Mount Putuo in July could steam you alive.
The tour bus AC had been dead the whole way, and the cabin was a soup of sweat, sunscreen, and the peel of an orange someone had snuck open. I kept my left hand on the wheel, used my right to peel the damp collar off my neck. In the rearview, the aunties in the last row were fanning themselves with the route map, muttering about "this piece-of-junk bus."
I'd been driving tour buses for eight years.
This run had come up fast. Wednesday night, the dispatcher Lao Zhou called and said the regular driver for a two-day Mount Putuo trip had a gout flare-up, could I cover. I'd planned to take my daughter to the science museum that weekend, wanted to say no—but Lao Zhou said it was a VIP client's group, plus five hundred yuan on top.
"Bro, help me out. Two days."
I looked at the Lego manual spread out on the living room floor. My daughter had been talking about building that space shuttle all week. Five hundred yuan would cover half a year of her art class.
"Fine."
Friday morning, six sharp, I parked at the pickup point. Forty-two passengers filed in, mostly middle-aged couples, a few with old folks and kids in tow. Last on was the local guide—a woman in her early thirties, ponytail, a faded canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She nodded at me.
"Just call me Sister Zhang," she said, a quick introduction. "If anything comes up on the road, you follow my lead."
I grunted. Guides are all like that. Think they run everything.
We cleared the city and hit the highway, and Sister Zhang started the usual Mount Putuo spiel. Her voice had no ups and downs, like she was reading a manual, and the passengers nodded off. I slowed for the ramp and watched in the rearview as she cut herself off mid-sentence, bent down, and pulled a thermos out of her canvas bag.
She unscrewed the cap, took a sip, looked up. Her tone had changed.
"Folks, before we go into the temples, let me tell you something." She stepped forward, one hand landing on the back of my seat. "Putuo's incense runs strong—it works, they say. But it's got rules. Tomorrow we're going to Huiji Temple. Sometimes there's a child standing by the gate."
Someone in the cabin looked up.
"The kid's about five or six. Red bib, round face, shaved head." Sister Zhang's voice dropped. "If you see him smiling at you, don't turn to look at him. Don't talk to him. Pretend you didn't see him, and walk straight in."
Two seconds of quiet. A man in glasses in the front row laughed. "Guide, you telling ghost stories?"
Sister Zhang didn't laugh. Didn't even look at him. "It's not a ghost story," she said. "It's the rule. Just follow it."
I glanced in the rearview. Her expression was earnest to the point of stiffness. Her knuckles on the thermos were white, and there was an old burn scar on her thumb.
A few scattered murmurs of agreement—"temples have rules, right?" The aunties moved on to arguing about which vegetarian restaurant to hit for lunch, and the topic dissolved.
But before she went back to her seat, Sister Zhang bent close to my ear. Her voice was thin as a mosquito's. "Driver Chen. You too."
I blinked. "What?"
"Tomorrow, when you park at Huiji Temple, don't look toward the gate," she said. "No matter what you hear."
I wanted to push for more, but she was already gone.
We hit Zhujiajian Pier at ten-thirty. The passengers transferred to a speedboat for the island. I didn't need to go—the bus stayed in the lot, and I'd pick everyone up at the pier tomorrow afternoon.
Beside the parking lot was a shabby drivers' rest room. Folding chairs, a little TV that only ever played war dramas. I lay around for a while, scrolling my phone. My daughter sent a voice message: "Daddy, when are you coming home? I want to go to the science museum."
I replied: "Day after tomorrow. I'll take you when I'm back."
She sent a pouty-face sticker. I stared at the screen a long time, then locked it.
Afternoon, nothing to do, so I wandered down near the pier. July island air, hot and wet, the sea breeze smelling of fish. A grilled squid stand, ten yuan for three skewers, chili powder so red it looked aflame. I bought a box of fried noodles and squatted on the steps to eat.
Near the end, my phone rang. Sister Zhang.
"Driver Chen, someone in our group got heatstroke. She's on a drip at the island clinic. Might be late coming down tomorrow."
"How late?"
"Hard to say. Just wait."
"Fine."
After hanging up, I remembered what she'd said that morning. I thought about asking what the deal was with that kid. Then I figured, forget it. Guides make their living off this. A little mysticism sells the atmosphere.
That evening I went back to sleep on the bus. Reclined the seat as far as it would go, pulled my jacket over my face, drifted off into a muddle. I dreamed my daughter was crouched on the living room floor building Legos, head down, and she said, "Daddy, there's a kid at the door. He's smiling."
I snapped awake.
The bus was dark, lit only by the parking-lot lamps bleeding through the windshield. I sat up, looked around. Empty seats. Back door shut. Front door shut.
