Do you believe in ghosts?
I didn't either. Not until the day I took my driver's test—when my coach yelled a curse at the empty backseat that he'd never taught me.
The driving school's training ground was on the west side of the city. A vast expanse of concrete, painted with wobbly parking bays and lanes in white. Outside the fence was a half-demolished village—broken walls, scattered tiles, stray dogs picking through the rubble.
Summer evenings, mosquitoes swarmed like a gray fog around every student's calves.
I'd been practicing all summer.
Coach Zhou was in his fifties. His face was the color of old bark, perpetually wearing that faded navy jacket—even in summer.
He wasn't much of a talker. Sitting in the passenger seat, he kept his eyes closed most of the time. Occasionally he'd open one and spit out a word or two: "Turn." "Stop." "Full lock."
Every student feared him. Because his pass rate for the practical exam was freakishly high. Most of the names on the school's honor roll had "Pass" written next to his.
But no one wanted a second lesson with him. He cursed too viciously.
"You reincarnated as a pig? The wheel too hot to touch?"
"Reverse parking—are you backing into the garage or your ancestors' grave?"
"Eyes on the back of your head? Can't see that big pole right in front?"
I'd seen at least three female students cry after being yelled at by him.
One was squatting by the car door, shoulders shaking. He walked around, glanced at her, and said, "Cry all you want—will tears get you extra points tomorrow?" Then he tossed her a pack of tissues and walked away.
That was the day before the exam.
Four o'clock in the afternoon. The sun slanted through the fence's wire mesh, casting grid-like shadows on the ground.
The training ground wasn't busy. Most students had booked the exam for the next day. The coach told each of us to run two final laps to get the feel.
When it was my turn, Coach Zhou stood up from the plastic stool under the eave, brushed off his pants, and slid into the passenger seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror as usual, then glanced at the backseat.
I didn't think much of it at the time. Later I realized—he did that every time he got in the car, like checking for something.
"Go," he said.
I started the engine, shifted into gear, released the handbrake. I knew this route like the back of my hand: right-angle turn, S-curve, parallel park, reverse park.
That lap, my hands were on fire. The wheel turned smoothly, the clutch pressed just right. Reverse park—one try, perfectly centered. You couldn't have found a flaw with a ruler.
Parallel parking—looking in the mirror, the wheel was only two fingers away from the curb. Perfect.
I stopped, shifted to neutral, pulled the handbrake. I turned to Coach Zhou, waiting for his nod.
He didn't nod.
His face was dark, mouth downturned, eyes fixed on something outside the windshield—like there was something unclean there. The training ground was empty except for two students practicing S-curves in the distance.
Silence hung for two or three seconds. I could hear my own heartbeat.
Then he spoke, voice low but each word grinding out like it hurt: "That's your best? Go back and practice."
I froze.
"Coach, I just—"
"I just what?" He snapped his head around, glaring. His eyelids drooped but his eyes burned bright. "Reverse park looked like a dog chewed it. Parallel park wheel was over the line—did you even open your eyes?
You gonna test tomorrow with that? Go back and practice!"
His voice rose. The last word was practically a roar.
The other two students stopped their cars and stared across the field. My face flushed—burning hot, ears ringing.
I stammered, wanting to say something, but he cut me off, pushing open the door and stepping out.
"Get out," he said. "Don't embarrass me tomorrow."
I mechanically unbuckled, got out, closed the door. He walked back toward the eave without looking back, his navy jacket stiff, shoulders tight.
I stood by the car, palms sweating. I'd nailed reverse park, parallel park was perfect—I knew it.
But his curses were so venomous, so fierce, I almost doubted myself. Had I crossed the line? Was my driving really that bad?
The girl practicing S-curves pulled up beside me, rolled down her window, and whispered, "You okay?"
I shook my head, forcing a smile.
She looked at me, hesitated, then said, "First time with Coach Zhou?"
"Yeah."
"He curses to ward off disaster," she said. "Everyone in our batch knows. Coach Zhou has a rule—last lap before the exam, no matter how well you drive, he'll curse you.
You don't get cursed, you don't get out. If he ever praises you, you'll definitely fail tomorrow."
"What?" I frowned. "Ward off what luck?"
She shrugged, rolling up the window. "Just don't take it to heart. The harder he curses, the smoother your exam goes.
