Chapter Two: The Soul Caller — Widow Zhou
When it comes to Widow Zhou, the eldest daughter-in-law of the Zhou family, she was once a well-known figure in our village. It was said that she had the ability to "call souls," a skill that, according to the village elders, was remarkably accurate in its predictions.
"Calling souls" refers to a practice in which someone descends to the realm of the dead to help locate the departed loved ones of the living, allowing these spirits to possess their body in order to resolve the issues of those still living.
In truth, Widow Zhou had once been an ordinary woman, but it was only after the death of her husband that she acquired this strange ability. How exactly she came by it, however, was a subject she kept shrouded in secrecy. The villagers only knew bits and pieces of rumors.
The story, as told by the second daughter-in-law and the daughter of the Zhou family, was that on the seventh night following the death of Zhou Da (Widow Zhou's husband), something strange happened. For reasons no one understood, Widow Zhou suddenly rushed back into her old west wing room in the middle of the night.
The Zhou family had never separated their household, so seven people still lived under one roof. Normally, family members would keep their distance during the seventh night of mourning, but since there was nowhere else to go, the west wing, where Widow Zhou and her husband had lived, was the only place available.
That night, Widow Zhou mysteriously slipped back into that very room, unbeknownst to the rest of the family who were fast asleep. It wasn't until her younger sister-in-law woke up in the middle of the night that she realized Widow Zhou was missing from her side.
At first, the younger sister-in-law thought nothing of it—perhaps Widow Zhou had simply gotten up in the night as well. But as she stepped outside, ready to relieve herself, she was suddenly startled by a fit of laughter that chilled her to the bone.
It was the seventh night after the death of her older brother. In the stillness of the night, the laughter sounded especially eerie. The younger sister-in-law, only fourteen at the time, was not prepared for such a fright and let out a scream, dashing back to the safety of the room.
The whole family was immediately roused from their sleep and gathered in the yard. However, the laughter had stopped by then, replaced by the unsettling sound of a woman muttering in a low, indistinct voice. No one could make out the words, but it was clear it was a woman speaking.
Zhou Er, who was the pillar of the house after Zhou Da's death, though a man, was unafraid and decided to investigate. After listening for a while, he picked up a wooden stick and said, "I hear the voice coming from the west wing. I'll go check it out. Let's see who's trying to stir up trouble."
His wife tried to stop him, fearful that the spirits of the dead might be angry. "It's the seventh night of your brother's passing," she said. "The villagers are superstitious. You can't risk it."
Just then, another burst of laughter echoed through the air, even more cheerful than before. But there was something strange about it—the tone of the laughter sounded light, but its echo seemed almost otherworldly.
"Why is it that on the night of my son's passing, we're hearing the laugh of a female ghost?" Zhou's father sighed deeply. He still mourned the loss of his son, and the thought of a female ghost visiting on such a night was deeply unsettling.
"But don't you think it sounds a bit like our eldest daughter-in-law's voice?" Zhou's mother-in-law remarked, her face wrinkled with confusion. While they couldn't make out the words, the accent of the voice was strikingly familiar. The laugh, too, struck her as suspiciously like the eldest daughter-in-law's.
After her remark, the family listened more carefully, and sure enough, the voice sounded eerily like Widow Zhou's.
"Well, we've got to check this out now. I'm worried she's losing her mind from grief." Losing a husband in middle age was a great suffering, and if Widow Zhou had indeed lost her sanity, well, that could be understandable.
At the time, family ties in rural villages were incredibly strong. It was unthinkable to ignore a family member in need.
With that in mind, Zhou Er tightened his grip on the wooden stick and, with determined steps, made his way toward the west wing.
The familiar west wing, now looking darker and more ominous than ever, felt like a door leading straight to hell. Zhou Er's heart raced as he approached it, but he steeled himself, taking a deep breath. In an attempt to bolster his courage, he suddenly shouted loudly and, riding on the momentum, kicked the door with all his might.
Though he was a strong, hard-working man, the door did not resist as expected. The two wooden doors, instead of being locked, were merely pushed shut. In his haste, Zhou Er had overestimated the door's resistance and, with the force of his kick, he stumbled and fell flat on his face, crashing into the room.
"Er, are you alright?" Zhou's father's worried voice called from behind, concerned that his son might have hurt himself as well.
"I'm fine, just slipped," Zhou Er mumbled, gritting his teeth in pain. He didn't want to worry his family, so he quickly reassured them.
But as Zhou Er raised his head and looked around, his heart jumped to his throat.
The west wing wasn't large—it was essentially just a small bedroom, and one could see the whole room upon entering. Zhou Er, still half-kneeling on the ground and attempting to stand, froze when his eyes fell on the figure of his sister-in-law.
