After exhaling the smoke, the stranger said, "In a moment, call your father's name with me."
The son, tightly gripping the dead man's hand, was nearly scared out of his wits, trembling all over.
The stranger paid him no mind, kneeling reverently before the three incense sticks, eyes closed, muttering something under his breath. The atmosphere in the hearse was eerie, with the dim bulb emitting a faint "hiss" and crackle. The son stared at his father's corpse—pale, rigid, with an unsettling, cold smile on its face.
Many heart attack victims have a smile-like expression when they pass. On a corpse, it looks utterly terrifying.
He didn't dare let go of the hand, resigned to whatever fate held.
The stranger stood, gently massaging Big Brother Peng's temples, softly calling, "Peng Liang!"
The son followed suit, "Peng Liang."
The stranger nodded. "Keep going. We stop when he's called back."
Their voices rose and fell in unison: "Peng Liang~~ Peng Liang~~"
The hearse sped through the city at night, leaving the urban area behind, racing down the dark highway toward the crematorium.
"And then, heh," Big Brother Peng chuckled, pointing to himself. "You know the outcome—I came back to life."
Li Damin and I exchanged glances, feeling the story was oddly anticlimactic. Maybe, not being there ourselves, we couldn't grasp the terror of holding a corpse's hand and calling a soul back on such a grim, silent night.
Li Damin asked, "So, when you woke up, were you really going to give him half your company's shares?"
Big Brother Peng toyed with his chopsticks, poking at the mushy eggplant on his plate, and gave a self-deprecating smile. "What else could I do? My life's worth at least half a company. Ever heard of the knife peddler story?"
I shook my head, unfamiliar, but Li Damin smiled faintly. "In rural areas, there are these knife peddlers with a peculiar custom. They give you a knife without taking payment upfront. Instead, they wait for some prophecy to come true before collecting. For example, they might say, 'I'll come back for the money when corn hits a dollar a pound.' Years later, when corn does hit that price, they go door-to-door collecting."
I found it curious. "What if you don't pay, or the family moves away?"
"If a knife peddler can predict that accurately, they've got ways to track you down and collect," Li Damin said. "I've never heard what happens if you don't pay, but I imagine it's pretty grim."
Big Brother Peng nodded. "Not only is this guy my lifesaver, so paying him is only right, but he's got some serious skills—calling souls, doing the work of the King of Hell. Who'd dare owe him money? He could silently take me out again!"
We all nodded in agreement. Money's just a thing—being alive is what matters.
Li Damin pressed further about the stranger's whereabouts, eager to pay him a visit. Big Brother Peng shook his head. "This guy's mysterious, never revealed much about himself. But when we handled the share transfer, I saw his ID. His name's Ma Danlong, not from this city, address in Henan. A man of his caliber keeps a low profile, so no need to dig too deep."
Ma Danlong… Li Damin scribbled the name on a piece of paper.
"So where do we find him?" he asked.
Big Brother Peng looked at us, hesitated, then wrote down an address. "This is all the help I can give. Just one thing—whatever happens, don't rat me out."
Li Damin grinned. "No problem. No matter what goes down, even if I die, you're not responsible."
After parting ways with Big Brother Peng, Li Damin and I went back to his place. The guy's pretty well-off, renting a two-bedroom apartment that serves as our hangout spot. His bedroom's spacious, but the bed's tiny—just a single. Li Damin and I never talk about women; he doesn't have a girlfriend, his whole focus on investigating strange phenomena. Besides the bed, there's a pristine computer desk with a sleek Apple laptop, a Japanese-style lamp, and a notebook filled with his random thoughts, densely scribbled.
The most striking feature is the bedroom wall, plastered with clippings, printed documents, photos, and texts, neatly arranged across an entire side. It's chaotic yet organized, sparking a urge to dive into research.
He brewed me a cup of coffee, and we sat down to chat.
First, he threw me a question: "Old Liu, do you think the underworld exists?"
I racked my brain, choosing my words carefully. "Depends on how you define 'underworld.'"
Li Damin tapped the table, aiding his thoughts, and said slowly, "The underworld, to me, is where the spirits of the dead go."
"And in what form do those spirits exist?" I asked.
"That's a different question. Don't derail."
"No, I think it's closely related. The form of the spirit determines the nature of the underworld. If spirits are like the souls in legends, how do they get to the underworld? Is there a specific channel or method, and does it follow certain rules?"
"Your mind's all over the place," Li Damin said, sipping his coffee. "There are three key points here. First, the source—the soul, what form it takes. Second, the medium—the channel or method by which the soul reaches the underworld, and the rules governing it. Third, the underworld itself—what kind of world it is, and what laws it follows."
"We don't know the answer to any of these. But history, both Eastern and Western, has plenty of descriptions of the underworld. Like Dante's Divine Comedy, Korean Hell Scrolls, or Chinese tales of Meng Po's soup and the Yellow Springs. The material's out there for reference."
"So, you believe in the underworld?" Li Damin asked.
"Honestly, I don't know. But I believe in the law of conservation of matter. Souls are matter too—they must go somewhere or reenter some kind of cycle."
"Do you believe in the underworld Big Brother Peng described?"
