6:47 PM, Old City District, South City. Old Times Vintage Clothing Shop.
Xiao Ya stood before the dressing mirror, holding a cup of instant coffee that had long gone cold. The reflection staring back—twenty-seven years old, dark circles under her eyes, a few stress-induced pimples—looked exactly the same as it had three days ago.
But her eyes kept drifting to the corner of the room, where the crimson wedding gown hung.
It hung there motionless. The silk gleamed with a dull, bloody sheen in the evening light, phoenixes embroidered in gold thread swirling across the hem, every feather distinct.
She'd bought it three days ago from an old woman in the countryside. The woman, dressed in a gray cotton jacket, had walked into the shop carrying a plastic sack. From it she'd pulled this gown and shaken it open. Xiao Ya had been in this business for eight years; she knew quality at a glance. Genuine Qing Dynasty hand-embroidery, kesi silk technique, perfectly preserved. She could sell it for eighty thousand.
The old woman asked for two thousand. Xiao Ya gave her three.
While the woman counted the money, Xiao Ya had casually asked, "Auntie, who wore this?"
The woman's hand paused. Just for a second.
"My husband's grandmother," she said. Then she pocketed the cash and walked out without looking back.
Xiao Ya hadn't thought much of it at the time. With eighty thousand in profit staring her in the face, who had time to worry about an old country woman's expression?
She was thinking about it now.
Because since last night, this gown had been... wrong.
First the lights. The LED shop lights—never failed in two years—flickered seventeen times last night. She'd counted. The electrician checked this morning. Nothing wrong with the wiring.
Then the sounds. At 2 AM, she was sleeping in the back room and heard fabric rustling. Shhh, shhh, like someone walking in a long skirt. She thought it was rats. Got up to check. The gown hung there. Nothing around it.
Strangest of all—the temperature.
It was October, but the AC kept the shop at a steady twenty-three degrees. Every time she got within half a meter of that gown, the air would suddenly turn cold. Cold as a freezer. Cold enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
She didn't believe in this stuff. She was a businesswoman. She believed in money.
But just now, when she looked in the mirror, out of the corner of her eye she saw—
Above the collar of the gown, a face.
Pale. Lips painted with rouge. Tears clinging to the corners of its eyes.
She whipped her head around.
Nothing.
She looked back at the mirror.
Only herself.
And the gown, three meters behind her, hanging quietly.
Xiao Ya took a deep breath, put down her coffee cup, and walked toward it.
She wanted to prove she'd imagined it. She wanted to touch the fabric, tell herself it was just silk, just an old thing, just eighty thousand yuan.
She reached out.
Her fingertips were an inch from the gown.
The sleeve moved.
Not from wind. The doors and windows were sealed tight; the AC vent was overhead, so any breeze should be vertical. But this sleeve swung sideways, like someone raising an arm.
Xiao Ya's scream caught in her throat.
She turned and ran, knocking over the clothing rack by the door, falling onto the sidewalk. Passersby stopped and stared.
"Miss, you okay?" an old man asked.
Xiao Ya opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
She looked back at the shop.
The gown still hung there, sleeve motionless.
But she was certain: for one second, it had smiled.
Mike Chen was eating his seventh pork-and-cabbage dumpling.
In the private room of a Northeastern Chinese restaurant, Lin Mo sat across from him, picking up a dumpling with her chopsticks, dipping it in vinegar, putting it in her mouth—expressionless. She ate like she was completing a task. Fifteen chews, swallow, next one.
Zhao Tiezhu sat beside them, four empty plates stacked in front of him, working on a fifth. He ate like he was fighting a war. His chopsticks moved like weapons; dumplings vanished into his mouth with shocking speed.
"Eat slower," Lin Mo said.
"Can't catch ghosts on an empty stomach." Zhao didn't look up, shoving another dumpling in.
Mike stared at the dumplings on his plate, lost in thought. Two months in China, and he still didn't understand why anyone would eat flour wrappers stuffed with vegetables. He preferred pizza—at least you could see what was inside.
His phone rang. Three words on the screen: Luo Laosan.
