Chapter Twenty-Nine: Exploring the Haunted House

Zhang the Fatty was remarkably efficient. By noon, he had returned with the black dog’s blood, bringing back a small earthen jar about the size of a fist. As soon as the lid was lifted, an unbearable stench filled the air, making one’s stomach churn. Feng Yuan quickly sealed it up again.

"Fatty, you're sure you didn't trick me? This really is black dog’s blood, right?" Feng Yuan asked Zhang the Fatty with utmost seriousness—this was a matter of life and death, and there couldn’t be the slightest error.

"Why would I lie to you? Go outside and see for yourself. I, Zhang Zhen, such a handsome, suave, and elegant man, have never deceived anyone!" Zhang the Fatty patted his chest with pride as he spoke.

Feng Yuan gave him a glance and said coolly, "If not for all those things you tack onto your name, I might have almost believed you."

With that, Feng Yuan headed outside.

"Hey, Feng Yuan, that’s not fair! I admit there may be a few exaggerations, but overall, I’m reliable!" Zhang the Fatty called after him.

Stepping out into the yard, Feng Yuan saw the carcass of a large black dog lying there, its coat pure and glossy, looking fierce even in death. It must have weighed thirty or forty jin. Of course, it was already dead.

Feng Yuan nodded in approval and said to Zhang the Fatty, "Well done."

"Hehe, see? I told you I wasn’t lying," Zhang the Fatty said smugly. "How about we stew some dog meat for lunch? Dog meat is delicious, especially with a little wine. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water."

Feng Yuan nodded and said, "Drag the dog into the kitchen and give it to Xiaoxiao—have her stew it. We’ll have dog meat for lunch!"

"Hehe, great minds think alike! I’ll go buy a good jar of wine later. Dog meat and wine—what a combination!" Zhang the Fatty replied, excitedly dragging the black dog toward the kitchen.

Once Zhang the Fatty was gone, Feng Yuan immediately picked up the black dog’s blood and hurried toward the second courtyard, afraid Zhang the Fatty would discover and follow him. He walked quickly; this was far too dangerous, and he didn’t want Zhang the Fatty or Hu Xiaoxiao to find out. If they followed and something happened, it would be a disaster.

It was midday, the sun blazing in the sky, the heat oppressive—this was the hour when yang energy was strongest and yin energy at its weakest. Coming here at this time was much safer, or so the books said. Whether that was true, Feng Yuan couldn’t be certain.

He hurried across the overgrown yard and soon reached the main entrance of the second house. The door was tightly shut, which meant the ghostly woman must be inside. When Feng Fugui and the others had left with the painting two nights ago, the door had been wide open, and no one had closed it since. Now it was shut—clearly, the ghost woman had returned and closed it herself.

Standing at the door, holding the jar of black dog’s blood, Feng Yuan’s heart pounded so hard he thought it might leap from his chest. He was risking his life—stepping inside meant his fate was uncertain. Though this wasn’t his first encounter with the ghost, his legs still felt weak; after all, this time he knew for certain the ghost was inside, unlike before when he could only guess.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, then reached out toward the door.

His fingertips hadn’t even touched it when, suddenly, the door swung open by itself. A chill swept out from within, enveloping him—a sensation like stepping into an air-conditioned room and being hit by a wave of cold air.

His heart skipped a beat. The door had opened unbidden, as though the ghost had anticipated his arrival and was waiting for him.

He hesitated at the threshold, wondering if he should go in. He couldn't help but feel as if he was delivering himself like takeout.

After a minute of deliberation, Feng Yuan stepped forward and entered. He was already here; retreating would solve nothing. Even moving away might not rid him of her. Since death seemed inevitable, he might as well face it head-on.

He stepped into the main hall and, after a few quick steps, heard a faint clatter behind him. He turned and saw the door closing by itself. His heart tightened further; he could almost hear his own heartbeat.

"Don’t panic. Stay calm—whatever you do, don’t panic now!"

He silently reminded himself, taking several deep breaths to force his nerves to settle. Then he looked around. Though it was broad daylight, the house was shrouded in gloom, the air thick with yin energy. There was no sign of the ghostly woman, nor of the painting that once depicted her.

He dared not move rashly, standing alert, clutching the jar of black dog’s blood tightly, ready for anything.

When people are afraid, they instinctively freeze. The body refuses to obey, and any movement only heightens the terror, as even the slightest sound amplifies one’s fear.

More importantly, the human body has its own self-preservation mechanisms: only in utter stillness can one quickly detect any change in the surroundings.

Those who advise singing to bolster courage when walking at night are talking nonsense. The more you sing, the more terrified you become; who knows, you might end up with something crawling from beneath your feet to join in the singing.

Feng Yuan stood there for four or five minutes, waiting until his nerves steadied a bit. Then, in a trembling voice, he called out, "Um... Lady Ghost... beautiful Lady Ghost, I mean no harm. I only wish to speak with you. Would you please show yourself?"

His voice quavered uncontrollably.

A sharp "pa!" sounded from the study to his right, as if something had fallen to the floor.

Feng Yuan’s gaze snapped toward the study just in time to glimpse a corner of a garment vanishing from the doorway. Instantly, his body shuddered involuntarily, and his legs nearly gave out.

"Don’t panic, Feng Yuan! Whatever you do, don’t panic. Ghosts were once human too—there’s nothing to be afraid of. If she were that powerful, you’d already be dead!"

He tried to reassure himself, keeping a wary eye on the study door, his breathing rapid.

He stood like this for about half an hour before his nerves finally subsided. He wiped away the cold sweat that covered him, feeling a chill running down his back.

"Um... beautiful Lady Ghost, are you in the study? I’m coming in to see you now. Let’s agree—no violence. Whoever makes a move first is a little dog, all right?"

He spoke again, but there was no reply—not even a single "pa."

"If you don’t answer, I’ll take it as your consent," he said, steadying himself. Then, step by step, he cautiously approached the study, observing every detail as he drew near.

The study was dark, devoid of sunlight. The first thing he saw was the desk, and on it lay the painting of the ghostly woman—the very same one. Only the lower half was visible; the painting was half on the desk, half hanging off it.

It had been taken away by Feng Fugui before, yet here it was again—how, he couldn’t say.

Feng Yuan inched closer, scanning the study, stopping at the doorway and peering to the left inside.

And then—

"Ah!"

As he glanced to the left, he was so startled that he couldn’t help but cry out in terror...