"Don't eat that rice! It's for the dead!"
Gao Ming rushed towards Wan Qiu, but Xuan Wen held him back tightly.
His lips stained red, Wan Qiu slowly shifted his body, his facial features wrinkled together, his neck twitching, blood mixed with rice grains falling from his mouth: "You, you all…"
The muffled voice resounded, and Wan Qiu's expression kept changing.
The heavy curtains were blown by the gloomy wind, scraps of joss paper fell to the ground, the walls and ceiling cracked and faded, and it seemed as if insects were crawling in the crevices.
His body swaying, Wan Qiu spoke in the tone of a weeping old man: "Tigers ahead, ghosts behind, heaven won't respond, earth won't connect…"
It seemed as if something inside the room was trying to communicate with Gao Ming and Xuan Wen through Wan Qiu's mouth.
"Ghosts eat people, people eat meat, meat eats ghosts."
