Chapter 91: The Open Coffin
This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation
Note: I’ve changed alot of things compared to the older edit so if you’re unaware of some name changes, check the wiki on the site
Three sleek sports cars, one tailing the other, sped down a winding rural road, each heading toward Spear City. Their engines roared in harmony with the surrounding tranquility, and the world outside became a blur of greens and browns.
Initially, a group of five people had embarked on this journey. They came with different backgrounds but a shared purpose. Yet, when the moment of departure came, only three remained to hit the road. And the time elapsed between their arrival and their swift departure wasn’t even a full day. In fact, the span between the moment they crossed paths with the menacing ghost and their decision to abandon their mission was astonishingly less than an hour. It could very well be a record-breaking exit for any group of ghost tamers.
As the cars sped on, Stretch started a group call inside one of them: “Yiming, should we really be leaving like this?”
Page’s voice crackled through from the frontmost car, dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, feeling brave? Why not turn around and play the hero for Miles? I’ve never been his biggest fan, but I’ve tolerated him for the sake of our mission. Did you see the sheer force that ghost wielded? We lost two of our friends before we even had a chance to retaliate. And, to make matters worse, the spirits within Sheng and Tian were sucked away.”
“And speaking of numbers, do you have any clue how many spirits haunt the premises of Yellow Hill Village?”
Stretch was quick to defend himself, “That’s not the point. Miles, with all his swagger, isn’t reckless. Remember the incident at the club? Or when he faced the ghost head-on? He’s fearless, no doubt. And after mapping out the village in such detail, we know he’s smart too. Why would someone of his caliber willingly remain in such a dangerous village? There has to be an underlying reason.”
Yiming, managing to multitask between steering the wheel and puffing on his cigarette, retorted, “What’s your point?”
“Think about it. Suppose Miles manages to quell the supernatural disturbances of Yellow Hill Village against all odds, won’t we regret our decision to flee?” Stretch mused.
Yiming pondered for a moment and finally responded, “Look, we made our choice. Let’s not second-guess it. Head home, refresh, and steer clear of that forsaken village from now on.”
“True. No point dwelling on the past,” Stretch agreed.
Page was about to chime in with his thoughts next when his expression turned to one of pure horror. “Something’s off. Everyone, stop!”
The screeching of tires reverberated, accompanied by plumes of smoke as the cars came to a jarring stop. Stretch’s reflexes kicked in, preventing a crash by mere inches.
Yiming’s voice trembled, “What’s going on?”
“Just step out and see,” was all Page could muster.
Alighting from their cars, the trio was met with an eerie sight, amplified by their headlights. The path ahead was barren. But further on, a chillingly familiar silhouette came into view: the entrance to Yellow Hill Village.
Confusion and disbelief reigned as Stretch exclaimed, “This is absurd! We left the village, drove straight, and now we’ve looped back? How is this even possible?”
Stretch’s pupils dilated in stark disbelief, his breath hitched momentarily as he shouted, “We’re being hunted! The ghost is playing games with us. We’re trapped! I had this gnawing feeling deep down that leaving this cursed place wouldn’t be a walk in the park.”
Sighing, Yiming added, “It’s always easier to walk into such places than to find a way out.”
A nervous Page suggested, “Maybe we should attempt turning back?” His gaze fixed intently on the hauntingly familiar signpost of Yellow Hill Village, conveying a weighty dread.
Yiming, exhaling a stream of smoke, shook his head decisively, “That won’t do us any good. We’re well-acquainted with such ghostly traps. Generally, there are only two circumstances where escape becomes plausible.”
“Either the ghost tires of its twisted game and decides to release us, or we manage to restrain it, settling this paranormal event once and for all.”
Cocking an eyebrow, Page inquired, “So you’re suggesting we head back into the very heart of the danger?”
Yiming, drawing another long drag from his cigarette, mused, “Our adversary lurks within the village. If we’re barred from leaving, confronting it in its own lair might level the playing field a bit. Frankly, if our fate is sealed, I’d rather not meet my end stranded on this desolate road.”
Suddenly, an abrupt flickering of the rear lights cast an unnerving shadow on the adjacent field. The shadow morphed as if an entity had momentarily obscured the light beams.
Startled, Page whirled around, his heart racing. Cold sweat began to form, exuding an unusual, repugnant odor that pooled beneath him. Without a second thought, he summoned the energy of a restless spirit, preparing for any eventuality.
“Could you discern who or what that was?”
However, by the time Stretch and Yiming directed their gaze, the mysterious presence had evaporated.
With caution in his step, Page decided to scout the immediate vicinity but found the landscape hauntingly barren. “I couldn’t discern any features, only the fleeting movement of a shadow. But let’s be realistic, who would be casually strolling past our cars given the current circumstances?”
Yiming, having closely inspected the terrain near the car’s headlights, spoke with a measured tone, “Your eyes didn’t deceive you. Someone did traverse this path. These footprints tell a tale.”
Drawn by his words, Page and Stretch observed the ground intently. Fresh footprints, tainted with distinctive yellow mud, trailed towards the fields and then mysteriously vanished. But what caught their attention more was the black residue mingled with the mud.
Rubbing the powder-like substance, Yiming deduced, “This is ash, remnants of burnt paper.”
Realization dawned on Stretch, “Remember the shrine with the iron basin? Villagers were burning joss paper there. And wasn’t that very basin teeming with similar ashes when we crossed it?”
A chill coursed through Page’s being, “Could it be that the malevolent spirit is originating from that very dwelling?”