Luo San, forty-five, triangular eyes, a wispy mustache, half a kingpin of the South City antique street. He sold antiques and sold information, connected above and below board, but valued his life above all—whenever business got "unclean," his first thought was Bureau 749.
"Brother Mike, got a job." Luo San's voice was hushed, like he was hiding from someone. "Girl runs a clothing shop in South City, twenties. Three days ago she bought an old wedding gown. Last night things got weird. Now she's too scared to go in. Sounds like your kind of thing."
"Address."
"Sweet Well Lane, number seventeen. Shop called Old Times. Oh—and that gown, it's from the Qing Dynasty."
Mike hung up and looked at Lin Mo.
"Wedding gown. Qing Dynasty. South City."
Lin Mo put down her chopsticks and wiped her mouth. Zhao Tiezhu looked up, half a dumpling still in his mouth.
"Let's go," Lin Mo said, standing. "Daoist Yunxu said old clothes are worse than old houses. Houses just had people living in them. Clothes were worn next to the skin—they soak up dander, soak up sweat, soak up the last breath before death."
Number 17 Sweet Well Lane. Old Times Vintage Clothing Shop.
The door opened to a wave of mildew—the unique smell of old clothes, mixed with mothballs and perfume, like someone had stuffed a century-old house into a perfume bottle. The shop was a mess. Clothing racks lay on the floor, garments scattered everywhere, clearly untouched since last night.
Against the far wall, the crimson wedding gown hung alone. A clear space surrounded it, and a distinct arc on the floor showed where Xiao Ya had swept around it, deliberately avoiding that area.
Xiao Ya sat on a small stool by the door, wrapped in a thick jacket, her lips pale. When she saw them, she stood up, legs trembling.
"You're... the ones Uncle Luo sent?"
Lin Mo nodded and walked straight toward the gown.
"Don't go near it!" Xiao Ya shouted.
Lin Mo stopped and turned back. "Why?"
"It... it moves. Last night, its sleeve moved. Nobody touched it."
Lin Mo said nothing and kept walking. She stood before the gown, examining it closely. Mike followed and stood beside her.
The gown was exquisite. High collar, right lapel, wide sleeves, a hundred birds paying homage to the phoenix embroidered on the hem—not machine-made, but hand-stitched, every thread, gold and silver interwoven, gleaming softly under the lights. The phoenix's eyes were black silk thread; stare at them long enough, and you'd feel it staring back.
Dark red stains marked the collar and cuffs. Not fading—soaking. Liquid that had seeped into the fabric and dried there.
"This is blood," Lin Mo said, pointing.
Xiao Ya's face grew paler. "I didn't notice... when I bought it..."
"Not your fault. This blood is over a hundred years old. It won't wash out."
Mike leaned closer. The bloodstains were dotted, spreading from the collar down to the chest. In some places they clustered thickly, like someone had been splashed. In others they were sparse, like spatter—coughed up from the mouth.
"How did she die?" he asked.
Lin Mo didn't answer directly. She moved behind the gown and gently lifted the back of the collar.
Tiny characters were embroidered there, rice-grain-sized, barely legible:
Seventeenth Year of Guangxu · Daughter of the Wang Family · Wedding Gown
"Seventeenth Year of Guangxu," Lin Mo said. "1891 AD. One hundred and thirty-three years ago."
Xiao Ya's legs gave out. She sat back down on the stool.
Zhao Tiezhu walked in from the door, holding a palm-sized device, scanning it over the gown. This was his new equipment—a "spiritual field detector" developed by Ding Xuan. He couldn't explain how it worked, but Ding Xuan said it could detect "things that shouldn't be detected."
"Reading is seventy-three." He frowned at the screen. "Lin Mo, you know what that means?"
Lin Mo shook her head.
"That haunted house case last month—three people died in that house. The highest reading we got was sixty-eight. This piece of clothing—five points higher."
Silence.
Mike stared at the gown. Right now it was just a piece of clothing, hanging quietly, phoenixes still swirling on the hem, gold thread still gleaming. But suddenly he felt there were more than four people in this room.
