I could tell—the owner of this opera troupe wasn't a simple man. At the very least, he'd performed ghost operas before. Judging by his casual banter, he clearly didn't take this seriously at all. Seeing that Third Uncle was about to go with him, I glanced at Sun Fatty and said, "I'm going too. Director Sun, how about you?"
Sun Fatty chuckled and said, "You're going—how could I keep drinking by myself? I'm coming too."
Grandpa was too old to tag along, but Old Daoist Xiao went with the troupe master. The two of them chatted and laughed the whole way, while the three of us followed behind. When we arrived at the troupe master's temporary lodging, he went inside to fetch a few things and told the four of us to wait a moment.
"Old Xiao, performing ghost opera for one whole night and he only asks for double the usual fee—he doesn't seem greedy at all." I took out a pack of cigarettes and handed one to each person. We smoked as we chatted.
Despite being a Daoist priest, Old Xiao wasn't the least bit fussy. He took two deep drags and reduced the cigarette to a stub, saying, "Not greedy? Bull! What he meant was doubling the entire ten-day fee. The rest of the money? All his. Don't underestimate this bunch, Lazi. There's a deep current under this surface." As he spoke, he flicked the cigarette butt at the troupe master's door.
I had no interest in how deep the world of opera ran. But I was curious—who was footing the bill?
"Third Uncle, this can't be paid by the county government, can it?"
Third Uncle finished his last puff, tossed the cigarette to the ground, and stamped it out. "Your grandpa already discussed it with the village chief. Half of the cost comes from the village, and the other half from the clan's communal fund."
Just as he finished speaking, the troupe master emerged with several bags of various sizes. I helped him carry a few—joss paper, incense, white candles. There was also one bag that he held tightly in his arms, not letting anyone else touch it. I had no idea what was inside.
With everything we needed, we walked all the way to the river. First, we boarded the opera barge and burned incense and paper offerings around the boat. As the troupe master burned the offerings, he murmured something under his breath. His voice was so soft I couldn't hear a word. I tried to inch closer to listen, but Old Daoist Xiao pulled me aside.
"Don't go near him—he's invoking ghost deities. It's bad luck to overhear."
I glanced at the troupe master, who was still muttering like he was chanting scripture, and turned to Old Xiao. "He's just an opera troupe boss—how does he know all this?"
Old Daoist Xiao replied, "You really underestimate opera performers. They travel all over, performing all kinds of shows. Back in the day, in some regions, when someone died, families would invite a troupe to perform yin opera at home. Compared to ghost opera, it's just a different name for the same thing."
Before long, the incense and joss paper were burned up. Then the troupe master opened the bag he'd been guarding so tightly. We all moved closer to see what was inside. I could see it clearly—what he held were dried corn husks. In front of us, he began writing on each one. I counted—nine in total. The titles he wrote included Justice Bao Executes Chen Shimei, Yang Yanhui Visits His Mother, and Five Dragons Locked Away (Note: All are classic Chinese opera titles, comparable in status to Shakespearean operas in the West).
They were opera slips. After writing them, the troupe master held them reverently in both hands, walked to the river's edge, and called out loudly,
"The Dacheng Opera Troupe, with twenty-three performers, shall present a grand performance tomorrow night to the esteemed souls of the underworld. Nine finale pieces have been prepared. Esteemed spirits, please select your opera from these slips!"
Then he gently placed the corn husk slips onto the river's surface, one by one.
Turning back to us, he said, "Come help me out—shine your flashlights on the water. Whichever slips sink, take note of the names written on them."
At first, the slips floated steadily on the surface. But after about ten seconds, one of them suddenly sank without warning. I saw it clearly—it was Yang Yanhui Visits His Mother. Then the second and third slips sank in succession.
Sun Fatty stood beside me, reading the titles aloud, "Havoc in Heaven, The Grievance of the Clay Urn."
The troupe master no longer paid attention to the remaining slips on the surface. "Alright, the operas have been chosen. My work here is done. Grandmaster,"—he turned to Old Daoist Xiao—"please remember, once night falls tomorrow, no one is to enter or exit the area within five li (about 2.5 km) upstream or downstream from this river. If the performance gets interrupted, it's no big deal—but we don't want to be dragged into something worse."
