A pungent whiff of stinky tofu drifted over. I glanced left and right, spotting myself in the light at the corner of the street, wearing nothing but an old, worn long coat. I hurried over.
Seven hadn’t finished speaking when I was pulled into a dream of the past. This was already a nightmare—I could tell. I’d already tried to change this dream before, but now the fear didn’t grip me as much. All I could do was force the nightmare into something bearable. I had to find the Daoist priest Seven mentioned, the one who could cure the zombies.
As soon as I crossed the street, I saw a lively night market. For now, I was just an ordinary person. Not far ahead was a stall selling fried stinky tofu. My mouth watered. I patted my pocket—surprisingly, I had money. I walked over.
“Hey, Ethan Timms, out this late? Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?”
The stall owner’s words drew laughter from the crowd. It took me a moment to realize they were laughing at my nickname—Ethan Timms, the coward. I was a book copyist by trade, helping people transcribe documents by day and usually sleeping early. I bought two pieces of stinky tofu and started eating. The taste was incredible.
People of all sorts filled the street. This town was called Shiban Town, named after the famous stone quarried from the surrounding mountains. I looked down at the green flagstones underfoot, nudging them with my shoe. They were nothing like the ones I remembered—uneven, but the stone itself was fine. I didn’t see a single crack anywhere.
I started asking around at the night market. It seemed like most people here knew me. Every so often, someone would come to me with ghost stories or odd happenings to consult about. I also figured out where my home was.
But what I couldn’t figure out was why I kept having dreams like this. I couldn’t recall anything about the dream’s origin.
Soon, I arrived at a noodle stall—the most crowded spot in the market.
“Ethan Timms, you’ve got guts coming out this late. Aren’t you afraid of running into something evil?”
A voice echoed through the crowd. I swallowed hard as laughter rippled around me, and I couldn’t help but join in, grabbing my bowl and taking a seat.
“If you’re not eating noodles, don’t bother sitting here.”
The noodle vendor shouted as soon as I sat down. I raised my hand for a bowl, and she smiled, bustling to serve me.
Now was my chance to ask about the Daoist priest.
Again, the people around me couldn’t hold back their laughter.
“Ethan Timms, what are you looking for a Daoist priest for? Did you really run into something evil?”
I didn’t answer, just smiled awkwardly. After a while, someone brought up a story—about a death in the neighboring town. Two grave robbers had died late at night, their corpses mangled, covered in bloody holes. They’d been stabbed to death, alive.
The moment people heard this kind of story, they crowded closer. The storyteller went on, painting the scene in vivid, gruesome detail, and I could see goosebumps spreading across the crowd.
“Let me tell you—if you’re walking home late and someone suddenly pats you on the back, whatever you do, don’t turn around. If you do, guess what’ll happen?”
I forced a smile. These folks really didn’t know a thing. On this street, there were always ghosts lurking—some in white shirts, some gray and heartbroken. I’d sensed them as I passed by, faint traces of restless spirits, several at a time.