No one.
I lay back down, heart beating a little fast. Just a dream. Probably all that talk from Sister Zhang today.
But ten minutes later I still couldn't sleep. Against my better judgment I turned my head and looked out the window beside the driver's seat.
The lot's lights were sickly yellow, washing over rows of silent buses and the pier's turnstiles in the distance. Next to the turnstiles was an ice-pop cart, the one I'd seen that afternoon—folded up now, plastic sheet draped over it.
Standing beside the cart was a child.
Small. Came up about to my knee. A bright red bib, a bare shaved head, a round face.
He was facing my bus. Smiling.
I couldn't make out his features—twenty-plus meters away, bad light. But I knew he was smiling, because the curve of that mouth was too wide, like someone had hooked his lips and pulled them up with their fingers.
First reaction: check the time. 11:40 p.m. What kid is wandering a pier parking lot at this hour?
Second reaction: what Sister Zhang said this morning. "Don't turn to look at him."
But I was in the driver's seat, facing the window he stood at. I didn't have to turn to see him.
The kid didn't move. Just stood there smiling. Ten-odd seconds passed, and I heard the fabric of my seatback scrape against the headrest. I moved—reaching across to grab the water bottle on the passenger seat.
When I looked up again, the kid was gone.
The area by the turnstiles was empty. Just the plastic-wrapped ice-pop cart.
I unscrewed my bottle and took a long gulp. Warm water, with this morning's tea leaves swimming in it. After that I thought about it, got out, and walked a full loop around the bus. The lot was quiet. A boat horn out in the harbor, and close by, nothing but crickets.
No one.
I got back in, locked up, straightened the seat, and sat in the dark for a long time.
Next day, three p.m., Sister Zhang brought the group out from the pier. The woman with heatstroke was being helped along by two people, pale but otherwise fine. Her granddaughter tagged along—an eight or nine-year-old girl, ponytail, clutching a temple-blessed charm.
"Driver Chen, let's go." Sister Zhang climbed aboard and patted the back of my seat.
I started the engine and counted heads in the rearview. When I got to the third row, I caught a flash of red in the side mirror.
I slammed the brakes.
The whole bus pitched forward. Sister Zhang grabbed the rail. "What's wrong?"
I stared at the side mirror. Just the road behind us, the pier exit, a few stragglers dragging suitcases.
"Nothing," I said. "A kid ran across the road."
Sister Zhang said nothing. But I saw her hand tighten on the seat back.
We drove. All the way I kept checking the mirrors. Nothing. I told myself I hadn't slept well, my eyes were playing tricks.
At 5:30 we were back in the city and the passengers filed off. Sister Zhang was last, pausing at the door like she wanted to say something.
"Driver Chen," she said. "Yesterday you..."
"Didn't look." I cut her off. "You said not to look, so I didn't."
She studied me for two seconds, nodded, and left. Ponytail swung once. The canvas bag knocked against the door frame.
I drove back to the company lot. Cut the engine, pulled the keys. The cabin went quiet, the AC's dying breath humming. I gathered the odds and ends from my seat—an empty bottle, a half-used tissue pack, the little dinosaur sticker my daughter had put on the dashboard.
There was something on the passenger seat.
A folded yellow slip of paper, palm-sized, with something drawn on it in red. I picked it up and looked. A child's stick figure. Round head, two dots for eyes, a curved line for a mouth.
The curve bent upward. A smile.
My brain went white for a second. That slip hadn't been there yesterday. The passenger seat was empty when I slept in the bus last night. I checked this morning.
I got out of the bus, the paper in my hand, heading for the trash can. My arm came up—and stopped. I don't know why. I shoved the paper into my pants pocket instead.
At home my daughter came flying at me. "Daddy! Science museum!"
I crouched and hugged her, breathing in the watermelon shampoo in her hair. "Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow."
My wife poked her head out of the kitchen. "Eaten? I saved you some braised pork."
"Had something at the rest stop." A lie. I hadn't eaten, but I wasn't hungry.
That night, after my daughter fell asleep, I stood on the balcony and smoked. The paper in my pocket was digging into my thigh. I pulled it out and looked again. Red pen, crude strokes—but that smile was drawn with force, the curve of the mouth gone over several times, the paper worn fuzzy.
I turned it over. There was a line on the back. Ballpoint. Wobbly, like a kid had written it.
"Uncle, you saw me."
Next day: the science museum. My daughter played with the water-ball launcher in the kids' zone, and I sat on a bench nearby scrolling my phone, distracted. That morning I'd put the paper on the shoe rack by the door—then, before leaving, I'd picked it up and put it back in my pocket.