Last batch had this guy—parallel parked like shit. Coach Zhou looked at him and said 'Not bad.' Next day he stalled on the first item and failed."
She drove off. I stood on the concrete as the sun dipped below the fence. Light through the wire mesh holes turned orange—grid-like, like prison bars.
I looked back at the eave. Coach Zhou was sitting on the plastic stool again, head down, phone in hand. His navy jacket collar was up, covering half his face.
The training ground was empty. Only two stray dogs on the village rubble, howling at the sunset.
That night I couldn't sleep. The girl's words looped in my head: "He curses to ward off disaster."
What bad luck? Failing an exam? I thought it was absurd, but beneath the absurdity was a thread of unease. Wind outside set off the scooter alarms downstairs several times.
The next morning at six, I arrived at the driving school. A bus took us students to the exam center on the east side. Coach Zhou sat in the front row, same navy jacket, eyes closed.
There were seven or eight of us on the bus, all quiet. Next to me sat a guy with glasses, clutching his ID so tight his knuckles were white.
I tapped his arm: "Nervous?"
He nodded, swallowing. "Dreamt about pressing the clutch all night."
"Did Coach Zhou curse you yesterday?"
He froze, then laughed. "Oh yeah. Said I reverse parked like an old lady with a cane." He scratched his head. "But the last batch said—everyone he curses passes."
I nodded, feeling slightly better. But only slightly.
At the exam center, we lined up, scanned fingerprints, took photos. The waiting hall was packed. A screen scrolled names and assigned cars. Mine was in the middle—Car 20.
When my name was called, I stood up, legs wobbly. At the starting line, Car 20 waited. The safety officer sat in the passenger seat—a young guy wearing sunglasses, chewing gum, looking bored out of his mind.
"Get in," he said.
I walked around the car, opened the door, sat down. Adjusted the seat, adjusted the mirrors, fastened the seatbelt. The safety officer tapped the dashboard with his pen: "Hurry up."
I pressed the clutch, started the engine, shifted to first gear, released the handbrake. The exam car's clutch was higher than the training car. I lifted my foot a little too fast—the car lurched forward.
"Jerking on start," the electronic voice announced the first item.
My brain short-circuited. Jerking on start—five points off. Not a fail, but my composure was shot.
Straight line drive—I gripped the wheel steady, kept it straight. Then overtake, change lanes, pass intersection.
I did each one, palms sweating, wheel slippery. Every time the electronic voice said "Complete next item," my heart jumped to my throat.
Parallel parking—I watched the distance to the curb in the right mirror, easing closer. Good enough. I pressed the brake, pulled the handbrake, shifted to neutral.
"Parallel park: distance to curb greater than 30cm, less than 50cm. Minus ten points."
The voice finished. I exhaled. Fifteen points off—but I passed.
The safety officer yawned, expressionless behind his sunglasses. "Get out," he said.
I unbuckled, pushed the door open. When my foot hit the ground, my legs gave way.
Sunlight blazed on the asphalt. The air smelled of rubber and something cool—like wind from a cellar. I grabbed the door, stood for two seconds before steadying myself.
I passed. I passed the practical exam.
On the bus back, students chattered about their results—excited winners, dejected losers. The glasses guy next to me passed, grinning so wide his glasses slipped.
"Coach Zhou was right to curse me!" he slapped his thigh. "If he hadn't yelled at me yesterday, I would've panicked at that start and failed for sure."
I smiled, saying nothing. My mind kept replaying the exam. When I parallel parked, I was sure the distance was perfect. But the voice said over 30cm. Did I miscalculate, or...
Forget it. I passed. That's all that matters.
By the time the bus returned, it was almost noon. The training ground was empty, sun scorching the concrete, heat waves rising.
Coach Zhou sat under the eave on his plastic stool, a chipped enamel mug of strong tea in front of him. He glanced up when we got off.
Students who passed ran over to thank him. He grunted responses, expressionless. The glasses guy yelled excitedly, "Coach! I passed! I passed!"
Coach Zhou looked at him. "Good. Now go study the theory—don't embarrass me on the final written test."
The guy laughed and ran off.
I stood there for a while, waiting for the crowd to disperse before walking over.
"Coach," I said.
He looked up, eyes lingering on my face for half a second before dropping. He picked up the enamel mug and drank.
