Chapter 4

4. The Coffin Rises

Suddenly, the coffin shook.

I felt it lift from the ground.

I wanted to scream, but fear of being heard kept my lips pressed shut.

Da Qiang’s voice came from very close.

“We dug that pit behind Aunt’s house ourselves. Now we can bury it there. Keep things hidden.”

Both men laughed.

“That pit was deep,” Er Qiang complained. “Nearly broke my back digging it.”

I struck the lid, trying to sit up.

Then I realized.

It had been nailed shut.

I beat at it until all ten fingers bled.

It didn’t move.

“Grandpa! Grandma! Save me!”

No answer.

Only the men’s laughter and the sound of shovels biting into frozen earth.

5. The Lid Opens

I don’t know how long it was before a crash told me the coffin had dropped into the pit.

My heart pounded.

Their voices came from directly above.

“Open it.”

A hammer tapped.

Nails fell, clinking.

The lid lifted.

Gray light poured in.

What I saw almost stopped my heart.

Figures hung from the rafters.

Grandpa. Grandma. Uncle Liu. Little Douzi.

All smiling at me.

Twisted, icy smiles.

Below them, Da Qiang and Er Qiang held the coffin lid.

Their eyes were wide, their pupils black.

Er Qiang tilted his head and gave a strange smile.

“Qiu Fu. Which piece of dried meat would you like?”

Shaking, I pointed at random.

“Eat.”

He handed me the meat and pushed a thin knife into my hand.

“Cut it yourself. Thin slices.”

I took the knife.

And began to cut.

Slice after slice.

Blood ran. Flesh smelled metallic.

Metal scraped against wood with a shrill sound.

It took two hundred and seventy cuts to finish that piece.

From that night on, I never dared eat dried meat again.

In the end, the village fell quiet, as though nothing had happened.

But whenever wind passed the drying lines, people heard the soft scrape of a knife.

And the faint laughter of a child in a coffin.

***

Decades later, I returned to the village beneath the mountain.

People called it the Village of Hanging Flesh.

Moss covered the dirt roads. Weeds crawled over the stone steps.

There were no footprints.

My grandparents’ house still stood.

The tiled roof had collapsed. Only the old meat-drying line remained, swaying as though something invisible still hung from it.

I stopped at the door.

“Grandma. I’m home.”

Wind stirred the dry leaves.

A faint metallic odor reached me, mingled with old snow and ash.

Light came through cracks in the wall.

From the rafters, red pieces of meat still hung.

Horribly fresh.

As though cut only yesterday.

I stepped closer and touched one.

Warm.

A red drop fell onto the back of my hand.

Still warm.

I stopped.

Moonlight came through the broken window, revealing fine, even cuts along the flesh.

I counted.

Two hundred and seventy.

Just like that night.

I looked up.

There they were.

Grandpa. Grandma. Uncle Liu. Little Douzi.

Still sitting in the rafters, smiling at me.

Their smiles were no longer fierce.

They looked gentle. Sad.

As though they had been waiting for me for a very long time.

Grandma’s rough voice echoed from somewhere.

“You’ve grown, Qiu Fu…”

“Do you still remember the smell of that meat?”

“I remember,” I said softly, tears running down my face.

“But I don’t dare anymore.”

I turned and left.

As I passed the village gate, the wind rose behind me.

The drying line creaked.

And creaked.

Like a knife meeting flesh.

Like a child laughing softly inside a coffin.

After that, no one dared stay in the village.

Strangers passing at night sometimes still saw red meat hanging from the rafters in the moonlight, swaying in the wind.

They say it still smells delicious.

Eat human flesh, and become hanging meat.

Eat hanging meat, and join those on the line.

The End

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