I don't know why. I just felt like I shouldn't let it out of my sight.
We came out of the museum around four and my daughter insisted on McDonald's. We sat by the window. She dipped fries in ketchup, and I bit into a burger while watching the street.
Then I saw him.
Through the McDonald's glass, on the sidewalk across the road, the red-bib kid was standing under a plane tree. Still that small. Shaved head. Round face. Smiling at me.
My burger dropped onto the tray.
"Daddy, what's wrong?" My daughter looked up.
"Nothing." My voice was tight. "I saw a coworker."
I looked back at the window. Under the plane tree, only a fallen leaf.
That night, my daughter asleep, I didn't go to the balcony. I sat on the living room sofa with every light on. My wife asked if I was feeling okay. I said my stomach hurt a little and told her to go to bed.
Before she shut the bedroom door she looked back at me. "You look pale."
"I'm fine. Just gonna lie down a minute."
When the door closed, I pulled the paper out of my pocket. The line on the back was still there. Wobbly.
I got a ballpoint pen and wrote a line under it: "Who are you?"
Then I tucked the paper into a magazine on the coffee table, killed the lights, and lay down. The curtains weren't drawn all the way. Moonlight leaked in, laying a strip of white across the floor.
I don't know how long passed. Half-asleep, I heard a rustling. Like something turning pages.
I snapped upright.
The magazine on the coffee table was open. The paper lay on it, face up—the red stick-figure kid smiling at me.
I flipped it over.
Under my line, in fresh red ink—that same wobbly handwriting—a new line:
"Are you driving tomorrow?"
Monday morning I went to the company. Lao Zhou was in his office having tea. He saw me come in, set down his enamel mug. "Mo Ge, rough weekend. That group go okay?"
"Fine." I walked up to his desk. "Lao Zhou, question. The Putuo group—you ever driven it before?"
Lao Zhou frowned. "There are tons of Putuo groups. Which one?"
"The one you had me cover last Wednesday. The original driver... I never caught his name."
"Oh, Driver Liu." Lao Zhou sipped his tea. "Gout attack. He'll be fine in a couple days at home."
"Has he driven this group before? I mean, same agency, same local guide."
Lao Zhou thought. "Zhang Min? She's been running this route forever. Liu probably paired with her a few times."
"Did she ever tell you any... rules?" I picked my words carefully. "About a kid at the temple gate."
Lao Zhou's enamel mug paused halfway. He looked up at me, eyes a little odd. "Zhang Min told you that?"
"She told the whole group."
Lao Zhou set the mug down and went quiet for a few seconds. "Then she's braver than I gave her credit for," he said. "That's why Driver Liu quit this route."
"What do you mean?"
"Liu finished one Putuo run, took the next day off, said family stuff. When I called to ask when he was coming back, he said he wouldn't drive that route. Any route, just not Putuo."
Lao Zhou scratched the back of his head. "I asked why. He hemmed and hawed, then said Zhang Min talked about that kid on the bus, and that night he saw it in the parking lot."
"Saw what?"
"Saw it." Lao Zhou spread his hands. "A kid. Red bib. Smiling at him. He said he'd been driving for fifteen years and that was the first time he dropped his keys on the ground."
I swallowed. Lao Zhou looked at me. "Mo Ge. You saw it too?"
I didn't answer. Lao Zhou sighed. "This kind of thing—believe it and it's real, don't believe it and it isn't. Liu turned out fine, just switched routes. Don't let it get to you."
"The paper," I said.
"What paper?"
"A yellow one. With a smiling kid drawn on it."
Lao Zhou's expression changed. He slowly set down his mug, fingers tapping twice on the desk. "Liu mentioned a paper too," he said. "Said it showed up on the passenger seat. Had writing on it."
"What did it say?"
"He didn't dare read it. Threw it away." Lao Zhou stared at me. "What did yours say?"
I pulled the paper out of my pocket and unfolded it on his desk.
Lao Zhou looked down for a few seconds, then picked it up and turned it over. Two lines, one above the other. Blue ballpoint. Red ballpoint.
He flipped the paper face-down on the desk like it had burned him. "Did you tell her?"
"No."
"Then who wrote that line?"
"I don't know," I said. "It grew there last night."
Lao Zhou stared at me. His Adam's apple moved. For a long time he said nothing, and the office had only the AC's hum.
"Mo Ge," he said at last. "Take my advice. Burn that paper. Never ride with Zhang Min again. And I'll give the Putuo route to someone else."
"Will burning it help?"
Lao Zhou didn't answer. He picked up the paper again and stared at the red stick-figure kid on the front. I noticed his fingers were trembling, ripples spreading across his tea.
