Simon Wang spoke, once again bringing up my Instinct. But regarding Instinct, all I knew came from the golden-eyed version of myself, from the ghostly part within my body. What it told me—etched deep inside me—was Instinct. Yet, I never truly understood what it was.
“Uncle Ming, do you know what Instinct really is?”
Simon Wang shook his head and continued, explaining just how important my Instinct was to the Immortality Society.
"First, when the Immortality Society got their hands on this 'Horror Stories' book through Victor Duan, they immediately realized that what Mona Ouyang had created was both real and illusory, yet undeniably existent. It was born from the Dream Realm. Since you came from that world, you should know the difference between Dreamers and Dream Ghosts, right?"
I nodded and replied.
"Dreamers bring pleasant dreams, Dream Ghosts create nightmares—they complement each other."
Simon Wang nodded and sighed.
“Although I don’t know why Mona Ouyang wanted to create this 'Horror Stories' book, his true intention was simply to bring a bit of joy to people. As the old saying goes, ‘In books there are houses of gold, in books there are beauties.’ This 'Horror Stories' was made by Mona Ouyang before he became a ghost sovereign—just to add some excitement to the world.”
“Uncle Ming, how do you know all this so clearly?”
Simon Wang stood up, lifted his head, and said:
“After all, I am the one who wrote it, and the story itself is its own vessel. So we know each other well. To put it simply, I am the 'Horror Stories' itself, and 'Horror Stories' is me.”
I let out a sound of surprise, staring blankly at Simon Wang.
“Do you want to hear it? It’s a long story.”
I nodded.
Simon Wang began to speak. He didn’t know much about Mona Ouyang’s earlier life, but he was clear on how this 'Horror Stories' book came to be.
It was an era of peace and prosperity. In such times, every man pursued only one thing—fame and fortune, promotion and wealth. Every woman sought to marry a man of virtue and talent, scholarly and successful.
Back then, Mona Ouyang was nothing but a wandering ghost, drifting through the world for reasons unknown.
Society was starkly divided. In that seemingly stable era, men competed fiercely for fame, wasting years, while women waited for the results, hoping to see who succeeded. Over time, there were men over forty still buried in their books, and women over forty still unmarried.
In this outwardly peaceful age, the seeds of chaos for the coming era were quietly sown—scholarship was valued over martial prowess.
At that time, there was a peculiar man—a storyteller named Ouyang Weng.
"Is he the ancestor of the current Ouyang family?" I couldn't help but ask.
Simon Wang nodded. He told me that everything started here—the birth of the Horror Stories.
Ouyang Weng was different from most people. Precocious as a youth, he passed the county examination at thirteen or fourteen and became a scholar. Yet his official career was fraught with setbacks—he failed for over a decade. Fortunately, his family was well-off, with several acres of land, so he never starved in those peaceful times.
When he was over thirty, Ouyang Weng finally couldn’t bear his repeated failures. He gave up on fame and fortune, sold his land, and opened a tea house, telling stories every day. Surprisingly, the business thrived in those times.
Ouyang Weng had another special trait: he loved reading strange novels, folk legends, and unofficial histories. He was fascinated by the supernatural, and so were the locals.
Every morning, Ouyang Weng would get up early, boil several pots of water, prepare fine tea leaves, and wait for guests. He would tell stories from dawn till dusk.
One or two years passed, and Ouyang Weng’s tea house expanded greatly. Not only ordinary folk but also many officials came to hear him. His storytelling always moved the audience, and during exciting moments, the crowd would burst into applause.
At this time, many unusual listeners appeared in the tea house. Most of Ouyang Weng’s stories were about ghosts—some were tales he had heard or seen, others were imagined and embellished. The audience listened, utterly captivated.
Though not wealthy, Ouyang Weng, thanks to his storytelling skills, became comfortably middle-class and married a virtuous wife. His wife and servants managed the tea house, so he had more time to prepare stories and was less tired. He even adjusted his schedule, telling more stories at night.
But good times didn’t last. One night, after finishing his storytelling and counting the day’s earnings, Ouyang Weng’s wife suddenly screamed.
Among today’s earnings, there was actually joss paper. His wife was frightened, fearing that her husband’s daily ghost stories might attract spirits. But Ouyang Weng didn’t mind, just laughed it off, thinking it was a prank by a guest.
But then, strange things kept happening—on the second and third days, there was more joss paper, and the amount kept increasing.
Ouyang Weng became annoyed, still thinking it was a prank. He had his wife watch the counter and his servants watch the guests, but no matter how they watched, every day there was more joss paper.
Ouyang Weng’s wife finally sought out a local Taoist priest with some skill. The priest indeed had ability and, that night, discovered the truth, smiling as he told Ouyang Weng.
People love stories, and so do ghosts. Since Ouyang Weng told ghost stories, those spirits gathered, entranced by his tales. Most were wandering female ghosts, but the priest noticed one particularly unusual spirit—powerful, but he couldn’t gauge its strength. That ghost was Mona Ouyang.
The priest said that adjusting the entrance’s direction and writing a few talismans to seal the eight points would keep the wandering ghosts away.
But Ouyang Weng refused and even drove the priest out. He believed that even ghosts were his guests—as the priest said, people love stories, and so do ghosts.
His wife tried every way to persuade him, but Ouyang Weng not only opened the doors wider, he added more tables with offerings for the ghosts to sit and listen to his stories.
Strange things happened—the next morning, the offerings were indeed gone. But Ouyang Weng was delighted and changed the tea house’s name to Human-Ghost Residence, calling himself the Human-Ghost Storyteller.
Hearing this, I couldn’t help but smile knowingly.
"That old Mr. Ouyang really was a broad-minded man."
Thinking about it, if I had half the open-mindedness of Ouyang Weng, maybe many things would have turned out differently.
"Sigh, Qingyuan, you deal with ghosts too, so you should know—humans are of the yang, ghosts are of the yin."
My heart skipped a beat, and I nodded.
"Did something go seriously wrong afterward?"
Just as I asked, Simon Wang began to explain.
Soon, the cash box was filled with joss paper, and the income dwindled. The once-crowded tea house became deserted, with fewer and fewer guests.
Realizing this, Ouyang Weng suspected it had something to do with the ghosts, especially since his wife was anxious. Eventually, there were no guests left in the tea house.
His wife began to complain to Ouyang Weng, saying it was the ghosts causing trouble and driving away all the guests.
The tea house closed. On the second day without guests, that night, strange things happened—a chorus of voices filled the main hall. Though frightened, the couple went downstairs to check.
When they entered the main hall, it was packed—not with people, but with ghosts. All the ghosts were waiting for Ouyang Weng to begin his storytelling. His wife was terrified, but Ouyang Weng was unfazed and strode in boldly.
At that moment, a pale-faced ghost bowed to Ouyang Weng, hoping he would continue.
As soon as Ouyang Weng appeared, the ghosts applauded and cheered. Ouyang Weng was more excited than ever, telling his stories with even greater passion.
From then on, every night, Ouyang Weng told stories to the ghosts. But his health began to fail—he coughed constantly and looked pale. His wife tried to find the Taoist priest again, but couldn’t.
One night, the pale-faced ghost told Ouyang Weng that in a ruined village outside the city, there were even more ghosts who had heard of his storytelling skills and wanted him to come for a week. Ouyang Weng agreed.
After finishing his storytelling one night, one ghost remained—Mona Ouyang.
At that time, Mona Ouyang told Ouyang Weng not to go to that ruined village, or he would die.
Simon Wang spoke and sighed.