Feng wedged his flashlight into a crevice on the well's rim, its beam stabbing vertically into the abyss. The scarlet cloth undulated under the light like an injured red-banded snake. He drew a telescopic probe from his tactical belt, its stainless steel hook glinting coldly.

The probe touched fabric. Well water erupted. Feng twisted his wrist, yanking the hook upward. A splashing roar carried rancid air—a half-torn wedding robe front, its gold-embroidered phoenix reduced to skeletal threads entwined with gray hairs.

"Not silk." He pulled on latex gloves, rubbing the fabric. "Synthetic blend, over 60% polymer." His phone gallery showed the 1918 spirit marriage record—the sepia photograph clearly depicted Hangzhou silk.

Nail scratches echoed from the well shaft.

Feng reversed the probe, tracing moss-covered grooves. The freshest mark sank three millimeters, edges serrated—matching "shadow claw marks" described in Annals of Folk Mysteries Chapter 7. When the hook reached a five-meter-deep notch, the metal rod vibrated violently, as if snagging living flesh.

Splash!

Inky waves exploded. Feng's retreating boot crushed leaves. The probe hauled a black mass onto stone slabs—a cat corpse with copper coins crammed in putrid eye sockets, patina obscuring the "Guangxu Tongbao" inscription.

His phone lit autonomously, displaying Republican-era burial records: "Corpse-pacifying coins belong under tongues; misplaced ones amplify resentment." Forceps flipped the coin—"Zhang Qizong" etched on the reverse, the very patriarch who conducted the spirit marriage.

Locust branches snapped eastward.

Feng grabbed his kit, retreating toward a shack. Wet dragging sounds pursued him. The rotten door burst open, spewing mildew and aged incense. He hurled a glow stick—blue light revealed altar candles dripping wax that congealed into blood droplets on bricks.

A corroded lock secured the corner chest. Surgical shears pried it open, releasing choking incense ash. Feng sifted through the dust—his fingers met icy glass.

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Bronze mirror.

Black residue clung to vine-patterned patina—blood mixed with ash, fingerprints suggesting someone had clutched it breast-high.

The surface gleamed unnaturally. As the glow stick's halo swept across, Feng's reflection warped—a bridal figure loomed behind, raising pale hands.

Annals of Folk Mysteries burst open in his belt pouch.

Feng slammed against the wall, the tome clattering open at Chapter 49. Yellowed pages showed his mirror, text blotted except "亥时三刻" (9:48 PM). The spectral bride had vanished, leaving a damp handprint blooming on glass.

Roof tiles shattered outside.

Feng sealed the mirror in a waterproof bag against his chest. His flashlight beam caught black ooze creeping from the well toward the shack's threshold.

The Annals flipped seven pages.

Chapter 56 depicted a vermilion coffin suppressed by a mirror. Crimson text warned: "Mirror consumes nine yin, using shadow to bind shadow."

Feng realized his accidental mimicry—the mirror's inward-facing position matched ancient suppression techniques.

The ooze halted.

Bricks crackled as black mucus crystallized into salt-like grains. Crushed under his boots, the crystals snapped like cricket legs—texturally distinct from the well's blood salt.

A shriek erupted from the well, shaking dust from window paper. Feng bolted outside to find all paper coins pointing east. His infrared thermometer read "-9°C" on the locust tree—absurd in 27°C summer night.

The digital compass spun wildly.

At the first rooster's crow, Feng scaled the compound wall. The mirror burned against his chest, its patina glowing venomous mushroom hues. Looking back, locust branches stood bare—paper coins reduced to ash, as if ghostly hands had dismantled all spirit marriage offerings overnight.

His phone auto-generated a new album: the well's scarlet cloth close-up, EXIF data stamped 1918.