"There's something I never told you," he said, voice low. "Three days after Liu finished that Putuo run, his wife called me. Said he was home with a high fever, raving, repeating one sentence over and over."
"What sentence?"
Lao Zhou slid the paper back across the desk. Sunlight came in through the blinds and landed right on the curve of that round face's smile.
"He kept saying, 'Don't turn around. Don't turn around. He's in the passenger seat, smiling.'"
I went out to the parking lot after leaving his office. Noon. The sun had gone so hard the asphalt felt soft. I opened the bus door and sat down. AC off. The cabin was like a steamer.
The passenger seat was empty. I ran a hand along the seat crease, lay down and looked underneath. Clean.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was sitting there. Invisible, but there—like the knot of cold air pressed inside summer heat when the lights go out.
My phone rang. Zhang Min. I answered.
"Driver Chen," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "You saw the paper, didn't you?"
"How do you know?"
"You looked." She paused on those two words. "Once you look, you can't un-look."
"Just tell me what you're getting at," I said, my temper rising. "What is that kid? Why is it after me?"
Silence on the line for a long time. I heard sea wind. She was at the pier, or the coast.
"I didn't mean to," she said suddenly. "I shouldn't have said those things on the bus that day. But I figured I had to warn the passengers. There was a tourist before—looked back at it, and after he got home, his family..."
"What happened to his family?"
"The kid's things follow you home," she said. "First the paper. Then you see him everywhere you spend time. And then..."
"And then what?"
"He stands at your bedside and smiles while you sleep."
My hand on the phone went slick with sweat. The parking lot outside the window was empty, but I had a sudden feeling something was glinting in the mirror. I turned.
In the right side mirror, three meters behind the bus, the red-bib kid stood in the sun, grinning at me.
High noon. The sun at its worst. He had a shadow—a small, dark patch on the ground.
He raised one hand and waved at me.
I whipped my head to the passenger seat. Empty.
Back to the mirror. Empty too.
"Driver Chen?" Zhang Min was calling in my ear. "Driver Chen, are you still there?"
"He's in the parking lot," I heard my own voice, dry as sandpaper. "He was in the mirror just now. Now he's gone."
Zhang Min drew a breath. "Get out of the bus. Now. Stand in the sun."
I shoved the door open and jumped out, standing in the middle of the empty lot. The sun scorched the back of my neck. I squinted, sweeping the whole area. Nothing.
"I'm out."
"Listen to me," Zhang Min said, voice dropped very low. "Do you still have the paper?"
"Yes."
"The line on the back—did you write it, or did he?"
"He did."
Another silence on the line. Then she said, "Driver Chen, this is on me. I'll tell you how to fix it. But you have to promise me one thing."
"What?"
"I'll read out a passage. You repeat it after me. When you're done, tear the paper up and throw it to the east." She paused. "But you have to promise—when you tear it, don't look at him."
"Look at who?"
"When the paper tears, he'll appear in front of you, smiling right at you." Zhang Min's voice came through. "Look only at his feet. Keep your eyes on his feet, don't raise your head. Finish the chant, tear it, throw it, and run. Run far. Don't look back."
"Run where?"
"Home. Don't leave your house for three days. Don't drive. Don't go anywhere he might be waiting for you."
I stood in the middle of the lot, clutching the paper. The sun burned my neck, but my back was cold, wave after wave.
"Read it," I said.
Zhang Min began to chant. It sounded like a sutra, but not quite—some syllables I couldn't understand mixed in. I repeated it after her, my voice thin and flat in the empty lot.
When we reached the last line, I lowered my head and tore the paper.
The paper was tough. Tearing was a fight, my fingers shaking. On the first rip, in the edge of my vision, a pair of small bare feet appeared two steps in front of me. Dusty. A red string tied around one ankle.
I kept my eyes locked on those feet and tore again. The paper came apart in two. The feet didn't move. I tossed the shreds to the east—not even sure where east was, just picked a direction.
Then I ran.
Out of the lot, onto the sidewalk, through two intersections, until I couldn't breathe and had to stop. I leaned on a lamppost and looked back. Nothing behind me.
The paper was gone.
But the feel of it in my pocket was still there.
I reached in. Empty.
At home I changed my shoes at the door. My wife was watching cartoons with my daughter in the living room. My daughter ran over and grabbed my leg. "Daddy, why are you home so early?"
"Nothing going on this afternoon." I bent down and ruffled her hair.
My wife gave me a look, said nothing, went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. "You look terrible."
"Might be heatstroke." I drank. "I'm going to lie down."