"No problem." Old Daoist Xiao shook his head so vigorously it made me dizzy. "Tomorrow, don't worry—the militia will seal off the entire five-li area. No one will come to disturb us."
"Good." The troupe master paused, then added, "One more thing. There's a rule when performing at night—someone from the host family must stay with the troupe during the performance. Don't worry, it's just a custom. With someone from the host present, we performers feel more at ease."
Old Daoist Xiao glanced at me and Third Uncle. "You're both from the Shen family. Who's staying?"
Third Uncle didn't hesitate. "I'll do it."
"Third Uncle, forget it," I said. "Let me handle it. Right, Director Sun?"
After a whole night of running around, we returned to Grandpa's place just as dawn broke. Each of us went back to our rooms to rest. Third Uncle went to Grandpa's room, leaving his for me and Sun Fatty.
I lay on the kang bed, sleep slowly washing over me, when I heard Sun Fatty mumble, "Lazi, your hometown really is cursed. Even an opera can summon ghosts. By the way—you love digging through the archive room so much. Ever seen a case like this?"
His words jogged my memory. There were so many files in the archive room—what I'd read was less than one percent. I hadn't yet seen any reports involving ghost operas. But by protocol, this incident needed to be reported to the Bureau of Paranormal Investigation.
I turned to Sun Fatty and said, "Dasheng, shouldn't we report the ghost opera to the Bureau?"
He didn't answer. I thought he'd fallen asleep. But when I turned around, he was staring straight at me.
"You scared me—I thought you were asleep."
"Lazi, are you done pretending to be a Section Chief?" Sun Fatty finally spoke, dragging his words. "No offense, but you just earned your grandpa a full day of honor—and now you want to throw it away? Once those bastards from Second Division arrive, your fake identity will be exposed. Who's ever heard of a Director and a Section Chief babysitting a bunch of junior clerks? You think Second Division will cover for you?"
I knew what he meant, but still asked, just to be sure. "So, what are you saying?"
Sun Fatty sprang up from the kang bed. "Lazi, we're not rookies at the Bureau anymore, running off scared at the first sign of trouble. We broke into the fifteen-story tower in Qilin City, remember? Whatever ghost is stirring up this opera, it can't be worse than the entire tower packed with vengeful spirits."
He swallowed hard, then continued,
"Lazi, we brought our gear for a reason. Maybe it's fate. Even if some evil spirit shows up, we just need to lift a finger—bam, it's dealt with."
I was eventually persuaded by Sun Fatty. After chatting for a while longer, I dozed off without realizing it. By the time I woke up, it was already past noon. I had a light meal, and then my third uncle came in with the director of the county police department.
The director's surname was Zhao. He and his team had arrived early in the morning. The forensic technicians had taken the drowned unlucky guy from last night back to the county for an autopsy. When Director Zhao learned that the two "leaders" had been up late investigating clues, and were still asleep, he waited outside without disturbing us. Grandpa tried several times to wake us up, but was stopped by Director Zhao each time.
Dealing with people like this was exactly Sun Fatty's forte. He grunted a few times, brushing off Director Zhao with a casual attitude. Grandpa kept signaling me with his eyes from behind. I caught on and said, "Director Zhao, Superintendent Sun and I believe that to prevent unnecessary rumors, the opera performance at Chuanhe should be suspended for a day."
Before Director Zhao could respond, County Head Gan Daye pushed the door open and came in. When he heard that the opera was going to be paused for a day, he immediately voiced strong opposition. Facing the county head from my own hometown, I, a fake division chief, didn't have much confidence. But Sun Fatty wasn't fazed in the slightest. He rolled his eyes and said, "Three people have already died. One more and it becomes a group incident. When that happens, who's going to take the blame for risking public safety in pursuit of economic gain? You, Director Zhao? Or you, County Head Gan?"
That accusation was far too heavy-handed. Director Zhao and County Head Gan glanced at each other, not daring to pick up Sun Fatty's words. The atmosphere grew awkward.
In the end, it was Director Zhao who gave in first. He looked at Sun Fatty as if trying to say something, but Sun Fatty shot him a cold look. Director Zhao's mouth, just about to speak, closed again. His Adam's apple bobbed a few times, and whatever words he wanted to say were swallowed back down.
