert master.
Wang Ya said, “Enough. Do you have a car?”
Landlord Sir blinked, then nodded eagerly. “I… I drive a big truck.”
Wang Ya said, “Good we have a car. We’ll head out of town.”
Landlord Sir asked, “To where?”
Wang Ya said, “Out of town, to some deserted spot heavy with Yin Qi. I’ll forcibly open the Yellow Springs and send him straight to the Underworld.” She saw all four staring at her with eyes wider than bells. She barked, “What are you gawking at? I could open Yellow Springs right here too, but the spot would linger with Yin Qi for ages. If ghosts haunt it later, that’ll cost extra—fifty thousand appearance fee, more for Ferocious Ghosts, Fierce Ghosts, or Ancient Old Ghosts!”
Landlord Sir held it in before blurting, “A true Expert!”
Wang Ya rolled her eyes at Landlord Sir. She’d spent nineteen years mastering this craft, skipping school entirely—if she had no real skill, how would she survive? If she couldn’t make a living at it, uneducated and unskilled, what—live on air?
