Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Ghostly Marriage

My heart sank, and an inexplicable terror surged within me. I distinctly remembered that the bus uncle was right behind me when I entered this house—how could he have disappeared in the blink of an eye?

“Uncle? Hey, Uncle, don’t joke around! Where are you?”

I spun around, shouting into the empty surroundings behind me, but no matter how many times I called, there was no response. I rushed out of the courtyard, flashlight in hand, searching frantically for the bus uncle’s figure, but after more than ten minutes of looking, he was nowhere to be found.

At last, I stood still as the cold, biting wind swept in from all directions, chilling me to the bone. Instinctively, I began to run toward the outskirts of the village, but after a while, to my horror, I realized I was lost.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to remain calm. Just then, not far ahead, a light shone in the darkness. In this village of the dead, only the bus uncle and I had flashlights. My heart leapt—surely it was him. Without hesitation, I hurried in that direction.

Strangely, although the light didn’t seem far, the more I walked toward it, the farther it appeared. I must have walked for over half an hour, yet the light always hovered several hundred meters ahead, never letting me get closer.

A chill ran down my spine and I stopped abruptly, biting my left middle finger, ready to draw a talisman on my right palm at any moment.

After all, twenty years ago, so many people died in Eastgate Village in a single night. Encountering wandering ghosts here was hardly unusual. Now, I was almost certain I’d encountered something unclean.

Suddenly, from ahead, came the strange wailing of a suona horn. The sound was odd, a blend of two utterly different melodies: one, the jubilant tune played at weddings, the other, the mournful music from funerals. Woven together, they created a chilling, uncanny atmosphere.

The sounds emanated from the light ahead, which seemed to possess a peculiar allure, irresistibly drawing me closer.

Strangely, as I yielded to the music’s pull, I found myself approaching the light. But the moment I stepped into its glow, both the light and the suona vanished abruptly.

I shone my flashlight forward and saw a ruined courtyard, tables laden with dusty, broken bowls, and on one of the tables, a rusted suona and a shattered drum.

A wave of doubt washed over me. Judging by the scene, on the night when Eastgate Village’s residents drowned themselves in the reservoir twenty years ago, a banquet was in progress here. The feast seemed to have been interrupted by a mysterious summons, drawing everyone away to join the others at the Eastgate Reservoir. That was the night when over three hundred villagers, in a thriving community, marched together into the waters to their deaths—transforming a flourishing village into a place of terror and dread.

The more I dwelled on this, the colder my spine felt. As I pondered whether the light and the suona had truly come from here, I suddenly felt a tap on my back.

I spun around, expecting to see the bus uncle, but behind me there was nothing—just empty air.

My heart pounded wildly. Just as I prepared to draw a lightning talisman and strike into the darkness, the vanished suona wailed again—this time, right at my ear, loud and chaotic. Along with it, I heard voices, the clinking of cups, and the sounds of a banquet.

A shiver ran through me. Something was wrong behind my back. Forcing down my terror, I slowly turned—and what I saw left me utterly stunned.

I rubbed my eyes repeatedly, doubting my senses, yet the scene before me was all too real.

The once dust-covered, battered tables and chairs were now spotless and new, laden with platters of chicken, duck, fish, and all manner of dishes. Red paper-cuts hung everywhere, and “double happiness” characters adorned the doors and windows—but all the decorations were white.

There were over a dozen tables, each crowded with guests dressed in the fashion of the early 1990s, talking, eating, and drinking.

In that instant, I wondered if I’d traveled back twenty years, witnessing with my own eyes the very night this family held their banquet.

Though before I’d arrived, the bus uncle had warned me repeatedly—no matter what I saw or heard in the village of the dead, I must not believe it, for none of it was real—yet at this moment, I was utterly captivated by the scene before me.

Every person, every voice, every image—so vivid, so convincing, nothing like an illusion.

I found myself drifting into the courtyard, able to see every face clearly, even hear their conversations.

I couldn’t help but wonder: Why would this family host a banquet in the middle of the night? And why were all the festive paper-cuts pure white?

Then, a chilling thought flashed through my mind—one that made my hair stand on end. “A ghost marriage. On the night the entire village drowned, this family was conducting a ghost marriage?”

I wandered among the guests, their bodies passing through mine as if I didn’t exist. They couldn’t see or touch me; in this moment, I was the ghost among the living.

Beside me sat two middle-aged women, their hair curled in the popular 90s perm. One cracked sunflower seeds, a look of regret on her face. “The Zhou family must’ve done something to deserve this. Their youngest daughter, unmarried and pregnant, and now, just as her due date approaches, tragedy strikes!”

“Isn’t that the truth?” the other woman replied. “She was nearly full-term, and then—murdered. Two lives lost. Thank goodness young Wu is a good man. Even though Xiao Zhou is gone, he’s willing to go through with the marriage. The wedding is about to begin. Let’s go have a look.”

With that, the two women headed toward the main hall, where the suona sounded once more.

A sense of dread crept over me. It was clear now—a ghost marriage was underway. Stranger still, such ceremonies were usually kept secret, yet here they had openly invited dozens of guests.

Driven by curiosity, I followed the two women toward the hall.

At the doorway, I saw at the center a coffin, inside which lay a young woman with a talisman on her forehead and a swollen belly. She wore a wedding gown—but it was black.

Beside the coffin stood a young man, his back to me, also in black wedding attire. The more I looked at him, the more familiar he seemed.

As I gazed, entranced, a voice rang out from the hall: “The auspicious hour is here—bow to heaven and earth!”

The young man turned slowly. Just as he was about to bow to the coffin, he suddenly looked straight at me. When I saw his face, I was completely dumbfounded.

Because his face was exactly the same as mine.