Chapter Twenty-Six: Human Grassland

When I shouted and started running down the mountain, the village chief was already too late to stop me.

In a single swift motion, I yanked a coil of rope off a villager, tied one end around a rock, and gripped it as I slid down the mountain.

Before entering the ruined temple, I had already guessed that the slope behind it must be steep and difficult to climb—otherwise, the second-in-command wouldn’t have worn his palms raw trying to get up. But only after descending did I realize that the slope was far steeper than I’d imagined. If it slanted any further, the temple would stand atop a sheer cliff.

Luckily, I’d brought the rope down with me. Had I tried to descend barehanded, I’d have been lucky to escape with my life, let alone without a layer of skin scraped off.

Doing my best to control my sliding speed, I positioned myself onto a gentler patch of the slope before finally letting go of the rope and carefully reaching the bottom.

No sooner had I steadied myself than I heard a terrible cry from above. Glancing back, I saw a villager tumbling down the slope. I quickly ducked aside, and the man flew over my head, landing with a sickening smack on a rock not far away. Blood spattered everywhere, covering my face and clothes.

I had no time to wipe it away. Cupping my hands to my mouth, I shouted up the slope, “Don’t let go of the rope! Slide down slowly! As soon as you see that rock, let go and use your feet to touch down!”

With my warning, the rest of the villagers managed to make their way down one after another. The village chief’s first words when he reached me were, “Why are you wearing your clothes inside out?”

I replied offhandedly, “It’s to ward off evil spirits! The side of your clothes against your chest carries the strongest yang energy. If you wear your clothes backward, ghosts won’t dare cling to your back. It’s the same principle as putting a hat over a ghost’s head.”

My explanation was half true. Folk tradition does say that hats can trap ghosts. People who handle funerals often wear hats, just in case they need to save themselves. The old saying goes that there are three flames on a person’s body, and as long as those flames aren’t extinguished, spirits can’t possess you. The brightest flame sits atop your head, where a hat absorbs the most yang energy. If you truly encounter a ghost, you can slam your hat down over its head to immobilize it.

However, wearing clothes backward is the opposite of wearing a hat. Folk wisdom warns against it, though few know why. In funeral traditions, it’s a secret called “inverting yin and yang.”

When I say wearing clothes backward, I don’t mean inside out—I mean putting your clothes on so the back faces forward.

Funeral workers always place a quilt over the corpse in the coffin, exposing only the head, and only uncover it when the family cuts the binding thread. That’s standard procedure.

If you see the funeral director not cutting the thread, or tying it over the quilt, chances are he’s done something to the corpse—such as putting the clothes or shoes on backward.

A newly dead spirit is as confused as a newborn, knowing nothing of the underworld. The funeral director’s chants at the burial are meant to instruct the spirit on what to do. But if the clothes and shoes are put on backward, the spirit can’t find its way and will be lost, unable to return home even on the seventh night.

If someone in the family doesn’t want the spirit to return, they secretly ask the funeral director to do this.

I wore my clothes backward to fool the ghosts—so they’d mistake my chest for my back. If a ghost tried to grab me from behind, it would actually be facing me head-on.

For the living, an attack from behind is the most dangerous. If the ghost comes at you from the front, at least you have a chance to react. Of course, wearing your clothes backward takes nerve—otherwise, you might collapse in fright if you meet a ghost face-to-face, and then there’s no hope.

While the chief and the others were reversing their clothes, I took the opportunity to study the terrain. Though we’d made it into the mountain hollow, all I saw was a field of wild grass—nothing taller than a man’s calf. It hardly looked like a place of great misfortune.

I asked the chief quietly, “Uncle, which way do we go?”

He swallowed hard. “We’re in the field of the dead. When we walk, keep your feet low. If you step on one of the dead in the grass, there’ll be trouble.”

Prodding the grass with my toe, I realized what he meant—this wasn’t just one or two accidental deaths. The bones of the dead were mixed in with the grass everywhere. After just a few cautious steps, I saw a half-buried human bone beneath the grass.

Who knows if the bones were dragged here by wolves or shattered in a fall like the man earlier. Fragments were scattered everywhere. If you weren’t careful, a crunch underfoot would signal another bone crushed to dust.

Everyone moved forward through the grass, tense and cautious. Yet, the more careful you are, the likelier something goes wrong. Before long, the man in front seemed to kick something, producing a muffled clang.

When we glanced down, the grass before his feet parted as if a giant snake slithered through, leaving a thick, bowl-wide trail that arced toward his heels.

I instinctively stepped aside just as a yellowed skull rolled out from the grass, landing precisely against his heel. The few teeth left in its jaw happened to hook onto his ankle.

The old rubber shoes we wore had low tops; though he’d tied his pant legs tight, the dead man’s teeth still caught his sock.

He looked down, saw a skull biting his foot, and shrieked in terror, bolting forward.

“Come back… come back!” the chief shouted, stomping and calling after him, but the man only ran faster. With no other choice, the chief led the rest in pursuit.

From behind, I watched as the man disappeared into a patch of grass, vanishing from sight. I shouted, “Stop running! Watch your step!”

I thought he’d simply fallen into a gully or a pit and warned the others to watch their feet. Unexpectedly, at that moment, the chief’s voice rose in a desperate scream, “Run! Quick, run! No matter what happens, don’t stop—just keep running!”

His words had barely faded when I saw a dozen gaudy, life-sized figures appear in the grass. Each stood taller than a man, with ghastly white faces marked by two lurid red patches on their cheeks.

Paper effigies!