"…Fine. Suspend it for a day." Left with no choice, County Head Gan had to compromise.
After sending the two of them off, my third uncle called me into Grandpa's bedroom alone. He took a small wooden box from the kang cabinet and handed it to me, saying, "You saw this thing when you were little. Take it with you tonight for some courage. Remember, don't try to be a hero. With your Heavenly Eye, if you sense something's wrong, run immediately. Your life matters more—it's not shameful."
I opened the box and saw it contained the very short sword Third Uncle had used years ago to drive away the water ghost that was haunting me. After all these years, Third Uncle had even made a scabbard for it. Back then I wasn't even allowed to touch it—now he was just handing it to me.
I tucked the short sword into my waistband and looked up at Third Uncle, saying, "Dad, don't worry. I'll be fine. It's just helping out with some opera, right? Besides, your son is in uniform—official aura protects me, no evil can touch me." I had long coveted that short sword ever since hearing Third Uncle talk about its origin—likely something Wu Rendi left behind. Looks like I just scored a treasure tonight.
"I've told you already—I'm your Third Uncle. Stop calling me Dad," he sighed. Maybe he didn't want me to see his reddened eyes. He turned and left the room.
I followed behind Third Uncle. As soon as we stepped out of Grandpa's room, I saw Daoist Master Xiao had already brought over the opera troupe. People were already setting up tables. A makeshift stove in the courtyard had been lit, and the air was filled with the sounds of stir-frying and chopping—clearly a meal was being prepared.
I walked over to Grandpa and asked, "Didn't we say we'd have the feast after the opera was over in the second half of the night? Why are we setting up now?" Grandpa replied, "Your Grandpa Xiao said it—after performing a ghost opera, you can't delay. You have to wash off the makeup and go to sleep right away. It's part of the rules." With that, he turned back to help by the stove.
I looked all around for Sun Fatty and finally found him already seated among the actors. He was reading a flower dan's palm. "Little lady, your palm shows you're jinxed for husbands. But it's not hopeless—if you find a man who—" Before he could finish, I dragged him up and said, "She can't pick you, you jinx wives!"
Sun Fatty pouted, "What a shame. Rare chance like this, wasted."
Just then, Daoist Master Xiao strolled over and said, "Lazi, one more thing to mention. I forgot to tell you last night—well, technically early this morning. Only nine people from the troupe can be on the opera boat for the night opera. So tonight, you and Comrade Sun will have to play a few walk-on roles. Don't look at me like that—I'll be performing too. Just follow my lead."
Well, nothing to be done. We'd come this far—walk-on roles it is.
After we were fed and watered, the county sent two vans to take Daoist Master Xiao, the opera troupe boss, and about a dozen of us to the riverside. Grandpa and Third Uncle couldn't come with us, so I asked Daoist Master Xiao, "Old Xiao, didn't we say we'd seal off a five-mile radius around the opera boat?"
Daoist Master Xiao chuckled and said, "Already done. No one's getting in within five miles."
I nodded and asked, "Do we still have militia these days?" Daoist Master Xiao shook his head. "Nope. The militia's no good—too many acquaintances, no one wants to be strict. Director Xiong is the one who sealed off the area with his men."
That really surprised me. I asked, "Director Xiong's handling this superstitious stuff too? You guys can order him around?"
"We can't order him," Daoist Master Xiao said shamelessly. "We just told him you wanted it done."
With that, the ghost opera could officially begin. But surprisingly, even after the sky went completely dark around 7 p.m., the troupe made no move to start.
Before sundown, we had boarded the opera boat and, as per custom, sat inside the cabin. It wasn't until after 10 p.m. that the troupe members began to stir. Some started putting on costumes, others painting their faces. Even the opera troupe boss dressed up and painted his face—he looked like he'd be playing a lao sheng (old male lead).
"Leaders, are you getting made up too?" the troupe boss walked over, holding watercolor paint in his hand.
Sun Fatty flinched at the greasepaint on the boss's face and asked, "We're just walk-ons, do we need makeup too?"