There, in the dim glow of an oil lamp, Widow Zhou sat with her back to him. Her shoulders trembled, and her laughter was disturbingly joyful. But it wasn't the laughter that alarmed Zhou Er—what terrified him was her posture. She was hunched awkwardly, her head tilted, as though leaning against something invisible. Stranger still, there were two stools in front of the table, and Widow Zhou was sitting on the edge of one. Normally, someone sitting alone would place themselves in the center of the stool, or it would tip over. But she sat there, motionless, on the very edge, as though glued to her seat.
Zhou Er's throat tightened, and for a moment, he forgot to rise, remaining half-kneeling on the ground. A sense of unease surged within him, urging him to flee, for the scene before him was unnervingly bizarre. Yet, standing in front of him was his own sister-in-law, the widow of his elder brother, who had only just passed away. It was hard to ignore her plight, for propriety and kinship demanded his attention.
Swallowing twice to quell the lump in his throat, Zhou Er gathered the remnants of his courage and called out, "Sister... sister-in-law..."
His voice faltered, trembling with both fear and tension, the words of address quivering as they left his lips—a fact he failed to notice in his anxious state.
At the sound of his voice, Widow Zhou slowly turned to face him, her lips curling into a smile. In the dim light of the oil lamp, the smile was grotesque—her mouth twisted at the corners while her eyes narrowed into slits, yet the muscles in her face were stiff, as if frozen. The expression was unnervingly similar to that of a clay sculpture.
"Look, the second son has come," Widow Zhou said, her gaze locking onto him. Her eyes were fixed, intense, as if she were a cat studying an unmoving statue in the night.
In that instant, Zhou Er felt tears welling up in his eyes. It was fear—he wasn't a fool. He clearly heard her utter the word "look." But who was she looking at? And that voice of hers—Zhou Er couldn't place it. Normally, even the calmest of voices carries an underlying trace of emotion, yet hers was devoid of it, almost mechanical. Had there been computers back then, Zhou Er would have easily likened it to the sound of an electronic synthesizer.
At that moment, Zhou Er felt paralyzed. He couldn't rise, nor could he stay kneeling. Neither could he move forward, nor dare retreat. He simply felt a cold chill run down his spine, as though every bone in his body were frozen in place.
Suddenly, Widow Zhou's smile vanished, her expression shifting to one of eerie calm. But her gaze grew sharp, even ferocious, as she spoke in a low voice: "Leave. Don't disturb us. You're not allowed in this room."
Zhou Er remained silent—not because he wished to, but because fear had robbed him of his ability to speak. At the extremity of terror, one is not driven to frantic anger or screaming; instead, there is silence—a deep, subconscious desire to disappear, to hide within oneself.
Faced with his own sister-in-law, Zhou Er could not summon the rage to defy her; he could only surrender to silence.
With great effort, he stood, though his legs quaked beneath him, and slowly, deliberately, he turned and walked toward the door. But his back itched, as though something invisible was watching him. Fear held him in its grip, yet he dared not look back. Weak and trembling, he staggered out of the room, and just as he stepped beyond the threshold, he heard the faint creak of the wooden door closing behind him.
"Mother..." Zhou Er cried out, tears immediately streaming down his face. Without another thought, he began to run, though his legs were weak, and after only a few steps, he stumbled and fell. But there was no time to waste—he scrambled on all fours toward his family, his movements frantic and clumsy, a picture of utter desperation.
The sound of his cry for "Mother" struck Zhou's grandmother deeply, and with a surge of concern, she hurried to his side, her small feet moving quickly. She caught him in her arms, asking, "My son, what's happened to you?"
"Mother, I... I think... I think my brother has returned," Zhou Er gasped, not bothering to wipe away the tears. He could not find any other explanation for the bizarre events he had witnessed—except to believe that his elder brother's spirit had returned on the seventh night.
"My Zhou Da..." Zhou's father suddenly wailed, his hands slapping his legs in anguish. The thought that his son's soul might have come back brought forth a flood of grief, and the loss he had long carried in his heart surged forth.
That seventh night, the family was left in turmoil. Despite believing it might have been Zhou Da's spirit, the words from Widow Zhou—"don't disturb us"—and the unsettling fear that lingered over the family prevented anyone from entering the west wing again that night.
This incident became the talk of the Zhou family, and the rumors of Widow Zhou's ability to "call souls" spread through the village. Some people, curious and skeptical, visited her, hoping to test the truth of her abilities. To their surprise, there was something inexplicably real about it—her powers seemed genuine. Within two years, not only had neighboring villages heard of the "Soul Caller" from Xiaowan Village, but even people from the town began to visit her, drawn by the allure of her strange gift.
There are three things worth noting about this.