"The woman who sold it to you," Lin Mo asked, "what did she look like?"
"An old lady. Seventies, gray cotton jacket, country accent. She said it was passed down from her husband's grandmother."
"Contact information?"
Xiao Ya shook her head. "She was passing by and came in to sell it. I gave her cash and she left. When she left—"
She paused, as if remembering.
"When she left, she looked back at this gown. The look in her eyes... it wasn't reluctance. It was fear. Like looking at something she shouldn't have touched."
Lin Mo and Mike exchanged glances.
"We need to go to the countryside," Lin Mo said. "Find that old woman, find out where this gown came from."
She pulled a yellow talisman from her pocket, folded it into a triangle, and placed it under the base of the mannequin stand.
"This will suppress it for three days. We'll be back in three days. These three days—"
She looked at Xiao Ya. "Don't come in. Don't touch anything. Especially at night."
Xiao Ya nodded frantically.
The next morning at five, before dawn, Mike, Lin Mo, and Zhao Tiezhu set out by car.
According to Xiao Ya's information—the old woman's accent was from Liujia Village, fifty li south of the city. That village was at the foot of a mountain, only about twenty households, most young people gone to work in the city, only the elderly left.
The road ended at the mountain's base. The mountain path was too narrow for the car; they had to walk. Dense bamboo flanked both sides, rustling in the wind like countless people whispering.
"The feng shui here is wrong," Zhao Tiezhu said as he walked, checking his detector. "The mountain's too steep—it cuts off the qi. The bamboo's planted too thick—sunlight can't get through. Heavy yin energy."
Lin Mo said nothing, but she walked faster.
Forty minutes later, Liujia Village appeared.
More dilapidated than they'd imagined. Most houses stood empty, walls covered in moss, some roofs collapsed entirely, rafters exposed like dead men's ribs. Only a few households near the village entrance were still inhabited, all elderly people sitting in the sun, staring vacantly.
Lin Mo approached an old woman and showed her the photo of the gown.
"Auntie, have you seen this wedding gown before?"
The old woman squinted at it for a long moment, then suddenly jerked her hand back as if burned, muttering under her breath. She turned and went inside, slamming the door.
Lin Mo tried several others. Same reaction—see the photo, flee, like it was something unclean.
Finally, an old man squatting by a wall, smoking a cigarette. He looked at the photo, silent for so long Mike thought he wouldn't answer. Then he slowly spoke:
"You're looking for something from the Wang family?"
Mike hurried over. "You know about the Wang family?"
The old man exhaled smoke and pointed toward the far end of the village. "That half-collapsed house at the very back—that was the Wang family's. Their daughter died in this village, over a hundred years ago. When she died, she was wearing that dress."
"How did she die?"
The old man looked at him with a strange expression—something like pity, or maybe mockery.
"Young man, you're a foreigner, aren't you? You don't understand our customs here." He stubbed out his cigarette on the wall. "Some marriages... aren't to the living."
Lin Mo's hands tightened slightly.
"A ghost marriage," she said.
The old man nodded, stood up, brushed the dust off his pants, and slowly walked away.
Mike stood there, the phrase replaying in his mind: ghost marriage. He'd worked a case at the FBI where a cult used live human sacrifices. But that was to summon demons, for power, for madness. This?
"What is a ghost marriage?" he asked.
Lin Mo watched the old man's retreating back, her voice soft:
"Some families, their son dies unmarried. The parents think he'll be lonely in the underworld, so they find him a wife. If they have money, they buy a living one—a poor family's daughter, sold for a few ounces of silver. After they buy her, they make her put on a wedding gown, bow to the dead man's spirit tablet, and then—"
She paused.
"Then they seal her alive in a coffin and bury her next to him."
Mike said nothing.
He suddenly remembered the bloodstains on that gown's collar. The blood coughed up from the mouth. That person, buried alive, had struggled in the coffin, screamed, coughed blood. Then slowly suffocated, died in the dark.
One hundred and thirty-three years later, her clothes remained.
They found the Wang family's old house.
