Preface
I truly began writing this book in July 2005. Since then, I've written a 30,000-word opening, which I scrapped; then a 50,000-word opening (is 50,000 words still considered an opening?), and scrapped that too. In between, countless openings of several thousand words or 10,000 words were all discarded. No matter how I wrote, I couldn't find the right feel. What I wrote was always far from the vague impression I had in mind.
This situation continued until the end of December last year. One day, a picture of a misty Jiangnan suddenly appeared before my eyes, and I wrote a few lines. I then realized that it was exactly the beginning I needed, and so the article was born. It was still not entirely satisfactory. Many times I thought about starting over, but I felt I couldn't find a more suitable way to write it. It wasn't until near the end that I gradually understood how to write this book most appropriately, but by then I no longer had the courage to start over. More importantly, I doubted that even if I started over, I might find an even more suitable way of writing, and then this article would never end. This reminds me of a story I once wrote called "Second Exhibition". The ending of the story is that a girl keeps rereading an article, and every time she reads it a second time, she finds many flaws in the article, so she revises it with a stroke of a pen, and so on, endlessly, and the article never ends, because no article is perfect.
Many times, facing the subject matter of this book, I felt that I was not yet ready to control it. I used to think that if I wrote it when I was more mature, maybe I wouldn't ruin this subject matter - however, maybe when I really matured, my thoughts would change too. So, even though I was not so satisfied with this article, I still continued to write it. After finishing it, I showed it to a friend who was quite accomplished in literature. He thought the subject matter was very good and comforted me, saying that this subject matter would not be wasted because it was very rich and could be constantly mined for new stories.
I once thought this article was very bad, but while revising it, I found myself fascinated by it - being fascinated by my own article is a bit ridiculous, but that's how it is. I think it's very attractive to me. The strangest thing is that during the writing process, I only felt sadness, not a bit of fear; when reading it, my feelings were exactly the opposite: only fear, no sadness. I don't know why either.
The idea for this book came into being a long time ago, but it never took shape until early 2005, after my father passed away. Some vague ideas that had already existed suddenly became clear. The closest person in life suddenly disappeared and would never come back, yet everything seemed unchanged, which was incredible - how could a person disappear so completely? Many times, in my father's room, I often felt that maybe he hadn't left, maybe he was right by my side, but I just couldn't see him. I felt that I had to depict this situation, almost compulsively starting to write this book. For the aforementioned reasons, I wanted to give up countless times in the middle. However, this story had already taken up residence in my mind, and I felt that I couldn't start another story without finishing it. Completing this story became a necessary thing to do - perhaps every author has such a subject matter that they have to complete, even beyond their own control. Within the 7 months of formal creation, I didn't write anything else. This story was like a huge stone blocking the road, and I couldn't go around it, so I could only smash it bit by bit.
Originally, I could have dedicated this book to someone. This book was inspired by my father, so if I were to dedicate it to anyone, it would of course be my father. But I don't intend to dedicate it to anyone, because it tells a sad story, and I wish no one would go through such a thing.
Prologue
The night was still, and through the window, one could see the dense, leafy avenue below. Across the avenue stood an abandoned old house.
The old house's door was secured with an iron lock, rusted and wrapped in white spider webs.
No one had lived in that old house for a long time. The carved door was covered with creeping vines, and the windowsill was covered with a thick layer of rust. The front and back of the house were surrounded by weeds and wildflowers, giving it a rather desolate appearance.
That night, as everyone was asleep, I subconsciously glanced in the direction of the old house - as in the previous few nights, a yellow light was shining there again.
A faint light, flickering like a firefly in the window of the old house, rendering the window like a pool of water. A burning candle could be vaguely seen in the halo of light.
Yes, no one had lived in the old house for a long time, and it probably hadn't had electricity for a long time either.
I looked at the house in confusion and pushed open the window - in the night sky, the sounds of women and children came from the direction of the old house.
It seemed that new people had moved into the old house, and it seemed to have come back to life.
But we all knew that no one lived there. During the day, we would often go and knock on the door, but no one ever answered.
They all said that there were ghosts in that house. I didn't believe in ghosts, but tonight, I had indeed been watching the house from the window since the afternoon, and I had been staring at it the whole time. My roommate and I took turns keeping watch, and neither of us saw anyone enter the house.
Nor did we see anyone come out.
It was February in winter, and it got dark early. By 5 pm, it was already very dark. The old house stood there, dark and gloomy, and with lights flashing all around, the old house looked like a typical abandoned house, without a trace of light or sound.
However, now, after twelve o'clock, when everything was dark, the old house lit up; when everything was quiet, the old house became noisy.
Could the rumors about the haunted house be true?
Although I didn't believe in ghosts, I still felt a chill creeping into my pores. In the darkness, there seemed to be waves of unrest surging, about to engulf me and the room I was in.