The night Ma laid his wife to rest, her body did not lie still in the earth. It rose, drawn to our home like a moth to a flame.
In those days, Jiushan Village was cloaked in darkness.
Electricity was a distant dream, and most families, ours included, relied on flickering candles and kerosene lamps, used sparingly.
People retired early.
That night, my parents slumbered, exhausted from their labors.
Then, a rhythmic *thump, thump, thump* broke the quiet, emanating from their bedroom window.
Three long knocks. One short.
They paid it little mind, assuming it was the wind or a stray bat.
But the knocking persisted, growing more insistent, the same pattern repeating.
My father, his sleep disturbed, grudgingly rose and flung open the window to silence whatever was causing the racket.
He found himself face-to-face with a nightmare.
Ma's wife, her bloated face a canvas of decay and death, stared back at him, that same eerie smile etched on her blue lips.
The sight jolted him awake. He screamed, stumbling backward onto the floor.
I awoke to that scream, my mother clinging to me, trembling.
Ma's wife's face, frozen in a grotesque mask of death, seared itself into my memory. It would haunt my dreams for years to come.
My mother, unable to speak, could only clutch me tighter.
Then, a chilling voice, filled with a ghastly mirth, broke the terrifying stillness. Ma's wife's eyes fixed on me.
"Four days," she whispered, "four days…."
The sound of my father's scream had roused my grandfather in the east wing.
He charged into the room, clutching a gleaming cleaver.
Taking in the scene – my father cowering on the floor, my mother's terror – he followed their gaze to the window.
He recoiled.
But my grandfather, a veteran who had stared death in the face on the battlefield, regained his composure.
He might have been frightened, but he hid it well.
"Ma's wife," he said firmly, brandishing the cleaver, "I know you have a grievance, but this is fate. Do not take it out on others. I urge you, leave now, or this blade, stained with the blood of countless enemies, will not hesitate to strike you down too."
The cleaver, a memento of his soldiering days, was kept meticulously clean, its blade polished to a mirror sheen.
Whether it was the sight of the weapon, or something else, Ma's wife, with a final, chilling cackle, turned and limped away into the night.
"Four days," her voice echoed. "Four days…"
Sleep was impossible for my terrified family.
What did she mean - *four days*?
By morning, a shepherd discovered that Ma's wife's new grave had been disturbed.
But when the villagers investigated, they found the earth hadn't been dug.
Instead, it appeared as if something had erupted from below – the ground upturned, broken coffin planks scattered around the grave.
She had clawed her way out.
The very thought sent chills down their spines.
Ma was oblivious to his wife's nocturnal visit.
My father and grandfather, fearing reprisals and already strained relations, had kept it to themselves.
He assumed, like any reasonable person in those times, that she had been stolen – likely snatched for a ghost marriage.
Young female corpses were a valuable commodity.
And while she wasn't beautiful, Ma's wife *had* been young - desirable.
Theft would have been preferable. Alas, it was not to be.
The next night, she returned to our home.
My mother, despite my father's reassurances about grave robbers, was too terrified to sleep.
She made my grandfather sleep in the main room, cleaver at hand, to ward off further disturbances.
Exhausted, my parents finally succumbed to sleep. But their respite was short-lived.
Once again, the ominous *thump, thump, thump* on the window shattered the quiet.
My father sat bolt upright in bed. In the silver moonlight, he could see a dark figure, silhouetted against the window, its knocking relentless.
My mother, whimpering, clutched me to her.
"Dad!" he whispered, grasping a stick for protection, but not daring to leave the bed, to leave his wife and child vulnerable. "She's back!"
My grandfather, alerted by the commotion, appeared in the doorway, cleaver raised.
The figure outside, her swollen face illuminated by the moon, was unmistakable.
"Ma's wife," he roared. "You're not finished? I'm an old man! I've lived a long life. If you're able, then take me! But I warn you, even as a vengeful ghost, you'll fare no better against me!"
And with that, he plunged his cleaver into the window, shattering the glass.
Ma's wife stood there, grinning that terrible grin, her eyes glowing white and fearsome.
"Three days…" she rasped. "Three days…Hee hee hee…"
Even my grandfather, who had faced down death on the battlefield, gasped at the sheer malevolence in her voice and the horror of her appearance.
Having delivered her message, she pivoted gracefully on her one good foot and limped away, vanishing into the darkness.
"Dad," my father said, his voice tight with fear, "yesterday, four days. Today, three. Does she mean…does she mean to kill us all in three days?"