"No choice," the boss replied. "That's the rule for night operas. The troupe brings nine actors, the rest must be filled by the host family. Don't worry, leaders—we've performed several night operas at Da Cheng Troupe. As long as the rules are followed, nothing ever happens."
While the boss was painting Sun Fatty's face, I asked him, "Boss, you seemed pretty experienced last night. Do all opera performers know this stuff?"
"Not all of them," he said as he painted. "You know how it is—night operas, ghost operas, spirit operas—they're all just shows for the dead, right? Different name, same thing. Most troupes won't take this kind of gig—too unlucky. But if you do take it, you have to know the rules. They've been passed down through generations. Stick to them, and you'll be fine."
"But there aren't many troupes willing to take on night operas. We only do it for the money. Da Cheng Troupe mainly performs for the living. Even when we take on night shows, it's just the nine of us brothers. The rest of the troupe only performs for the living. In a few years, if one or two of us drop out, the night opera side of Da Cheng will be finished for good."
Soon, Sun Fatty's makeup was done. The boss moved on to me, still talking while working. "That said, don't let all this ghost talk scare you. The few of us have performed night shows plenty of times—haven't seen even a ghost hair. Alright, Leader Shen, you're done too."
Sun Fatty and I looked into a mirror. Our faces looked like we'd crawled out of a flour vat, with rosy blush on our cheeks. We didn't look too different from the other walk-on actors on stage.
Around 11:30 p.m., the troupe boss led us out of the cabin. First, we burned yellow paper. Then the actors bowed in all four directions and chanted to the river air. I couldn't make out what they were saying.
Finally, at the stroke of midnight, the boss brought out a tape recorder from the cabin and pressed play. The prelude to The Fourth Son Visits His Mother rang out—it was Peking Opera. I immediately understood: the troupe only had nine performers, so there was no room for musicians. They had to use a recording instead. The idle actors returned to the cabin. The boss, playing Yang Silang himself, stepped onto the stage and began to sing.
As the troupe master sang the first line, the same gloomy mist from the previous night began to rise once again over the river. The fog thickened rapidly, but it seemed that only Sun Fatty, Old Daoist Xiao, and I could see it.
At that moment, the troupe master sang on stage, "Upon seeing the princess steal the command token, how could this humble consort not feel joy? I stood by the palace gate and called out—" That last line was sung flawlessly, the voice echoing across the skies.
Before he could finish singing the final word "out," a loud voice suddenly shouted "Bravo!" from within the fog. The troupe master dropped straight onto his buttocks.
Was this the real deal? The troupe master collapsed on the stage, his whole body trembling violently. After performing too many ghost operas at night, he had finally encountered a real spirit.
By now, the mist on the river had grown so thick that, even though the cabin was only four or five meters away from the stage, we could no longer see the troupe master clearly. The performers waiting to go onstage in the cabin all turned pale—not only did they not dare to go onstage, they couldn't even step out of the cabin.
I gripped the handle of my gun, intending to rush out and pull the troupe master back. Unexpectedly, Sun Fatty held me back with one hand and said, "Wait a bit. It was just one shout. Let's see what happens next."
Before I could respond, there was a loud thump from the stage above, as if something had been thrown onto it. That was just the first sound—immediately after, the top of the cabin erupted into a clatter-clatter-clatter, like a hailstorm. Several fist-sized objects rolled to the cabin entrance. I picked one up—it was a golden sycee, bright yellow and heavy in hand, weighing at least a full jin (around 500 grams).
The rain of sycees continued for nearly a minute before stopping. After a brief silence, the trembling voice of the troupe master rang out from the stage: "The Dacheng Troupe thanks you for your reward!"
Sun Fatty and I dashed out of the cabin. The mist outside had lessened quite a bit. On the stage and deck, scattered everywhere, were hundreds of gold and silver sycees of various sizes. The troupe master had already taken off his costume and was grimacing as he stuffed sycees into it (we later found out that over ten sycees had struck him directly, but fortunately he'd protected his vital parts).
"Are you all dead?! Come up and thank the audience!" The troupe master's expression changed when he saw Sun Fatty and me coming up, and he roared toward his troupe in the cabin. Unexpectedly, the first to leap out was Old Daoist Xiao, already in his sixties or close to seventy. He had also removed his robe and began scooping sycees into it furiously. Unlike the troupe master, he said nothing at all and only picked the golden ones, ignoring the silver.
