Chapter Three: The Golden Mask’s Frightful Encounter

When Lord Jun heard Old Li say that Han Jinming was in trouble, his head buzzed and he was momentarily stunned. He composed himself and asked Old Li to recount the whole story.

Half a month earlier, in Inner Mongolia, everyone at the local syndicate was going about their usual business. When there was no tomb-raiding assignment, people did as they pleased—some took odd jobs, others rested, each going about their own lives. The head of the Inner Mongolian syndicate, Han Jinming, seldom went underground himself; he knew a bit of medicine and usually took charge of authenticating antiques. That day, as usual, he went to the market to practice medicine, tell fortunes, and read feng shui. Carrying his fortune-telling kit, he took a string of bells and a tiger cane, and set up his stall at a lively spot in the mountain market. Business was decent that day—middle-aged women came to consult him about medicine, young men wanted their fortune told; Han Jinming spent the whole day at the market and was just preparing to return to the syndicate for a rest.

Just then, someone called out to him from behind. Jinming turned and saw a middle-aged man with disheveled hair, dressed in white clothes and black shoes. Jinming paused, noticing the man's sallow, darkened face, deep eye sockets, and the undeniable signs of extreme weakness in his body.

In a hoarse and feeble voice, the man implored, “Please, save me and my child—we were attacked by wolves in the mountains.”

Jinming listened and asked, “Where is your child?”

“At my house. Please, come with me. I will reward you handsomely.”

Jinming thought, with business slow these days and nothing much to do, he might as well go and earn some extra money. So he followed the man, carrying his kit, to a thatched hut deep in the mountains. Inside, the place was run-down—just a wooden bed, three wooden chairs, a table, and a small incense altar in the middle.

Jinming sat down and asked, “Sir, where is your child?”

The man went to the window, picked up a boy of about four or five, and brought him over. The sight made Jinming’s heart lurch—a deep, bone-exposing bite mark marred the child’s arm, and the area around it was grotesquely swollen. The wound looked like a gaping mouth, lined with sharp fangs that continually oozed green pus. Above the bite, two rotten holes had formed, like a pair of eyes, festering and foul.

Jinming sensed something was wrong. “If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you. This is no wolf bite.”

The man sighed deeply. “There’s a monster in these mountains. Our house is haunted.” And he told Jinming about the strange events he and his child had encountered.

The man’s name was Zhao, a local farmer. He lived in the mountains with his wife and child, tending a few acres of good land; life was peaceful and content. A few days earlier, he’d taken his child into the mountains to enjoy the spring. As they settled on the grass to eat, they heard a rustling in the undergrowth. Old Zhao tensed, thinking it was a wild animal, and suggested they leave. But the boy, unaware of danger, thought it was a rabbit or some harmless creature and ran toward the sound. Zhao failed to hold him back and watched as the child suddenly fell with a thud.

Zhao hurried over, thinking the boy had tripped, but as he picked him up, he recoiled in horror—a strange golden mask was clamped to the child’s face, its mouth bristling with sharp teeth that moved up and down. Zhao desperately tried to pry the mask off, but it wouldn’t budge. With no other option, he carried the unconscious child home.

His wife saw him returning and, thinking the child was just tired, rushed out to help. That’s when the nightmare began. The unconscious boy suddenly leapt up, the mask’s fanged mouth snapping at his mother. Thankfully, she dodged in time, but the shock left her paralyzed with fear. Zhao tried again to remove the mask, straining with all his strength, but it was immovable. As he struggled, a worm-like tongue shot out from the mask’s mouth, faster than lightning, piercing Zhao’s arm. He watched in horror as the tongue burrowed into his flesh, sucking his blood like a leech.

At that moment, his wife grabbed a sickle from the corner and struck at the tongue. With a wet, sickening sound, it was severed and fell writhing to the ground before ceasing to move. The child collapsed again. Zhao, shaking, had his wife tear up old clothes to bandage his arm and applied a hemostatic powder. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he sat down and asked his wife for a cigarette.

After two calming drags, he asked, “Do you think we’ve brought something unclean into our home?”

His wife thought for a moment. “Why don’t I fetch Granny Li from the neighboring village? She’s a renowned shaman—her family has been practicing for generations. Anyone with trouble or unclean spirits always seeks her help. She has real skills, I hear.”

Zhao nodded. “Go bring her here. I can manage on my own for now, and if the boy relapses, I’ll cope.”

