Chapter Four: The Death of Han Jinming

After listening to Old Zhao recount his recent experiences, Jin Ming pondered for a moment and asked, “Where is that mask now?”

Shivering, Old Zhao closed his eyes and pointed toward the small incense table in the center. Jin Ming walked over and saw the mask that Old Zhao had described. He was taken aback—how could the golden mask from the Princess of Chen’s tomb be here? But upon closer inspection, he realized this mask was different. Though the faces were strikingly similar, the mask from the tomb lacked the fierce fangs this one had. Clearly, the two were related, but not the same.

Thinking this, Jin Ming let out a short laugh. At the sound, Old Zhao, terrified, lost control of his bladder and pointed at Jin Ming, stammering, “Stop laughing! Stay back, don’t come any closer!”

Jin Ming paused, waved his hand, and said with a smile, “Don’t worry, I’m not possessed by the mask. Let me perform a ritual to treat the child.”

He fetched a small knife from his simple kit, then took out an alcohol lamp, lighting it and sterilizing the blade. He rubbed it on a piece of deerskin and said to Old Zhao, “Hold the child steady—I need to perform a minor procedure.”

Old Zhao nodded. Jin Ming slid the knife into the abscess, twisted it, and inspected the wound.

“Old Zhao, bring me a small basin.”

Before long, Old Zhao returned with a plastic basin. Jin Ming placed the boy’s arm over it, donned gloves, and squeezed the abscess. Suddenly, dozens of worm-like creatures, writhing and alive, crawled out from the wound.

Nodding again, Jin Ming used the knife to slice away the outer layer of the abscess. The sight was shocking even to Old Zhao: the inside was a nest of parasites, burrowed deep in the flesh, feasting on blood. Jin Ming frowned slightly, took a glass bottle from his kit, and poured its liquid into the cavity. A hissing sound rose, and the worms gradually ceased to move.

Satisfied, Jin Ming carefully excised the rotten flesh, sprinkled medicinal powder on the wound, bandaged the child’s arm, and handed Old Zhao a packet of medicine. “Twice a day. After each dose, the boy will vomit worms for about two hours. Do this for a week and he’ll recover.”

Old Zhao nodded. “Sir, what’s the story behind this mask?”

Jin Ming smiled faintly. “This is an ancient method for rearing parasites. The brood mother was embedded in the mouth of the mask and slaves were forced to wear it. The brood’s tail would enter the victim’s mouth and lay eggs. When enough larvae had hatched and devoured the host, the parasites would completely control the person’s body.”

Old Zhao recoiled in horror. “Sir, what should I do with this mask now?”

Jin Ming gave him a strange smile. “If you’re not afraid of it causing more trouble, keep it.”

The suggestion sent chills through Old Zhao. He hurriedly thrust the mask at Jin Ming. “I can’t keep it—won’t dare! Every night it comes to haunt us. Please, take it away!”

Jin Ming nodded. “Well, I’ll profit from this, then.” He picked up the mask, bid farewell to Old Zhao, and returned to his stall.

Back at his stall, Jin Ming found the whole affair rather absurd. These mountain farmers, he mused, are just superstitious. He’d already destroyed the brood mother with his sickle—what was there to fear? Most likely, Old Zhao’s wife had gone out to relieve herself at night and slipped in the dark, and Old Zhao dreamed up tales of monsters. Ridiculous.

He examined the golden mask again and nodded in satisfaction. “A genuine specimen—Liao Dynasty parasite mask. This will fetch hundreds of thousands.” Pleased, he stored the mask in his cabinet and went to bed.

The next morning, just as Jin Ming was waking, there came a knock at the door. Still groggy, he donned a vest and pants and opened the door to find two police officers standing outside.

“Good morning. We’re from the local police department. Did you visit the home of Zhao Wenyou, a mountain farmer, last night?”

Jin Ming started. Zhao Wenyou? That must be Old Zhao. “Yes, I went to treat his child’s illness.”