Only one wall remained standing; most of the roof had collapsed, weeds growing thick inside. At the base of the wall lay a fallen shrine, the wooden statue inside rotted beyond recognition.
Lin Mo crouched and pushed aside the weeds. Ashes of burned spirit money lay on the ground, not old—maybe six months at most.
"Someone's been here to pay respects," she said.
Zhao Tiezhu walked around with his detector. When he reached the center of what would have been the main room, the device let out a piercing shriek—higher than the reading from the gown.
"There's something here." He crouched and began digging with his hands.
A few inches down, he uncovered something white.
Bone. A human finger bone.
Mike's pupils contracted slightly. He'd seen too many bones at the FBI, but never buried like this—not in a coffin, no grave, just casually in the dirt of a house, like burying a dead dog.
"Keep digging," Lin Mo said.
Zhao dug for half an hour. The soil peeled away layer by layer, revealing a curled skeleton—knees drawn to chest, body bent like a shrimp, head tucked down, as if desperately trying to compress itself in some confined space.
Fragments of fabric clung to the bones. Rotted, but faintly crimson.
"She was the bride," Lin Mo said, crouching to look at the fragments. "She never got married. They sealed her in a coffin and buried her alive. Then sometime later, someone dug up her bones and moved them here."
"Why move them?" Mike asked.
Lin Mo pointed at the paper ash on the ground. "To make offerings. Buried in a grave, it's too conspicuous—easy to find. Moved into the old house, you can come quietly to burn paper, no one knows."
Mike fell silent.
He thought of those bloodstains, of the characters embroidered on that gown's collar—Daughter of the Wang Family. One hundred and thirty-three years ago, a girl named Wang was sold by her family, dressed in a wedding gown, buried alive. After death, her bones were dug up and hidden in this broken house, waiting for relatives to come and worship her.
Who were her relatives? The family that sold her? The people who buried her alive?
"This is fucking..." Zhao Tiezhu cursed and punched the ground.
Lin Mo pulled out her phone and called Yunxu.
Three days later, 11 PM.
Liujia Village back mountain, an abandoned graveyard.
The moon was full and bright, casting dappled shadows through the mountain bamboo. Insects chirped, occasionally interrupted by the flutter of night birds.
Zhao Tiezhu dug open the Wang family's old grave. The coffin had rotted away, nothing left but a pile of dry bones—the "husband." Beside it was a freshly dug pit containing the curled skeleton moved from the old house.
Yunxu, wearing a plain gray Daoist robe, compass in hand, circled the pit three times. The compass needle pointed steadily north, no longer spinning.
"The positioning is correct," he said.
Xiao Ya held the wedding gown, standing before the pit. Her face was still pale, but much calmer than three days ago. Following Yunxu's instructions, she gently placed the gown into the pit, covering the skeleton.
The moment the gown spread open, moonlight fell directly on it. Crimson silk gleamed dully, gold-thread phoenixes resting quietly on the hem, as if finally finding a place to perch.
Yunxu lit three incense sticks and planted them in the soil.
"Miss," he spoke to the bones in the pit, "we know your grievance. We've returned your wedding gown. Now go. Don't stay here anymore. Find a good family to be reborn into, and live a peaceful life next time."
He began chanting. His voice was low, carrying far in the night wind.
Lin Mo burned spirit money beside him. The firelight illuminated her face, expression unreadable.
Mike stood at the back, watching it all. Three months ago, if someone had told him he'd stand in an abandoned graveyard attending an exorcism ritual, he'd have thought they were crazy. But now he stood here, witnessing with his own eyes a wronged soul from one hundred and thirty-three years ago finally being able to close its eyes.
The wind suddenly stopped.
The insects stopped.
The whole mountain fell silent, as if someone had pressed the mute button.
Then Mike heard a sound.
Soft, faint, like silk rustling.
Coming from the bamboo grove behind him.
He spun around.
In the moonlight, among the bamboo, there was a red figure.
It stood there, motionless, thirty meters away, watching them.
Mike stopped breathing.
The figure slowly raised its hand and made a gesture—hands clasped at the waist, knees slightly bent, bowing like a proper young lady in period dramas.