His wife hurried out and returned about half an hour later, supporting an elderly woman over eighty, her hair white as snow. The old woman leaned on a cane topped with an unknown animal’s skull, from which hung strips of cloth inscribed with spells. In her left hand, she carried a human skull; her clothes and shoes were stitched from animal pelts, and her neck was adorned with a necklace of small skulls. Despite the wrinkles, her face was gentle and kind.

Zhao greeted her and was about to explain when she waved him silent, nodded, and sat down. “Bring the child to me.”

They laid the boy before her. The old shaman closed her eyes, palms to the sky. From the skull in her left hand dripped green liquid. She opened her eyes, took the severed tongue from earlier, and placed both the tongue and the green liquid into a stone mortar, grinding them together until the tongue was thoroughly crushed. She sprinkled the powder onto the mask. With a sharp crack, the mask fell from the child’s face onto the floor.

The Zhao couple, terrified, knelt and kowtowed to her. “Thank you, immortal! Thank you, immortal!”

The old shaman shook her head with a sigh. “Burn this golden mask and throw the ashes into the latrine. I can help you no further—life and death are fate. Take care of yourselves.” With that, she left without looking back, disappearing into the mountains.

Once she was gone, the Zhaos placed their unconscious son on the bed, finally able to steady their nerves. Suddenly, Zhao remembered the mask on the floor. He grabbed a spade, intending to take it out and burn it in the mountains.

His wife stopped him. “Are you crazy? The shaman has exorcised the monster. It’s pure gold—we could sell it in the market for a tidy sum.”

Zhao considered this. Farming brought in little, after all, and perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. He examined the mask—there was no reaction—so he placed it on the table. They agreed to sell it the next morning and went to bed, exhausted.

That night, Zhao was soon asleep. In the middle of the night, he heard footsteps and strange, resentful laughter. He awoke with a start to find his wife missing. Gathering his courage, he went into the main room—and froze in terror. His wife was wandering the room, laughing, clutching the golden mask and the sickle she’d used earlier. Blood poured from a massive gash in her abdomen, pooling on the floor. Zhao fainted from fright.

He awoke the next morning to someone knocking at the door. Staggering, he opened it to find the police.

The officer showed his badge. “Good morning. We’re from the local station. We found a body this morning at the bottom of a mountain cliff. Villagers identified her as your wife. Please come with us to assist with our investigation.”

Zhao didn’t let them in, afraid they’d see the blood on the floor. He replied, distracted, “Yes, yes.”

The police noticed his dazed state and suspected something was amiss, so they pushed past him into the house. Inside, everything was perfectly normal. Zhao’s heart skipped—had he dreamed it all? Seeing nothing unusual, the police took him to the station.

At the morgue, the coroner pulled out a body. It was his wife. Her corpse bore no wounds, but her mouth was stretched wide, her hands clutching her throat, her face twisted in terror. The coroner said, “There are no external or fatal injuries. Oddly, she was already dead before hitting the ground—her heart stopped from extreme fright.” Zhao was then led away for questioning.

In the interview room, he was asked about his wife’s mental health. He said nothing. The authorities ruled it a suicide.

Returning home, Zhao found his son still unconscious. He lit a cigarette, pondering the events—had it all been a hallucination? Looking at the table, he nearly fainted. The golden mask was right where it had been the night before, now smeared with blood.

Panicked, he grabbed the spade, swept the mask onto the floor, smashed it repeatedly, and carried it to a mountain ravine where he hurled it away.

Back home, he shivered with a chill that seemed to seep from nowhere, lit another cigarette, and took a few drags to steady his nerves. Watching his unconscious son, tears fell unbidden as he sighed and saw it was already seven in the evening. After finishing his cigarette, he went to bed.

In a half-dream, he felt someone tapping his shoulder—slap, slap. He woke with a start, blood freezing in his veins. Before him stood a figure, the golden mask on its face, drenched in blood, a sickle in one hand, and a gaping hole in its abdomen oozing blood. It grinned coldly at Zhao, who fainted again.

The next day, he woke and dared not get out of bed for a long time. Only after pulling himself together did he put on his shoes and step outside, only to find everything in the house normal. He went to his son’s bedside—the boy still hadn’t woken. Zhao checked the boy’s arm and broke out in a cold sweat—a green, fist-sized boil had formed, splitting open to reveal fangs that dripped green pus, with two rotten holes above, stinking of decay.

Zhao laid the boy on the bed, searched around and, with a cry, slumped to the floor. There, on the table, was the golden mask.