The Offering

When the power went out in the teaching building and the candles came to life, Gu Qing's memorial portraits lined every corridor and the school had become her funeral hall. No one wanted to linger in a funeral hall. Teachers and students alike fled as though running for their lives.

"Ma Dahua." Someone called her back as she tried to join the exodus. It was Zhang Yao, the disciplinary dean.

"Get a couple of students to swap out these pictures. I have some pictures of the great leaders in my office. Otherwise when the principal comes in the morning, what is he going to think?"

Before Ma Dahua could respond, Zhang Yao had already slipped into the crowd and disappeared, leaving her to curse under her breath.

Ma Dahua grabbed two male students from her class at random and handed off the task. Then she left herself — the atmosphere here was too strange, and she didn't want to spend a single extra minute. She followed the student flow out the school gate, half-walking half-running toward home. Her apartment wasn't far; in about ten minutes she reached the building. As she prepared to climb the stairs, she noticed her legs had gone completely to jelly, and her clothes were soaked through with sweat. A gust of cold air hit the back of her damp neck, and she shuddered. Once the shuddering started it wouldn't stop — her body shook, and her heart shook too, and Gu Qing's memorial portrait kept surfacing in her mind. She tried to steady her trembling hands enough to fish her keys from her bag. But her hands rummaged for a long time and found nothing. She dumped everything onto the ground under the streetlamp.

Then she realized: her wallet was gone. And with it her bank card and phone. And of course her husband Lao Qiao was away on business — wouldn't be back until midnight at the earliest. No key, no phone, locked out.

"Of all the cursed luck — leaving my wallet at the office today of all days."

She didn't want to go back to school. That place was unbearable. But without keys or a phone, waiting outside until midnight in this cold would kill her. In the end she had no choice but to summon her courage, turn around, and walk back.

When she arrived, the school gate was still open, but the campus was deserted. She crossed the sports ground and entered the teaching building. She checked the gateehouse window first — knocked on the glass — no response. Uncle Du wasn't in. She tried the main door of the building. It opened. She went inside. The candles had long since burned out; she moved through the darkness by the faint light seeping in from the open door behind her.

"Bang!"

The door slammed shut in a gust of wind. The single faint light source was gone. Absolute darkness swallowed everything. Ma Dahua felt what it truly meant to be unable to see her hand in front of her face. She groped forward, shuffling her feet inch by inch. It seemed to take forever before her hand found the stair railing. She had walked this staircase for decades; she would have sworn she could do it with her eyes closed. But in true, absolute darkness she suddenly found it unrecognizable. She knew there were stairs ahead, yet she felt she was standing at the edge of an abyss, unable to take a single step. At last she crouched and began to crawl forward on all fours, like an animal, reassured only by the feel of the stair beneath her hand.

She crawled to the second floor. It was just as dark as the first — but it felt different. She sensed she was not alone up here. Something was watching her.

The picture frames. The corridor on the second floor was lined with them. She thought of Gu Qing's portrait — that expression hovering between a smile and something else. She was almost certain now that the two students she'd sent to swap the photos hadn't done it, that the frames still held Gu Qing's image, staring at her with hateful eyes.

Ma Dahua's scalp crawled. The extreme terror drove her scrabbling forward in a frenzy, desperate only to grab her wallet and get out.

"Hisss—" A strange sound pierced the dead-silent corridor. A candle that had been long extinguished suddenly ignited. A small flame wavered to life behind her. She froze, then turned, her face white with terror.

The pale candlelight lit the frame above it. Gu Qing's portrait had indeed been replaced — with Ma Dahua's own memorial portrait. A painted image of herself with a broken neck and eyes rolled back.

At two in the morning, a man ran into the campus of Tiecheng No. 4 Middle School and knocked urgently on the gatehouse door. Uncle Du shuffled out in his overcoat.

"Uncle Du, I'm Lao Qiao — Ma Dahua's husband. I just got back from my trip and found her not at home, looks like she hasn't been back all day. She's not answering her phone. Could she still be at school?"

"Shouldn't be — no teacher ever stays this late. And we had a blackout today, so school ended early."

"She always comes straight home after work. She's never out this late. Could you take me inside to look?"

Uncle Du had no choice but to take his torch and lead Lao Qiao upstairs. Gu Qing's memorial portraits still hung in the corridor, her expression watching the two men as they passed.

The language office was empty. They went to the third floor and checked Class 1, Grade 4, where Ma Dahua was homeroom teacher. Empty. Lao Qiao wouldn't give up — he took out his phone and dialed Ma Dahua.

At that moment, Uncle Du felt something under his foot. He shone the torch down and saw a sheet of yellow paper — the kind of spirit money burned for the dead. He recoiled a step. There wasn't just one — there were several scattered around. As a cold draft swept through, more drifted toward their feet. By the thin light of the torch, they could clearly see the paper money was blowing out from the gap beneath the door of Class 4, Grade 4.

Lao Qiao's call connected. They heard the ringtone — coming from inside Class 4, Grade 4.

Both men felt their scalps prickle. Why was Ma Dahua in there, in the dead of night, surrounded by paper money for the dead? Uncle Du's hands shook as he located the key to the classroom and unlocked the door.

The floor was thick with spirit money. Ma Dahua was inside, feet hanging in the air, a hemp rope around her neck. She was dead — hanged in the classroom of Class 4, Grade 4, in exactly the same manner as Gu Qing had died before her. She had become the offering in this funeral hall.