Tang Tianhai arranged a place for me to stay and also had someone buy me a train ticket. He initially wanted to have someone escort me home, but I refused.
After riding the train for a full day and night, I got off at Yushui County, a small town not far from my hometown. Carrying my canvas bag, I walked out of the station and found the nearby long-distance bus station. After waiting for more than an hour, I finally boarded the last bus heading to my village.
It was already past five in the afternoon—this was the final bus of the day. It would still take more than an hour to reach my home.
Once on the bus, I chose a seat in the very back to enjoy some peace and quiet, and soon dozed off groggily.
The journey should've ended around six, but the bus broke down midway. Repairs delayed us for more than an hour, and by the time I got off, the sky was completely dark.
Standing at the stop, I felt a little disoriented. I had left home at six years old, and many memories had become blurry. With the pitch-black night surrounding me, I had no idea which direction to go.
I quickly grabbed a man nearby and asked, "Excuse me, sir, could you tell me how to get to Manjia Village?"
The man looked at me and said, "From your accent, you're not local. Visiting relatives in Manjia Village?"
I nodded casually, too tired to explain further.
He responded warmly, "My home is in Sunjia Village. Manjia is only about three li (roughly a mile) from there. Come with me."
Sunjia Village—I had some memory of that place. My grandmother's second sister, whom I also called Grandma, lived there. I had visited with my grandmother before.
We walked for four or five li, crossing a small hill, and ahead I saw a faint glow—the silhouette of a village gradually emerging.
The man told me that this was Sunjia Village, and that after passing through it, I'd only need to walk about two more li to reach Manjia Village.
Soon, we entered the village. His house was right at the entrance. He pointed to a road and said, "Follow this road south. When it ends, make a turn—you'll see Manjia Village."
I thanked him and walked in the direction he pointed. After about ten minutes, I heard the sound of commotion ahead—it sounded like a funeral.
Even before reaching the house, I felt a chilling aura drifting out from the courtyard. I instinctively stopped at the entrance to listen.
"Put more strength into it!" someone shouted.
"We can't lift it!" a young man responded.
"Everyone together, try again!" came an old voice.
There was clearly something wrong with this household. I stepped into the courtyard and saw eight strong young men straining to lift a coffin. They were trying to move it from the house to the yard. In our custom, the night before a burial, the coffin is taken outside so that it can be carried directly to the graveyard the next day.
There were many people helping out, all focused on the coffin. No one noticed me.
The eight young men's faces were flushed red, veins bulging on their foreheads, but the coffin wouldn't budge. A coffin with the deceased should weigh around 200 jin (about 100 kg)—divided among eight men, that's only about 25 jin each—yet they couldn't lift it no matter how hard they tried.
"This is too strange," someone muttered.
"Yeah, maybe Old Sun still has grudges. Could his children have been unfilial?"
"Don't say that—Sun Laonian treated his father well. He bought him whatever he wanted."
The crowd buzzed with speculation.
Just then, a man in mourning clothes came forward and knelt before the coffin, weeping bitterly. "Dad, please rest in peace. Don't worry about the family anymore."
There are a few reasons why a coffin won't lift. One is if the deceased was murdered and died with resentment. Another is if they had unfulfilled wishes. The last is if some taboo was broken during the funeral rites.
The deceased was an old man. From the villagers' conversation, it was clear his son had treated him well, so he probably wasn't murdered. Judging by the kneeling grandchildren, he had many descendants, fulfilling a rural elder's greatest wish. So it wasn't likely he had any unfulfilled desires. Nor would that explain the sinister aura I felt.
That left only one possibility—a taboo was broken during the funeral.
Since I had encountered this, I couldn't ignore it. Doing good deeds earns merit, a key principle of Taoism: to cultivate virtue and stay above worldly conflict.
I pushed through the crowd and looked at the coffin. There were many marks on it, likely from when it was nailed shut.
I immediately understood—this violated the sealing taboo, which was why the coffin wouldn't move.
After placing the body in the coffin, it is customary to seal it with nails. These are known in Feng Shui as "soul-securing nails," or colloquially as "descendant nails." Typically, seven nails are used. There are strict rules: each nail must be hammered with no more than three strikes—one to scare the spirit, two to alarm the living, three to frighten the ghosts. If you hammer more than three times, it alerts too many spirits, who may rush over and enter the coffin.
That's what had happened here. Too many strikes had disturbed wandering ghosts, and now the coffin was possessed.
I approached the elder presiding over the funeral and said, "Sir, could I have a private word with you?"
He looked at me. "You're not from this village, are you?"
I lowered my voice. "Sir, I know why the coffin can't be lifted. Let's talk over there."
I didn't want to draw too much attention—I was here to investigate Yangguan Pass and planned to leave again after finishing my business. I didn't want to cause trouble for my family.
I took the elder to a corner of the yard and explained the taboo about the coffin nails. He looked me up and down, clearly irritated.
"Young man, what are you trying to say? I've presided over weddings and funerals here for decades. What taboo don't I know? What would a kid like you know? You must be a fraud, here to stir up trouble."
He waved me off impatiently.
I wasn't offended. Smiling, I said, "When they nailed the coffin shut, didn't they strike many times?"
Hearing this, the old man frowned. "What's wrong with that?"
I explained the taboo about the three strikes. He fell silent for a moment, then said, "I think I've heard the old folks mention this before. Who exactly are you? How do you know these things at your age?"
"That's not important," I said. "I was just passing by and thought I'd help."
The old man nodded, took out a cigarette, lit it for me, then asked, "I believe you. So how do we fix this?"
"Open the coffin and drive out the wild ghosts," I replied as I exhaled a smoke ring.
The old man hesitated. Reopening a sealed coffin was highly inauspicious for the family. I could, in theory, expel the spirits without opening it, but since they hadn't harmed anyone, doing so would incur karmic consequences. It could even harm the deceased's own spirit.
"Are you confident?" he asked after a long pause, worried the problem might persist after resealing the coffin.
I assured him that as long as they followed my instructions, it would be fine.
He thought for a moment and said, "Young man, this isn't my decision. I'll need to consult with the family. Wait here—I'll go get them."
His tone had changed—he now called me "young man," a sign of respect. Clearly, he believed me.
Soon, he returned with Sun Laonian, the mourning son. The elder had already explained the situation. Sun Laonian greeted me and asked if it was possible to lift the coffin without reopening it.
I shook my head and told him that even if they managed to lift and bury it, the resentful energy would merge with the family's fortune and bring them misfortune.
Sun Laonian's expression darkened as he stood there, torn.
"Old Laonian, listen to the young man," the elder said.
Sun Laonian narrowed his eyes. "Alright, open the coffin."
I didn't want to draw attention, so I explained the details to the elder. While not a Feng Shui master, he'd conducted many funerals and understood enough.
He memorized my instructions and returned with Sun Laonian to carry them out.