Then it turned and slowly walked deeper into the bamboo, disappearing into the darkness.
Yunxu's chanting stopped.
"She's gone," he said.
Lin Mo looked up at the sky. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, round and bright.
"Good riddance," she whispered.
The next afternoon, Xiao Ya tidied up her shop.
Without that wedding gown, the shop seemed much brighter. She righted the fallen clothing racks, hung up the scattered garments, feeling lighter than she had in days.
Eighty thousand was gone, but she didn't regret it.
When she reached the dressing mirror, she glanced at it automatically.
Her reflection looked back—dark circles faded, complexion healthier. Three days with the shop closed, a few good nights' sleep, her mental state much improved.
She smiled.
Her reflection smiled back.
But then Xiao Ya froze.
Today she was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. The person in the mirror was wearing—
A crimson wedding gown.
Not standing behind her. Wearing it directly. The Xiao Ya in the mirror, wearing the gown that had been buried in the earth, stood before her.
Xiao Ya slowly looked down at herself. White T-shirt. Jeans. Nothing.
She looked back up.
The person in the mirror was pressed against the glass. Face so close she could see every eyelash. Pale face, lips painted with rouge, tears clinging to the corners of her eyes.
But she was smiling.
"Thank you," the person in the mirror said.
Her voice was soft, faint, like silk rustling.
Xiao Ya's scream caught in her throat. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't move. She wanted to close her eyes, but her eyelids wouldn't obey.
The person stepped back. She raised her hands, made a gesture—hands clasped at the waist, knees slightly bent, bowing like a proper young lady in period dramas.
Then she turned and slowly walked away, disappearing into a crimson glow.
Only Xiao Ya remained in the mirror.
White T-shirt, jeans, stunned expression, heart pounding.
She stood there for five full minutes before she could move.
She looked again. Everything normal.
But in the lower right corner of the mirror, a small red dot had appeared.
She leaned closer.
It was a lip print.
Rouge-colored.
Xiao Ya reached out to wipe it off.
The moment her finger touched the glass, she heard a voice:
"Next time you come to the shop, buy yourself a new dress."
Coming from inside the mirror.
Xiao Ya screamed and ran out of the shop. This time, she never looked back.
Three days later, Bureau 749 archives.
Mike flipped through materials on ghost marriages. The records sickened him—in Qing Dynasty local gazettes, prices were clearly listed: "Buying a daughter for ghost marriage, eight taels of silver." Eight taels for a living person's life.
Lin Mo pushed open the door, holding a new report.
"We found something on Liujia Village," she said, placing the report on the desk. "That old woman—we located her. She said someone hired her to sell the gown, paid her five thousand. The person who hired her—"
She paused.
"Surname Su. Female. Runs an antique shop. Early thirties."
Mike's fingers stopped on the page.
"Su Lin."
Lin Mo nodded. "The name Luo San mentioned. She's involved again."
Mike opened the last page of the report. It contained a surveillance screenshot. In the image, a woman stood at the entrance of Liujia Village, wearing a plain-colored cheongsam, slender figure, long hair flowing. She held something in her hand.
An incense stick. Freshly lit.
Mike leaned closer. On the shaft of the incense was a tiny mark, requiring magnification to see clearly.
An inverted swastika.
Lin Mo handed him another photo: "Items that have passed through her shop in the last three months. Of the cases involving paranormal incidents, seven can be traced back to her."
Mike flipped through them. Kumathong. Wedding gown. And—
His finger stopped on one photo.
A baby crib. Old-fashioned, wooden, lotuses carved on the railings.
"What's this?"
Lin Mo was silent for two seconds.
"New case last week. A young couple bought this crib, preparing for their baby. Then—"
She paused.
"The wife was seven months pregnant. Suddenly went into early labor. The baby was born dead. A boy."
Mike stared at the photo of the crib. On the railings, faintly visible, were carvings.
Inverted swastikas.
Outside the window, the sky darkened.
In the distance, a baby's cry pierced the air—sharp, shrill, as if reminding them:
Some things aren't over yet.