"I passed," I said.
"Uh-huh," he grunted.
"I want to ask you something."
His hand paused on the mug. "Ask."
"You cursed me yesterday," I said. "Did you do it on purpose?"
He slowly put the mug down, lifting his eyes to mine.
The sun shone from behind the eave, casting his whole face in shadow—only his eyes glinted, same as last night when he'd glared at me in the car. Unnaturally bright.
"On purpose?" he said.
"Intentionally," I said. "They say—no matter how well you drive the last lap, you always curse. You can't get out without being cursed. They say you're warding off bad luck."
Coach Zhou said nothing. He stared at me for a moment, then picked up the mug again, fingers slowly tracing the rim.
"Do you know how many years I've taught?" he asked suddenly.
"No."
"Fifteen," he said. "Fifteen years. Thousands of students passed through my hands. Practical exam pass rate—I'm number one in this school, every year."
He took a sip of tea, voice gravelly: "But let me tell you—during my first three years, more students failed under me than in the next twelve combined."
I froze.
"First three years, I didn't curse," he said. "If a student drove well, I praised them. If not, I explained gently, taught slowly.
What happened? They drove perfectly during practice, then stalled as soon as they hit the exam. Practice sessions where they nailed every park—on test day they couldn't even parallel park.
One girl—nailed nine out of ten laps during practice. I said 'Well done.' Next day, she stalled three times on the starting line. Failed."
He took another sip, Adam's apple bobbing.
"So I started thinking. Why? Perfect in practice, disaster in the exam? Nervousness? Nervousness shouldn't erase basic skills. I observed for months, found a pattern."
He put down the mug, tapped his knee with one finger.
"Eight out of ten who messed up on exam day—they'd been praised by me on the final practice lap.
Not too much praise—even one word was enough. If I said 'Good,' 'Not bad,' 'You've got this,' they'd definitely mess up the next day."
He looked at me, gaze flat—but that flatness made my spine prickle.
"On the flip side—the ones I cursed, the harder I yelled, the smoother they drove next day. You know why?"
I shook my head.
"Praise makes you complacent," he said. "You think you've got it, your guard drops. When exam nerves hit, you panic—forget everything you know.
But when you're seething—why is the coach yelling at me? I drove perfectly!—that anger keeps you sharp. You focus on every clutch press, every wheel turn. Muscle memory takes over."
He paused, voice lowering.
"Failing an exam is just that—fail and retake. But if I don't curse you, you get complacent on the road, and something goes wrong... that's forever."
The tea had gone cold. He took a sip, frowned, and put it down.
"So I'm not warding off bad luck," he said. "I'm teaching you—never think you're good enough. The day you think that's the day you crash."
He stood up, tucked the enamel mug under his arm, brushed dust off his pants.
"Go home. Study for the written test."
He turned and walked toward the school office. His navy jacket back faded in the sun, disappearing around the corner.
I stood there, looking at the empty plastic stool under the eave. The mug still steamed faintly.
The girl's words echoed: He curses to ward off disaster.
"Ward off disaster," I muttered, shaking my head and laughing. No such thing—just the coach's teaching method.
Curse to keep you sharp, keep you grounded. Sounds mystical, but the logic is simple. I pulled out my phone, ready to call my family.
As I lowered my head to dial, something caught my eye under the plastic stool.
I looked down.
The stool's four legs pressed into the concrete. In the shadow underneath, two thin, winding marks stretched from directly below the stool, heading toward the training ground, disappearing at the edge of the white-painted lane.
They didn't look painted. More like something had dragged across the ground, wet, leaving two dark, faint water stains. Now almost dry—only shallow outlines remained.
The width of the stains—about the same as a person's knees.
I stared at those marks for several seconds. The sun blazed down, the marks fading, fading, until they vanished completely—like they'd never existed.
I lit up my phone screen. The lock screen showed my girlfriend's photo. I stared at her smile, took a deep breath, slipped the phone in my pocket, and turned toward the gate.
At the training ground entrance, I ran into the glasses guy. He was squatting by the fence tying his shoe. He stood up, smiling.
"What did Coach Zhou say? Did he curse you again?"
"No," I said. "He just explained why he curses."
"Oh?" The guy leaned in. "Why?"
"Said praise makes people complacent—complacent drivers crash."