First, after the seventh night, Widow Zhou appeared to return to normal. It was said that she emerged from the west wing early the next morning and prepared breakfast for the family. However, she developed a peculiar habit—she began to hiccup frequently, sometimes eight or nine times a minute. The sound was odd, and anyone who met her for the first time was typically startled.
Second, Widow Zhou insisted that the family seal the window in the west wing. The window faced the yard and provided ample light, brightening the entire room. Who would have thought much of this request? But after that strange night, the family began to feel an inexplicable reverence toward her. They complied with her wishes, not only sealing the window but also covering the door with thick black curtains.
The third point worth mentioning is that, five months after Zhou Da's death, Widow Zhou gave birth to a son. The villagers, however, refrained from gossiping about this—any fool could tell that the child was undoubtedly Zhou Da's posthumous son. Some of the older folks even speculated, "No wonder there was such a ruckus on the seventh night of Zhou Da's passing. Surely, he knew he had a son and couldn't bear to leave behind a widow and orphan." Regardless of these rumors, Widow Zhou, with her unique ability to communicate with the spirit world, managed to live well in the village with her son, and even the Zhou family received some help.
Had it not been for the onset of the political movement, Widow Zhou might have continued this work for the rest of her life, supporting her son through schooling, work, and eventually marriage. However, history does not bend to personal wills, and soon the Zhou family found themselves under tight surveillance. Especially Widow Zhou, who became the subject of intense scrutiny, and the matter of her spiritual abilities was never spoken of again.
While the Zhou family faced their own challenges, my family was plunged into deeper sorrow, all because of me.
My health showed no sign of improvement. Despite my father wrapping me tightly in swaddling clothes on the third day of my life and borrowing a donkey cart to take me to the village clinic early in the morning, the doctor found no apparent illness.
The doctor simply told my father, "This child seems to be suffering from malnutrition; just nourish him well, and he will be fine." No medication was prescribed.
On the way back, my father was in a gloomy mood. "How could this be?" he thought. "Your mother was the best-nourished, healthiest pregnant woman in the village—how could the child be malnourished? This doesn't make sense. He's even weaker than the sickliest babies in the village."
Unable to understand the situation, my father reluctantly chose to trust the doctor's words. Seeking out Widow Zhou was only a last resort, a choice that might risk not only our own family but also harm the Zhou family in turn.
Back home, my father focused on feeding me as best he could. Since my mother couldn't nurse, he went every day to a family in a nearby village who kept dairy cows, trading grain for milk. Not only milk, but my father also went to the town's supply store, spending considerable effort to obtain nutritional supplements. He left no stone unturned in his attempt to nourish me.
In those days, the conditions for children could hardly be compared to what they are now. The care I received was unparalleled in the village—many children didn't even get milk every day, let alone nutritional supplements. If a child couldn't drink their mother's milk, they were typically fed rice porridge.
Despite the sacrifices, my parents never complained. Even more touching was how my two older sisters showed no sign of resentment.
"My father, give more milk to little brother, he's so small, he doesn't even have the strength to cry," my elder sister would say.
Anyone could see that my two sisters longed for the white milk, yet they didn't fuss. Instead, they showed such maturity that it moved my father deeply, making him feel a great pang of tenderness and affection.
A side note here: my family was not particularly biased toward sons. For many years, my treatment was the same as my two sisters'. It was simply that, in the rural context of the time, a family without a son was somewhat powerless. A son represented labor, and without labor, how could a household be supported?
Thus, my father spent a whole month feeding me in the hopes of improving my health. But on the day I reached my full moon—according to tradition, the time when children were weighed to see how much they had grown—my father's steadfast belief crumbled.
That day, with nearly devout hope, my father took me to be weighed, only to be struck with despair. By the time I turned one month old, I had gained a mere two liang (about 100 grams)!
For so long, my father had gritted his teeth, thinking that even if no growth was visible, perhaps I was growing in other ways. But after enduring a month, to see such a result—how could he not break down?
"Xiuyun, I think we must go to Widow Zhou and have her check on the child," my father finally said after standing stunned for a long while. This was the last option left, the most desperate of measures.
My mother's heart twisted with worry. Honestly, it was rare to see a child of only three pounds at full moon in that era. Despite all the care and nourishment I had received, the result was far from normal.
If it had been an illness, then at least there would have been an explanation. But the doctor said there was nothing wrong, and I had never even caught a cold or suffered from a fever. So, what could it be? Was it something supernatural?
"Old Chen, perhaps… perhaps we should try for another week. I've heard that some children may not grow well before their full moon, but after it, they can suddenly start growing rapidly. Besides… besides…" My mother hesitated, unsure of how to continue.
"Besides what?" My father raised an eyebrow, his frustration palpable.