Chapter Forty-Eight: The Human Face Mask

Wanqing’s heart jolted as she saw the old woman ahead and whispered, “That’s the old lady I saw the other day!” The old woman was dressed exactly as she had been then, her gait unchanged, carrying an oil lamp as she moved forward.

Zhang Qinglin stood beside Brother Xun, glancing around. On either side of where they stood were houses of identical size, each with two tattered red lanterns hanging by the door. The walls between each house and the next were separated by five or six meters. The houses, doorways, and lanterns all looked exactly the same.

They too moved ahead slowly, while Wu Cheng’an watched every place they passed with wary eyes.

Cheng Che held his flashlight and walked with Zhang Qinglin and the others, trying his best to appear spirited and fearless in the darkness, unwilling to let anyone know he was afraid of the dark, or of ghosts. But seeing the old woman approach, those muddied eyes, her exposed whites and the raw flesh at the corners of her sockets, made him swallow hard. The mere sight of her bloodshot eyes chilled him.

“You’re not locals, are you? Leave this place at once—if you linger, trouble will come,” the old woman stopped and spoke in a voice as if reciting from a book.

Zhang Qinglin stared at the old woman for a while, about to speak, but Wanqing pulled him back, shaking her head slightly.

Brother Xun, at the front, raised a hand to silence them all. He himself did not speak to the old woman, merely observed.

The old woman repeated her words, shaking her head as she slowly walked away. As she left, she chanted, “Draw the earth as a square, the heavens as a circle. Adapt to the square, embrace the round; when the image forms, it will arise!”

“Brother Xun, did you notice something?” Wanqing pressed, seeing his pensive expression.

Brother Xun gazed up at the pitch-black sky and in the direction the old woman vanished, saying nothing.

“Let’s go…” he eventually said.

They had only walked a few steps when, not far ahead, the old woman appeared again, repeating the same words in the same tone as before. “Draw the earth as a square, the heavens as a circle…” She passed by them and vanished once more.

“We’ve run into a ghost, we really have!” Cheng Che gulped and yelled, eyes wide in the direction the old woman had vanished.

“Cheng Che, stop talking nonsense…” Zhang Qinglin said sternly.

“Didn’t you see the woman in white behind that old lady?” Cheng Che stammered, panic-stricken.

“What woman in white? Stop trying to scare us,” Wanqing snapped.

Brother Xun looked around and said, “There’s something sinister here. The air is laced with a faint fragrance that easily causes hallucinations—different for each of us.”

“I didn’t see an old woman, but an old man,” Brother Xun continued.

“I saw an old woman, and she was accompanied by a terrifying woman in white.” Cheng Che gestured anxiously.

“We can’t linger here. Move!” Brother Xun strode forward, quickening his pace.

They had noticed the strange scent upon entering the village—a sharp odor at first, which faded as they walked. Seeing Brother Xun speed up, the rest hurriedly followed, leaving the village entrance and heading deeper inside.

On the way, Brother Xun held a small vial to his nose, then passed it to Wanqing, who gave it to the others. Each took a sniff, and felt a refreshing chill clear their minds and invigorate their spirits.

“Dong… dong… dong…” The sound of a hammer striking metal echoed from one of the houses ahead, growing louder and louder. Zhang Qinglin’s ears ached from the noise as he walked, then suddenly—crack—something crunched underfoot. He stepped aside and shone his flashlight, squinting to see—it was Jiang Xinyue’s watch.

Zhang Qinglin bent down and picked up the watch.

“Zhang, what is it?” Cheng Che stopped and walked over to ask.

“It’s Xinyue’s watch…” Zhang Qinglin stared at it. The hands pointed to twelve. He thought it was broken, but the second hand was still ticking.

Impossible. They’d only come in around seven or eight, and after half an hour at most, it couldn’t be midnight.

“Zhang, then Xinyue must be nearby,” Cheng Che said, examining the watch.

“Do you hear that?” Wu Cheng’an suddenly spoke, standing still to listen intently.

“It’s the sound of a hammer…” Zhang Qinglin replied, covering his ears.

“No, it’s chains!”

Wu Cheng’an followed the sound into the alley on the right. Brother Xun shouted from behind, “Don’t go—”

But Wu Cheng’an was already in the narrow passage, hugging the wall as he listened, finally stopping outside a darkened house.

He saw that the wooden door was ajar. He gently pushed it open and stepped into the courtyard, which was draped with chains. Whenever the wind blew, the chains clinked, and from them hung rows of masks, each with two hollow holes for eyes. At first glance, they looked like severed human heads, making one’s skin crawl.

Zhang Qinglin entered as well, and the sight of all those masks horrified him—it was just like the stories Elder Zhao had told about the “Lingyuan” who skinned people to make masks.

Wu Cheng’an stood beneath one of the chains, looking up at the mask. It had been slashed with deep cuts, the wounds gaping as if the mask were torn flesh.

He took one down and touched the slits—the texture was uncannily like human skin. Could these masks truly be made from it?

As Wu Cheng’an investigated, Zhang Qinglin saw someone appear behind him, a knife gleaming in his hand as he lunged. Zhang Qinglin shouted, “Da Zhuang, behind you!”