“Then please come with us. There was a fatal incident at his home last night.” A chill ran down Jin Ming’s spine as he nodded and was escorted to the police station.

In the morgue, the coroner lifted the sheet, revealing two bodies. Jin Ming nearly lost control at the sight. The first was a middle-aged man, his white clothes soaked in blood. Horrifyingly, his facial skin had been torn off and his eyes were missing. His mouth was stretched wide, and his hands clutched his own throat.

“The first victim, Zhao Wenyou, forty-two, from Tongliao, Inner Mongolia. Aside from massive facial injuries, there are no other wounds,” the coroner reported.

The second corpse was a child, both arms torn off at the elbows. “The deceased is Zhao Chen, age five, Zhao Wenyou’s son. No fatal wounds elsewhere,” the coroner said.

Jin Ming’s face drained of color. Seeing his fear, the officers dismissed the coroner and led Jin Ming to the interrogation room.

Inside, an officer lit a cigarette and motioned for Jin Ming to sit. Trembling, Jin Ming complied.

“Han Jin Ming, why did you go to Zhao Wenyou’s home yesterday?”

“I—I run a stall at the market, treat illnesses, read fortunes. As I was packing up last night, someone stopped me—him. He said his child had been bitten by a wolf, so I went with him to treat the boy. I performed the procedure and left. That’s all.”

“Any witnesses?”

Jin Ming thought for a moment. “Yes, actually. When I got back, I bought cigarettes at the door—it was just after eight.” The officer nodded, took his statement, and had Jin Ming sign and fingerprint it. His testimony given, Jin Ming was driven home by the police.

Back at his stall, Han Jin Ming was a nervous wreck, unable to believe what had happened. He kept murmuring, “There are no ghosts in this world, no ghosts.” Just then, the door opened with a bang, startling him so much he fell to the floor.

A man in his sixties entered, surprised to see Han Jin Ming on the ground. “Master Han, what happened?”

“Oh, Old Li, help me, please!” Han Jin Ming nearly broke into tears and staggered to Old Li.

Old Li hurried to support him. “What’s wrong, Master Han? What happened?” He helped Jin Ming to the bed as Jin Ming recounted everything that had transpired in recent days.

Old Li, hearing the tale, broke into a cold sweat himself. He lit a cigarette to steady his nerves, then said, “Master Han, you may not go down into tombs, but you’ve worked in our trade for years—you’re even Master Jun’s disciple. All this evil and misfortune only harms those who seek it. You didn’t provoke it or do wrong, so why would it come for you? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

These words were like a soothing balm for Han Jin Ming. He realized—of course, he hadn’t destroyed the mask. What was there to fear? With that, his spirits lifted, and he was no longer afraid. Seeing this, Old Li nodded and took his leave.

Old Li went to bed early that night. The next morning, rising at four as usual to exercise, he spent several hours at it. Around eight, he remembered Han Jin Ming’s troubles from the day before and thought he should check in. At Han Jin Ming’s door, he knocked—no response. He knocked again: still silence. Uneasy, he gathered a few young men from the courtyard. The three of them forced the door open.

At once, the stench of blood filled the air, making Old Li’s heart sink. Something terrible had happened. They rushed inside and were stunned at the sight: Han Jin Ming was hanging from the central beam, wearing the mask, his left hand clutching a small knife, all the fingers on his right hand severed and scattered across the floor, which was stained with dried blood. Old Li had the young men take down the body and lay it out. He removed the mask from Han Jin Ming’s face and saw the man’s mouth gaping so wide that it seemed his jaw would break.

Old Li ordered the mask to be stored away and called the police.

Within minutes, officers and the coroner arrived to remove the body and conduct their investigation. Just then, Master Jun called.

Upon hearing Old Li’s report, Master Jun gave a cold laugh. “Old Li, mail that golden mask to me.” Old Li agreed and hung up.

That very morning, the package arrived at Fengshantang. Master Jun opened it—it was indeed the golden mask.