I shut the bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed, turning out every pocket. Nothing. Not even a shred.
But the feeling was still there. Eyes on me. Not in the room—outside. Through the walls, through the window, through the security bars.
I pulled the curtains shut, lay down, and stared at the ceiling.
Three days. Zhang Min said three days.
Day one, I called in sick—said fever. My wife took my daughter to her mother's, said she'd bring me congee in the evening. Alone in the house, I sealed every window, drew every curtain, and put the TV on full volume. Sports channel.
At three in the afternoon I heard the doorbell. Through the peephole, the stairwell was empty. A second ring. Then knocking, light, like a child's hand patting the door.
I didn't move.
The knocking went on for about a dozen strikes. Then it stopped.
After dark I sat on the sofa, afraid to turn off the lights, scrolling my phone on a loop. At eleven my wife texted that my daughter was asleep and she wouldn't be back tonight—I should heat something up for myself.
I replied with one word: "Okay."
Midnight. The living room light flickered.
I looked up. The light was fine again. But out of the corner of my eye I caught a small patch of shadow at the bottom of the curtain, like something pressed against the wall under the window.
I closed my eyes.
Day two. I never opened the curtains once, surviving on bread and bottled water from the fridge. In the afternoon my daughter video-called. I took it huddled in the bedroom, a wall behind me, the camera showing only my face.
"Daddy, are you better?"
"Almost. I can go out tomorrow."
"Can we go to the science museum the day after? I didn't get enough of that water-ball thing."
"Day after tomorrow, promise."
After the call I stared at the ceiling for a while. Then I heard a dripping from the bathroom.
I walked over and pushed the door open. Bathroom light off. Window shut. In the mirror, my own face.
And behind my shoulder, a red dot.
I didn't turn around. I reached in, flipped the light off, backed out, shut the door, and leaned against it, gasping.
Day three. I stayed in the bedroom the whole time, afraid of the living room and bathroom. My phone was down to twenty percent. The charger was in the living room. I didn't dare go get it.
Six in the evening, one percent. I sent Zhang Min a WeChat: "Can I go out tomorrow?"
She answered fast. Two words: "Yes, you can."
I let out a breath and plugged the phone in—I'd had my wife slip the charger through the crack under the door.
That night I slept better than I had in three days. No dreams. No dripping. No shadow under the curtain.
Day four, I left for work in the morning. The sun was good, the wind blowing warm against my face. I walked to the lot and opened the bus, did a full check. The passenger seat was spotless.
Lao Zhou saw me in the office and clapped my shoulder. "Back on your feet?"
"Back on my feet."
"Good. There's a short-run group today. Out in the morning, back in the afternoon. The film lot in the suburbs."
"Sure."
I took the paperwork and pulled the bus out. Not many passengers—twenty-odd, mostly parents taking their kids for a weekend outing. I glanced at the itinerary. The local guide column was blank. In-house guide at the site, it said.
The bus got onto the ring road. Sunlight came through the windshield, and I adjusted the rearview mirror.
Then I saw it.
In the mirror, in the middle seat of the last row, sat the red-bib kid. He was smiling at the empty air in front of him, his mouth stretched ear to ear.
I slammed the brakes. The whole bus pitched forward. Someone yelled, "What are you doing, driver?!"
I didn't answer. I stared into the mirror. The kid was still there, on the empty seat, his little feet swinging back and forth, the red string on his ankle swaying.
Slowly, he turned his head toward my direction. Then he raised his right hand and waved at the driver's seat.
Just like in the parking lot three days ago.
The cabin was filling with complaints. "What's wrong with this driver?" "We almost hit the car in front."
I heard myself say, "Sorry. A cat ran across the road."
When I restarted the bus, my hands were shaking. I knew Zhang Min's fix hadn't worked.
Or she'd lied to me.
Or the fix was always bait, and the bait catches whoever uses it.
The bus kept moving. Sunlight bright, kids chattering, adults talking. I kept checking the mirror. The kid stayed in the last row the whole time. Still smiling.
His smile was growing. Growing until his whole face was just one mouth.
And suddenly a question surfaced in my head.
That first night in the parking lot—how did he recognize me? All those buses. Why did he pick mine, stand right in front of my bus?
The day Zhang Min called, she said, "You saw the paper, didn't you?" How did she know I'd seen it?
Unless the paper was never meant for Driver Liu.
It was meant for me.
In the mirror, the kid's mouth moved. No sound. But I can read lips.
He was saying: "Uncle, are you driving tomorrow?"
I turned and looked at the passenger seat. Empty.
But on the passenger seat, there was now a folded yellow slip of paper.
Face up. A red stick-figure kid, smiling.