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墨書 Inktalez
Perhaps in your eyes, my profession seems special, and some may try to befriend people like me. However, I must tell everyone that those of us in this line of work are not as glamorous as one might think, not out of fear, but because we understand an unwritten rule: we must not be too conspicuous or too high-profile. In this age that worships science and criticizes superstition, being too ostentatious would only hasten our disappearance.
Many things are not as simple as they seem. Once we attract public attention, the consequences can be devastating; no one will defend us because we stand on the opposite side of science. Science brings us convenience, comfort, and much joy, while we can only bring confusion, doubt, and even panic to the world. We are like Spirit Gods living in the shadows; exposure to light could mean our end.
Writing these things may seem high-profile, and I might appear to be promoting myself tirelessly. Yet I have always maintained a distance from everyone, never revealing any personal information. One should never harbor ill intentions but must always guard against others. My approach may seem rigid, but it is the safest way to proceed. You may wonder why I am so mysterious; it is simply because I want to live according to the rules of our profession. Perhaps one day when I retire from this line of work, I can live like a normal person, unhidden and facing life's complexities with ease.
Having been in this field for many years, I have kept my work obscure. My classmates, friends, and even relatives do not know what I do unless they are people I've helped before—like my cousin Zhou who raised a spirit or my classmate Wang who hired the Spirit of the Pen. Afterward, I always ask them to keep it confidential, and I have my ways to ensure that those familiar with me do not disclose anything. As for those who were originally strangers, they only refer clients to me after encountering such matters themselves. Overall, I believe I have protected myself quite well.
Many friends on QQ have asked for my phone number, but I have never given it out—not because I don’t trust them, but because it is meaningless since I change my number regularly. Master Xiao told me there’s no need for such pretentiousness and said I'm too rigid. Perhaps that's true; however, I've grown accustomed to this caution. As long as my workload is sufficient for living, that’s all that matters—not like those charlatans who crave more business.
On a certain day in 2013, at a classmate's request, I attended a Junior High School reunion in Guangzhou. Many people from our area seek their fortunes in the Guangzhou-Shenzhen region, so it was still possible to organize a decent gathering in this unfamiliar city.
There were quite a few attendees—over ten of us—eating, drinking, and having fun together while reminiscing about old times. However, after so many years apart, everyone had changed; the youthful innocence was entirely gone, replaced by a strong sense of distance.
At the reunion, I met a close friend from back then. He didn’t go to college and started working in a factory right after graduating high school. In Junior High School, he was my closest companion. We would sneak off to bathe in the river and run away from teachers chasing us through the hills. We fought together and teased our female classmates; we always shared food brought from home at school. During our Junior High days as boarders with limited conditions at school, we were like brothers.
But now we’ve grown up; that feeling is long gone. He already has two children now. Once a man becomes a father, he truly matures. The weight of responsibility on his shoulders no longer allows him to act recklessly or even take a break.
That day he drank heavily and kept lamenting how tiring life is. I merely accompanied him in drinking and echoed his sentiments as we cursed this unfair world together. But my agreement was feigned; life is fair—every unfair treatment has its reasons. I have never hated this world; during my hardest times, I would only remind myself that it was just part of my journey. There’s no point in complaining about fate.
As he drank more and more, his urge to vent grew stronger—just like anyone else would feel. And I was undoubtedly the best listener; he pulled me into a small corner of the karaoke room and continued complaining about life's hardships. To me, they sounded like trivial matters—just daily concerns about food and necessities. Life should be about contentment; why bother calculating every gain and loss? If one acts within their means, many self-inflicted troubles can be avoided.
But as he drank more deeply, his complaints became increasingly extreme until he began cursing his deceased grandfather.
I had been filtering out his words automatically until this point when I started feeling uncomfortable. Back in Junior High School days when I often visited his home, his grandfather was kind-hearted and treated everyone well—especially him. Hearing him attack his grandfather now left me bewildered.
I wanted to scold him and teach him a lesson like I did when we were kids, but at that moment, I no longer had the courage. We were no longer those two little brats. If I tried to lecture him now, it would probably lead to a real fight.
I asked him why he spoke about his grandfather that way. He gave a bitter smile and said he suspected that everything was going wrong for him because his grandfather wasn't looking out for them anymore. It was just bad luck on his part. Hearing this made me chuckle inwardly; it was utter nonsense.
Fate is the excuse of the failures. Luck is the modesty of the successful.
As he continued, I understood what he meant. He said that every year around the Ghost Festival and on his grandfather's memorial day, their family would have dreams where his grandfather would ask them if they were too poor to burn paper offerings for him. He felt like his grandfather was starving down there.
I asked him why they didn't perform the rituals on time, pointing out that it hadn't been long since his grandfather passed away—just over three years.
Cursing under his breath, he replied, "How should I know what that old man wants? We burn incense and paper every year on his memorial day. This year's Qingming Festival, we even hired Master Shakong, a Ritual Taoist, to conduct the rites. Who knew he'd still complain in our dreams?"
It turned out there was more to this than I realized; he didn't know what I did for a living, so he mentioned it casually.
I patted him on the shoulder and said, "You’re having a rough time; it's no wonder your grandfather isn't looking out for you. But if he's sending you such dreams, there must be a reason."
He kept drinking beer and shouted, "What do you know? You're just a bookworm who moved to the city. What do you understand about things in the village?"
I didn't respond to him. In his current state, he wouldn't listen to any advice I had to offer. I kept laughing along with him, thinking these matters could wait until he sobered up. By the way, his name is Liu Jian.
That night at the gathering, I spent most of my time listening to his complaints. Thankfully, I'm good at listening and had no complaints of my own.
After returning home, I couldn't stop thinking about this issue. I recalled that kind old man who used to give me a dime or two for candy whenever I visited his house. Now he was gone but still dragging his family into such dreams.
The next morning, not knowing what else to do, I called my master to ask about this situation—how could they perform rituals at home yet the old man still not receive them?
I recounted everything to my master, who told me, "There are only three possible reasons for this situation: First, the wrong grave was burned. Second, the wrong name was called. Third, the grave was relocated."
The chances of burning the wrong grave or calling the wrong name seemed unlikely. The most probable reason was the relocation of the grave, as in rural areas, burials are often done in the ground. Sometimes, when roads need to be repaired or houses built, graves have to be moved.
I asked in confusion, "Can relocating a grave really cause such issues?"
My master replied, "Yes, it can. You might want to ask your Second Master; he is knowledgeable about this. I have encountered similar situations before. Some people, when relocating graves, do not perform the proper Rituals and carelessly change the address. Without performing the Rituals, there won't be any notes made for the new Yin House address. Therefore, any money burned at the new location won't reach its destination."
I said, "That can't be true! When we worship at home or at crossroads, as long as we call out the right names without performing Rituals, we still receive responses."
My master explained, "Those are regular offerings that do not require being at the grave site. Offerings during Qingming and on memorial days must be made at the grave itself. I suspect your classmate's family will be making offerings in these days, but since the grave has already been moved, they naturally won't receive anything."
"So where did all that money go?" I asked.
There was a sudden matter that came up; I was delayed with my six o'clock update. I will add an extra chapter later as compensation. There have been quite a few patrons supporting me these days, so it should be enough for two additional chapters. I'll save those two extra chapters for tomorrow.
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