Yiming stamped out his cigarette with deliberate force, his eyes intense and unwavering. “From everything we’ve seen, I’m convinced that the malevolent entity haunting us has its roots in that very shrine. It isn’t lurking there anymore because it’s tailing us, just a whisper away from our very breath.”
Stretch, his voice quivering with a blend of anxiety and dread, chimed in, “Considering that this ghost chose to tail us, does that imply that Miles met an unfortunate end after staying behind?”
Yiming’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, every muscle in his body taut with tension. “It’s a toss-up. Miles could either be gone or, against all odds, still hanging on. But given the fate of Sheng and Tian, I wouldn’t hold out much hope for him.” His eyes darted constantly, surveying their environment to prepare for the unexpected.
One thing was unmistakably clear: they had an unseen, malicious follower tailing them from behind.
The pressing question wasn’t necessarily the fate of Miles but rather if the remaining trio could withstand and survive the ghostly onslaught.
Contrary to their gloomy conjectures, Miles was anything but lifeless back in the heart of Yellow Hill Village.
In his hands, he wielded a crowbar, striving with all his might to crack open the lid of a seemingly ancient coffin. He grunted, “This thing feels as though it’s been sealed with iron nails, but there’s not a single nail in sight.”
Despite his repeated efforts, the coffin resisted his attempts to open it. In a desperate bid, Miles anchored himself on the crowbar, leveraging his entire body weight. Miraculously, a sliver of a gap appeared.
Miles possessed a unique ability: his eyes could pierce through the densest darkness, seeing with stark clarity. Through that meager crack, his eyes discerned a chilling sight — hands, their flesh decayed to a deep, inky black, clenched tightly around the coffin’s edge as if bound by unseen nails. Could this eerie grasp be the reason behind his failure to open the lid?
A shiver raced down his spine, causing Miles’s pupils to constrict in horror. However, the coffin vibrated ominously before he could thoroughly process what he saw. The crowbar skidded from his hands, plummeting to the ground with an echoing clang.
“Bang!”
The coffin’s lid slammed shut, sealing itself seamlessly without a trace of the previous opening.
“Without a doubt, there’s something imprisoned within this coffin,” Miles murmured, inhaling deeply to steady his racing heart. He cast a fleeting glance at the discarded crowbar but refrained from attempting to reopen the coffin. Merely identifying the contents was sufficiently harrowing.
His mind raced, “If the entity is confined within this coffin, could I possibly evade its wrath by merely ensuring it remains trapped?”
Rather than succumbing to terror, Miles’s resolve hardened. Staring unwaveringly at the coffin, he pondered his predicament.
It was a high-stakes gamble.
A misjudgment would lead to a grisly end.
However, if he was accurate in his assessment, keeping the coffin shut might be his lifeline.
And if he could validate his theory, the elusive task of ensnaring this ghost would be almost within his grasp.
After an extended period of contemplation, Miles braced himself for the daunting challenge that lay ahead. He resolved to put his theory to the test.
Miles understood the gravity of his situation. Leaving the site unattended meant there would be no one to witness if or when the ghost chose to manifest, putting him at a severe disadvantage.
In modern cities, surveillance cameras are ubiquitous, acting as silent sentinels. Had Yellow Hill Village been equipped with them, Miles could have monitored the coffin’s vicinity remotely, alleviating the need to physically stand guard.
With decisive agility, he made his way to Elder Genrong’s residence. From there, he retrieved his gear bag. It was a treasure trove of tools meticulously curated for his unique line of work: a sturdy body bag of gold, a beautifully crafted golden box, a parchment made of human skin, and an assortment of other esoteric items. With his tools in tow, he returned to the ominous shrine.
Without wasting a moment in contemplation, Miles set his gear aside and took a position next to the coffin, his eyes laser-focused on any potential movement, no matter how minuscule.
Here he was, staking his life on a mere theory.
In this high-stakes game of hide and seek, the ghost was ensnared within the coffin while he, a mere three meters away, sat outside as both the jailer and the potential victim.
Meanwhile, at the village’s entrance, three sleek sports cars lay dormant, their once-roaring engines now silent. Yiming, Page, and Stretch had formed a tight circle, their backs pressed against each other, hyper-aware of their eerie surroundings.
After their spine-chilling encounter earlier, none of them felt brave enough to traverse the area further. The looming uncertainty of the ghost’s presence kept them rooted to their spot.
Suddenly, Stretch’s hand flew to his face, delivering a sharp slap.
Distracted, Page inquired, “Losing focus? Sleep catching up to you?”
Stretch grimaced, “No, just a mosquito. Got me right on the cheek.”
Pulling on his cigarette, Yiming interjected, “Dawn is barely two hours away. If we’re uncertain about the ghost’s whereabouts, let’s wait it out on this spot. Daylight will at least afford us some clarity.”
Stretch swatted another mosquito before lamenting, “God, how I wish Miles was with us. With his uncanny ability to see through the darkness, we wouldn’t be so blindfolded.”
Page’s frustration was palpable. “It’s maddening. We’re not amateurs; we’re seasoned ghost tamers. Yet we lost two of our own without even laying eyes on this ghost. And even if we wanted to channel the force of our ghosts, we’re not even being given the opportunity.”
The entire scenario was reminiscent of the time when Miles had audaciously taken a shot in the club, leaving them shell-shocked.
It felt like they were mere targets with no capacity to counterstrike.
Yiming, releasing a plume of smoke, mused, “Such is the disparity in the strength of spirits. Not all ghosts are made equal.”