The guy nodded. "Makes sense. But that 'warding off bad luck' thing the last batch talked about..." He lowered his voice. "I thought it was nonsense too.
But—my cousin learned from Coach Zhou two years ago. Last lap, he drove amazing. Coach Zhou didn't curse him that day—said 'Decent.'
Next day during the exam, my cousin was parallel parking. Mirror was clear—he opened the door, and an electric scooter zoomed out of nowhere. Almost hit him.
Failed the exam, had to pay two hundred for repairs."
"Electric scooter?" I frowned. "The exam area is closed off, right?"
"Yeah," the guy scratched his head. "That's why it's weird. No one knows where the scooter came from.
My cousin said he checked the mirror before opening the door—nothing there."
He stopped talking. Coach Zhou had emerged from the office, standing in the doorway looking our way. The guy shrank back, waved at me, and ran off.
I looked back at the eave. The plastic stool was still there. The sun had shifted, shadows stretching long. Under the stool—darkness, nothing visible.
Coach Zhou stood at the office door, hands in jacket pockets, watching me.
Behind him, a faded red paper was taped to the doorframe. It said "Safe Journeys" in calligraphy—but the ink had bled, looking like two black tears.
I shivered for no reason.
"Coach!" I called from a distance. "Will you teach tomorrow's written test?"
He didn't answer. He stared at me, mouth twitching slightly, then turned and went back inside. The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
I stood on the training ground. The sun shone through the fence, casting grid-like shadows.
I looked down at my feet. Just ahead was the white-painted lane line. Those water stains from under the stool had completely dried—no trace left.
But I knew they'd been there.
I pulled out my phone, sent my girlfriend a message: "Passed."
She replied instantly: "Amazing! I knew you could do it!"
I stared at the exclamation mark for a long time, then flipped the phone over in my palm.
Stray dogs howled again on the village rubble. Before the sun fully set, the last ray of light shot through a wire mesh hole—directly onto the plastic stool.
Under the stool—clean. Nothing there.
But I felt something crouching there. I couldn't see it, but it could see me.
I quickened my pace and left the training ground.
Later, I aced the written test and got my license. Coach Zhou was still the same—teaching new batches, cursing just as viciously.
Occasionally I'd pass the driving school and glance through the fence. He'd be sitting on that plastic stool under the eave, drinking tea from his enamel mug, navy jacket collar up, half his face hidden.
Once I passed by as a female student was reverse parking—she tried twice and failed. Coach Zhou stood up, walked over, pulled open the door, and roared something at her.
She got out with red eyes, lips trembling.
Coach Zhou said: "Tomorrow's exam—mess up the last lap, I curse you, you remember. No curse, you fail."
The girl nodded, sniffling.
I stood outside the fence watching for a while. The sun blazed down, the white lane lines sharp as knife cuts.
When Coach Zhou turned to walk back, I noticed—he glanced at the passenger seat first, then sat down.
Before getting in, his gaze fell on the backseat.
Empty backseat.
Nothing there.
He stared at that spot for about two seconds, then pulled open the door and climbed in. The enamel mug sat beside the stool, steam curling up.
That night, driving home, a shadow flashed in the right mirror at an intersection.
I slammed on the brakes, heart racing. The mirror was empty—only the yellow glow of streetlights on the deserted asphalt.
I gripped the wheel, sweating.
A faint sound came from the backseat. I turned to look.
Nothing.
But the car felt colder—chilly, like wind from a cellar.
I took a deep breath, shifted gear, released the clutch. The car crept forward. Streetlights in the mirror receded one by one, each shadow stretching thin and long.
Coach Zhou's words echoed in my head.
"The day you think you're good enough is the day you crash."
I tightened my grip on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Two years driving, never an accident. Before every drive, I adjust the mirrors—and glance at the backseat.
Empty backseat.
Nothing there.
But I still check.
Because Coach Zhou did it for fifteen years. Before getting in, he always looked at the backseat first.
What was he looking for? Or rather—what was he guarding against?
I don't have an answer. But every time I glance at that empty backseat, I feel a little safer. Like it's a ritual—after that glance, the chill in the car fades, the warmth returns.
I rolled down the window a crack. Night air rushed in, cooling my face.
Stray dogs howled in the distance.
I pressed the accelerator, heading home.