Wu Cheng’an reacted instantly, turning and hurling the mask at the attacker. From behind the rows of masks, a figure emerged, his face hidden behind a grotesque mask, a phoenix tattoo exposed on his knife-wielding arm. They had tracked them here.

“Who are you? Why are you after me?” Zhang Qinglin demanded.

Wu Cheng’an glanced at Zhang Qinglin, then stared at the masked assailant and asked, “You know this man? He doesn’t look friendly.”

Zhang Qinglin assumed a defensive stance. “It’s a long story. Let’s get out of here and find Brother Xun and the others.”

The masked man’s eyes narrowed, then glared fiercely. The blade flashed through the air, aiming straight for Zhang Qinglin’s chest.

Zhang Qinglin focused on the knife, bracing himself as it swung closer. Clenching his fists, he stepped forward to shield Wu Cheng’an.

Wu Cheng’an locked eyes with the masked man, then shoved Zhang Qinglin aside and kicked at the attacker, blocking the knife. He twisted and launched himself forward, pummeling his foe.

Zhang Qinglin scrambled to his feet and, out of the corner of his eye, glimpsed a figure at the doorway. The shadow vanished in haste. Forgetting the fight behind him, he shouted, “Xinyue! Xinyue!”

He dashed after the fleeing Jiang Xinyue, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch up. Ahead, she kept running, crying, “Ghosts… ghosts…”

Jiang Xinyue rounded a corner, then stumbled back, terrified. Seeing this, Zhang Qinglin rushed forward and grabbed her arm. She turned her panic-stricken face to him and stammered, “Qing… Qinglin…”

“Xinyue, I’ve finally found you. Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Zhang Qinglin quickly checked her over.

Tears glimmered in Jiang Xinyue’s eyes. She shook her head, then, unable to hold back any longer, collapsed into Zhang Qinglin’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

After a while, Jiang Xinyue stifled her cries, lifted her head from Zhang Qinglin’s chest, wiped her tears, and said, “Qinglin, let’s get out of here. This place is too frightening.”

“Don’t be afraid, I’m here. Let’s go!” Zhang Qinglin led Jiang Xinyue back the way they’d come. Suddenly, he felt a sharp prick at his neck, as if something cold and liquid were being injected into his body. His strength drained away instantly, and he collapsed to his knees, hearing Jiang Xinyue calling his name before everything faded to black.

“Help! Somebody help me—ah…”

Zhang Qinglin felt his body growing heavy, his ears filled with a man’s agonized screams. When he opened his eyes, he found himself bound to a chair. To his right, Jiang Xinyue sat slumped, also tied up. To his left, another man was strapped to a chair, head lolling back. Before him stood a woman with waist-length hair, dressed all in white. She cradled the man’s chin with her left hand, while in her right she held a surgical scalpel, gliding it slowly across his face, her gaze fixed on him with clinical detachment.

“Let me go! Please, let me go! I didn’t mean to say those things… ah…” the man screamed.

The scalpel had already sliced from the base of his right ear to above his brow, blood streaming down his neck. The woman in white carefully peeled back a flap of skin, then ripped the entire face free.

A raw, bloody visage was revealed, the man’s terrified eyes rolling toward her—he was barely alive.

The woman lifted the bloodied face in both hands, smiling bitterly, and carried it to a table at the front of the room. Zhang Qinglin saw that she was only about twenty-five or twenty-six, yet her demeanor was chillingly abnormal. She muttered to herself, “It’s all your fault, that vile mouth of yours. You said things you shouldn’t have. But don’t worry, I’ll soon find you a body that fits… hahaha…”

At the table, she set the face down gently, then took another from a porcelain basin. She placed the new face on a mask, smoothing it flat, then picked up needle and thread, and began to sew the face to the mask, stitch by careful stitch.

Zhang Qinglin’s heart pounded in terror. Could this woman be the murderer?

He watched her sew, then glanced at the barely-breathing man beside him. This woman was a maniac.

Within minutes, she finished the mask. She admired it as if it were a masterpiece, a faint smile on her lips. Then she set it aside and turned around. Zhang Qinglin froze at the sight of her ruined face—scarred and twisted, as if burnt in a fire, both cheeks marred by red and purple welts. Yet her eyes were mesmerizing.

The woman in white approached the man, a rope in her hand. She looped it around his neck, wrapped the ends around her own slender hands, then leaned close to his bloodied ear and whispered, “Don’t be afraid. Soon, you won’t feel any pain…” She tightened her grip, and the man ceased to struggle.

“You’re next…” She reached out, her slender fingers tracing Zhang Qinglin’s nose and cheek.

Zhang Qinglin struggled, shouting, “Who are you? Why are you killing people? What did he do wrong? What have I done? Let me go!”

The woman’s eyes sparkled. “Heh… heh… hehehe… what have you done? You did nothing wrong. I’m the one at fault.”

She turned to fetch a scalpel from the table, setting it in a small basin and pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, washing her hands slowly.

Zhang Qinglin twisted in his chair, calling desperately to Jiang Xinyue, but she didn’t respond—she must have been drugged by the woman.

“Hey! What did you do to her? What did you do to her?” Zhang Qinglin shouted.

“And who is she to you?” the woman in white asked, washing her hands in deliberate, unhurried movements.