I pondered. "I think debating whether his story is true or not is pointless."
"Oh?" Li Damin smiled. "Why's that?"
"Because we can't verify it unless you die. Heh, it's a catch-22, an unsolvable paradox."
"But there are plenty of accounts of people who died and came back, describing the underworld or hell—seeing light, angels, their lives flashing before their eyes."
"And did those people actually die?"
"Of course not. If they were dead, how could they describe it?"
"Exactly. How do you know what those 'near-dead' people saw is the same as what truly dead people see?"
Li Damin hesitated, then grinned. "That's an interesting point."
"I know there's this medical concept of near-death hallucinations—people on the brink of death see visions. But are those visions real, or just the subconscious triggered by dying? No one knows."
"So, after all that, do you believe in the underworld or not?" he pressed, frowning.
"I'm a staunch materialist," I laughed.
Li Damin set down his coffee. "Have you noticed anything off about Big Brother Peng?"
The sudden shift caught me off guard. I thought for a moment. "Maybe a little. Hard to pin down, but he seems… sly, like a seasoned operator. Businessmen are like that, right?"
Li Damin shook his head slowly, deliberately. "Old Liu, could it be… an aftereffect of the underworld?"
I jolted. "What are you saying?"
"I feel like there's a ghostly aura about him." He paced a couple of steps. "Let's not debate whether the underworld exists. Assume it does, or none of this makes sense. Don't people who come back from the underworld carry some of its essence?"
"Neither human nor ghost?" I swallowed hard.
As we spoke, a sudden thunderclap roared outside. It was getting late, with signs of an impending storm. Li Damin went to the window, glanced at the city's nightscape, and turned back. "Old Liu, it's getting rough out. You should head home."
I wasn't thrilled. I'd stayed over before—we're close friends. He knew a storm was coming, yet he was kicking me out. My displeasure showed, and Li Damin looked helpless. "Old Liu…" He flipped through his notebook. "I'll handle the rest. I've got this. Thanks for coming with me today."
I nearly lost it. Handle the rest without me? So I'd been wasting my time, and now, right when things were getting interesting, he was cutting me out.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.
Li Damin looked forlorn. "I mean it—you're out. Look, when I figure this out, I'll write a report for you. I'm thinking of you. You just started your job—don't be like me, always chasing weird stuff. Taking time off all the time isn't good, and I can't wait for weekends to investigate just for you."
He had a point. Unlike him, a trust-fund kid, I'd fought hard for my job. Slacking off could get me fired, let alone constant leave requests.
"Fine, I'm out," I said, though it stung.
As I left the complex, the rain poured down. I braved it, finally caught a cab home, took a hot shower, and lay in bed, replaying the day's events, thinking about Big Brother Peng's underworld tale. I drifted off into uneasy sleep, plagued by nightmares.
The next few days were routine—work from eight to five, occasional overtime, and I gradually forgot about it all. When it crossed my mind, it felt like a joke.
That weekend, I'd finally scored a dinner date with my crush, planning my strategy to win her over, when a text came from an unfamiliar number, not saved in my phone.
I glanced at it, assuming it was spam, but reading further, I realized it was serious.
The text read: Mr. Liu, hello. Are you free tonight? I'd like to invite you to dinner. I smirked—spam. But then: I'm Peng Liang's son. A few days ago, a guy named Li approached me. He said if anything came up and I couldn't reach him, I should contact you.
I was floored and called back immediately. A young voice answered. "Mr. Liu, let's talk over dinner tonight. It's complicated."
"Where are you? I'll treat," I said loudly.
We set a meeting spot, and I canceled on my crush. She hung up without a word—I knew that was the end of that.
Oh well. I took a cab to the meeting.
Peng Liang's son had picked a noodle shop near his university. Though it was autumn, the evening was still warm. The shop had a few tented outdoor seats. I spotted a clean-cut, handsome boy staring into the distance.
Instinct told me he was Peng's son.
I called the number, and he picked up. Striding over, I extended my hand. "Hey, I'm Old Liu, the guy you're looking for."
He was clearly still a kid, not used to such grown-up formalities. His face flushed as he stood to shake my hand. "Hi, hi, I'm Peng Gang."
We sat across from each other. The evening breeze was cool, the spot quiet—perfect for talking.
I clapped my hands, acting familiar. "What do you want to eat? My treat. Let's talk while we eat."
"Heh, alright, I won't hold back," he chuckled. "Their Chongqing noodles are legit. My classmates come here a lot. You should try them."
"Sounds good. Two bowls of noodles," I called to the owner, adding a few side dishes.
We sat face-to-face, the vibe a bit awkward. I cleared my throat. "So, your name's…?"
"Peng Gang."
"You said Li Damin came to see you?"
"Yeah. He's your friend, right? He's impressive. I didn't want to deal with him at first, but he's got this knack—maybe psychology? He's persuasive, got me following his lead in no time."
That sounded like Li Damin. The guy's got a commanding presence, confident and authoritative.
"What did he want?" I asked.
"He started by going over the interview with my dad, then asked if I was hiding any details. I got mad—whether I'm holding back is none of his business, so I brushed him off. But then he said something that hit home. He asked, 'Don't you think your dad's different now?'"