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墨書 Inktalez
The carved window on the second floor of the teahouse suddenly burst open. As Xu Wenshan looked up, a half-broken carved wooden comb brushed against the tip of his nose and fell.
Instinctively, he reached out to catch it, but the comb's teeth left four deep gashes in his palm—each wound evenly spaced, resembling the pinholes found in the scalp from the criminal investigation photos.
"This is Yin Shu claiming ownership." The old shopkeeper squatted at the corner of the stairs, polishing a copper kettle, its spout aimed directly at Xu Wenshan's bleeding hand. "On the eve of the great fire in '96, a guest at table three caught the comb in just the same way."
His murky eyes shifted to the east wall, where a yellowed painting titled "Lu Yu's Tea Brewing Picture" hung. In the painting, a young boy brewing tea had a similar wooden comb tucked into his hair.
Xu Wenshan pressed a tissue against his wound, blood seeping into the grooves of the comb's teeth that formed the character for "death."
Suddenly, the comb began to warm up, dark red liquid oozing from its wood grain and pooling on the azure brick floor to form an arrow pointing toward a hidden door behind the painting.
Seizing the opportunity while the old shopkeeper was refilling water, he lifted the painting's scroll and found half a gray-white strand caught in the iron lock hole.
At a quarter past midnight, in the dark room, he swept his flashlight beam across cobwebs. Xu Wenshan's climbing shoes sank into some viscous liquid.
When he finally saw what hung on the walls—braids—his breath nearly stopped. Forty-nine braids were arranged by year, with the most recent one still stained with fresh blood.
On a sandalwood table beneath them lay an open ledger. Xu Wenshan flipped to the page for the twelfth month of Bingzi Year, his fingertip pausing over inked characters that read "At Initial Seventh Hour of the Pig, collected three jin and four liang of Yin Fa."
A charred strip of cloth was stuck in the crease of the ledger—exactly like the work uniform worn by Zhou Fulai in photos from the '96 fire scene.
"Mr. Xu has a keen eye." The old shopkeeper suddenly pressed his pipe against Xu Wenshan's neck. "This dark room was originally dedicated to Yin Niangzi. That fire in '96..." The old man suddenly broke into a violent cough, ash flying from his pipe and igniting sparks among the braids. "It severed forty-nine Zhenhun ropes, which is why Shou Tou Gui has been demanding lives every night."
As Xu Wenshan turned around, he knocked over an oil lamp, flames leaping up along the sticky floor.
Only then did he realize that this so-called "liquid" was actually solidified corpse wax; countless shadows of people combing hair emerged in the firelight.
The clearest shadow held a jade ring and was sewing braids into a girl's scalp.
In Zhenxi Huai Tree Grove, Xu Wenshan ran wildly through the woods, his pant legs coated with corpse wax.
His phone's GPS indicated that Mound of the Unburied was just ahead, but every few steps branches from Sophora trees snagged at his collar.
When he circled back for the third time to stand before a tree trunk marked with blood combs, he finally noticed that these Sophora trees were arranged like the seven stars of Beidou.
The compass shook violently in response. Xu Wenshan cleared away layers of decaying leaves to reveal an azure brick etched with marks resembling comb teeth.
Dark red liquid seeped from between its cracks. He stirred it with a branch and unexpectedly pulled out a mass of rotting flesh tangled with long hair—it was half a human ear, with an ear hole pierced by a rusty thimble.
The phone suddenly vibrated, and a private message from the forum popped up: "The thimble belongs to the tailor Widow Lin. She sews shrouds for the dead; without a thimble, she could die." The sender's ID turned into garbled text, and the location was pinpointed in the center of the Sophora Tree forest.
At Qinghe Tailor Shop, Widow Lin's sewing machine rattled rhythmically. Xu Wenshan noticed that she wore a jade thimble on her right ring finger.
The old-fashioned radio on the counter suddenly changed stations, crackling with news from a fire in 1996: "...an apprentice from the Coffin Shop, Zhou Fulai, perished in the flames, while his sister Zhou Fudi remains missing..."
"This thimble is a family heirloom," Widow Lin said as she snipped the thread. In the light, her shadow appeared headless. "My mother said that if you use a thimble while sewing shrouds, the departed will suffer less in the afterlife." She suddenly raised her scissors, the cold glint flashing across Xu Wenshan's throat. "Just like Mr. Xu shouldn't touch Yin Shu; some rules broken require blood."
As Xu Wenshan stepped back, he knocked over a sewing basket, and a wooden shuttle rolled out, marked with a Textile Factory number.
He recalled the sewing thread found at the Li Xiuyun case scene; it was identical to the polyester thread Widow Lin was currently using.
Suddenly, the moonlight outside was obscured, and the figure of the Hair Combing Old Woman was cast upon the curtain, her hair tips made of Huang Mu Zhu pointed directly at Widow Lin's back.
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