I grew up in a traditional village where the most important events of the year were ancestral worship and grave visits. Ancestral worship took place on the morning of New Year's Day, while grave visits were held on the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month.
In those days, villagers were poor and often lacked food and clothing, but no one skimped on these rituals. For ancestral worship, a well-prepared pig's head was essential, and for grave visits, at least three types of pastries were required. However, there was a difference: the offerings for ancestral worship could be taken back and eaten by the family, while the pastries for grave visits had to be left at the gravesite for ants and insects to devour.
The pastries were usually low-quality peach cookies, and even these were a rare treat for villagers who could barely afford them two or three times a year. Adults adhered to tradition and didn't mind leaving these offerings for the ancestors, but children didn't understand such things.
On the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month during my third year of middle school, after the noon grave visit, my chubby classmate approached me at school and suggested we sneak out that night to steal the offerings. I had already been thinking the same thing, so we agreed immediately. That night, we sneaked into the graveyard on the hillside near the school.
In front of the graves of all sizes were pastries, and some wealthier families had even left fruits. At fourteen or fifteen years old, we were fearless and soon stuffed ourselves full.
After eating so many pastries, I grew thirsty. Looking around, I noticed a strange grave with fresh soil. Instead of pastries or fruits, there were peanuts, red dates, and something round that I later learned were longans. In addition, there was a delicate wine cup in front of the grave.
I found it odd—why would someone offer peanuts and red dates at a grave? Weren't those used for weddings? But I didn't think too much about it. Thirsty, I instinctively picked up the wine cup and drank it all in one gulp.
I had never tasted alcohol before, and the moment I swallowed, my eyes watered from the burning sensation. My stomach felt like it was on fire, and my head grew dizzy. I collapsed to the ground.
On the way home that night, the sticky summer air was unexpectedly stirred by a gust of wind, making my head even dizzier. Fatty had to practically carry me back.
When I got home, I told my mom I felt dizzy and went to bed. In the middle of the night, I had a strange dream. I was standing in a room lit by many red candles, facing a woman dressed entirely in red with a red veil over her head.
The scene felt familiar, like the wedding of a villager named Er Gouzi a few days earlier. I was confused—I was only fifteen, how could I be getting married? Someone nearby shouted, "Bow to heaven and earth! Bow to the ancestors!" I knelt and kowtowed in a daze, my mind blank until someone handed me a wine cup. Looking down at the clear liquid, I suddenly remembered the burning sensation from the wine at the grave and woke up in terror.
But before I could fully exhale, I noticed a shadow by the bed out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to look, I froze in fear.
There was a figure in red, blood-red, sitting by the bed.
I immediately thought of the red-veiled bride from my dream. After a few seconds of stunned silence, I screamed and scrambled to the far side of the bed.
The red figure remained motionless.
Soon, my mom burst into the room, having heard the commotion, and turned on the light.
But the light only made things worse. The red figure didn't disappear—instead, it became clearer. It was the red-veiled bride from my dream, down to the phoenix and dragon embroidery on her veil.
I thought ghosts were supposed to flee from light.
"San Wa, San Wa, what's wrong?" my mom asked, rushing to my bedside.
I couldn't speak, pointing in terror at the woman by the bed. But strangely, my mom didn't seem to see her at all.
Trembling, I finally managed to stammer, "Ghost..."
My mom laughed, patting my head. "Silly boy, you must have had a nightmare. There's no ghost here. Go back to sleep; you have school tomorrow."
I shook my head vigorously, clutching my mom's hand and refusing to let her leave. Eventually, she lay down beside me, but the red figure remained, unmoving, no matter how much I rubbed my eyes.
I stayed awake all night. As dawn broke, the red figure finally moved.
My heart leapt into my throat, but she simply turned and gracefully walked to the door, disappearing in an instant.
From that day on, the red figure appeared every night at eleven and left at four or five in the morning. She didn't harm or frighten me—she just sat by the bed, silently watching me through her red veil.
I didn't dare tell anyone, afraid they'd think I was crazy. I stopped sleeping at night, and my family soon noticed something was wrong. But no one believed me, and my dad even beat me with a broom. After that, I never mentioned it again.
Fatty, my closest friend, sensed something was off and kept pressing me until I finally told him. To my surprise, he believed me. The next day, he came to school with red eyes and handed me a wooden sword he'd carved with a pencil sharpener, modeled after one he'd seen on TV.
That night, when the red figure appeared, I gripped the wooden sword, trembling but determined. With a deep breath, I thrust it at her.
The sword passed through her as if she were air, yet I felt a strange resistance. The red figure remained seated, motionless.
I slumped onto the bed, realizing Fatty's sword was useless. The next day, I told him, but he didn't believe it. He came over that night but couldn't see the red figure at all, let alone attack her.
Fatty came up with many ideas—black dog blood, rooster blood—but as middle schoolers, where could we find such things?
Though I never found a way to deal with the red figure, I gradually grew used to her presence. My fear lessened, and I could even fall asleep curled up on the far side of the bed.
But just as I was adjusting, I woke up one night to find the red figure lying beside me. My heart clenched in terror, but she still didn't harm me, as if she were just a figment of my imagination.
What changed my perspective happened the following spring. By then, I could sleep peacefully again and had even started playing basketball with my classmates. One day, I sprained my ankle badly and had to use crutches.
After more than two weeks, the muscles in my right calf began to ache. The doctor said it was atrophy and needed regular massage to stimulate the muscles. My mom would massage my leg during the day, and sometimes when the pain woke me at night, I'd massage it myself while watching the red figure.
As the high school entrance exams approached, I woke up one night in pain, worried that my injury would affect my performance. Tears streamed down my face as I massaged my leg. When I looked up, the red figure, who had been lying beside me, suddenly sat up and reached toward me.
My tears stopped in shock. She had never done anything before—was she finally going to hurt me?
I inched toward the wall, but I was already at the edge of the bed with nowhere to go. My injured leg made escape impossible.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating her pale hand as it touched me—not to strangle me, but to gently massage my injured calf.
Her hand was icy cold, but her touch was unexpectedly tender, kneading my leg with care.