"If you don't come up now, there'll be nothing left!" The troupe master glared at Old Daoist Xiao, his eyes practically bulging with blood. Only after he shouted again did a few braver performers dare poke their heads out.
Upon seeing the mountain of sycees, the opera singers seemed to forget what fear was. They mimicked the troupe master and Old Daoist Xiao, removing their costumes and stuffing sycees inside. Soon enough, the stage and deck had been completely cleared of treasure.
Except for Sun Fatty and me, everyone on board now carried a bundle stuffed with sycees (Old Daoist Xiao's bundle wasn't the biggest, but it was the heaviest). They seemed to have forgotten the whole reason they came aboard tonight.
Just then, one of the martial clowns playing a painted-face role lost his balance and tumbled onto the boat. Before anyone could react, the opera boat shook violently, and nearly half the people on deck fell over. Old Daoist Xiao immediately understood and shouted, "Keep singing!" The troupe master also came to his senses and began cursing and herding his performers back into the cabin. With trembling hands, he rewound the tape in the recorder and picked up where he had left off.
But this time, the singing had completely lost its spirit. Maybe it was the whiplash from fright to delight, but the troupe master could no longer maintain the right state. His singing was out of tune and off rhythm. At some points, he even forgot the lyrics entirely and mumbled his way through them. What he was doing now matched an old saying perfectly—Are you trying to fool ghosts?
And indeed, ghosts are not so easily fooled. At first, when the troupe master merely went off-key, the boat only shook slightly. But the more mistakes he made, the more frightened the performers became, until eventually he just completely blanked on the lyrics. Just as the troupe master slurred through the final line, thinking he'd made it through, waves suddenly surged across the river despite the windless night. The entire opera boat began rocking wildly from side to side. And then the mist, which had mostly dissipated, came flooding back. This time, it wasn't just faint shadows—we could clearly see the figures inside the fog, even their brows, eyes, noses, and mouths were distinguishable to about seventy percent.
The troupe master gave a trembling bow in all four directions, trying to say something. But before he could open his mouth, a bone-chilling sound suddenly filled the air. It was like the grinding of thousands of teeth right next to your ears—or like sharp blades scratching across glass.
The troupe master couldn't see the mist or the figures within it, but he could hear that sound perfectly. Terrified, he turned to flee back into the cabin. He had barely taken a few steps when his whole body suddenly flipped upside-down and hung suspended in midair. It was as if some invisible giant hand had grabbed him by one foot and hoisted him up.
We couldn't wait any longer. I drew my handgun and leapt from the cabin, firing a shot directly into the densest patch of fog above the troupe master. A shrill scream rang out from the spot I hit. The mist immediately dimmed, and the troupe master dropped from midair.
At that moment, Sun Fatty also charged out and fired several shots toward other thick patches of fog. With each gunshot came another piercing wail. When the shooting stopped, the mist had vanished completely, and the rocking of the boat came to a halt.
Looking again at the troupe master, we found him lying on the deck foaming at the mouth. Sun Fatty checked him over and said he had simply fainted from terror.
Sun Fatty gave a cold snort and said, "Let's see if you still dare sing ghost operas for the money—risking your life like that."
Everyone else on the boat had been scared witless. What happened tonight would probably take them months to process. Surprisingly, Old Daoist Xiao showed no reaction at all. Ever since I fired the first shot, he hadn't taken his eyes off the gun in my hand.
Hmm? What's Old Xiao thinking? Judging by the look in his eyes, it seemed he had seen this kind of pistol before. Just as we were getting ready to disembark, two beams of flashlight suddenly appeared on the riverbank.
"Director Shen! Chief Sun! Did someone fire a gun just now? Are you all alright over there?"
The one speaking was Chief Xiong, the head of the township police station. Following behind him was our village head. Hearing the gunshots, they had rushed over in alarm, unsure of what had happened. Chief Xiong's uniform was soaked with sweat from the run—his burly frame wrapped tightly in a wet police coat, making him look rather ridiculous.