The Bian River, a vital artery pulsing with the commerce of the Song Dynasty, flowed sluggishly past the town of Fengling. Barges laden with grain and silk navigated its murky currents, while smaller skiffs darted between them like water striders. On the southern bank, where the main road dipped towards the water before continuing north, stood the River's Bend Inn. Once a bustling stopover for weary travellers and merchants awaiting the ferry, the inn now wore an air of neglect and quiet desperation. Paint peeled from its timbers, lanterns hung askew, and an unnatural stillness clung to it, starkly contrasting with the river's ceaseless motion.

  Its proprietor, a stout, middle-aged man named Old Pang, paced the deserted common room, his brow furrowed deeper than the ruts in the road outside. Business had dwindled to almost nothing. Travellers, once eager for a warm meal and a bed, now hurried past, casting fearful glances towards the dilapidated ferry landing adjacent to the inn. Whispers circulated in Fengling and beyond – whispers of a spectral ferryman, of icy mists coiling off the river even on warm nights, of voices calling from the water, luring the unwary to a cold embrace.

  It had begun subtly. A lost oar here, a mooring rope mysteriously untied there. Then came the sightings: a lone figure poling a phantom skiff through impenetrable fog, his face obscured by shadow, visible only when the moon was new or shrouded. Animals became skittish near the landing, refusing to board the real ferry, their eyes rolling wildly. Then, a merchant travelling alone vanished overnight from the inn. No sign of struggle, his room undisturbed, save for a single wet footprint leading towards the riverbank. A week later, a young couple seeking passage north disappeared after arguing with the real ferryman about the late hour. Their belongings were found neatly stacked by the water's edge, as if awaiting collection.

  Fear, cold and clinging as the river mist itself, settled over the River's Bend. The official ferryman, a grizzled old man named Cao, refused to operate after dusk, his face pale beneath his tan. Old Pang’s inn, reliant on the ferry traffic, withered. He tried lowering prices, offering free wine, but the spectral tales overshadowed any earthly incentive. Despair gnawed at him. He wasn’t just losing his livelihood; he felt the oppressive presence himself, a chilling weight in the air, the faint, recurring sound of dripping water even when all was dry, the unsettling feeling of being watched from the dark, flowing depths.

  Driven to the edge, Old Pang heard tales from a travelling scholar who had briefly stopped for tea (and hurried away before nightfall) – tales of a Taoist priest named Xuanzhen, a wanderer known for confronting phenomena that defied rational explanation. Clinging to this last shred of hope, Pang sent a desperate plea via a trusted cousin travelling towards the capital, begging for the Taoist's aid.

  Xuanzhen arrived in Fengling on a grey, overcast afternoon. The town itself seemed subdued, the usual riverside bustle muted. He found Old Pang at the inn, a man visibly worn down by anxiety. The innkeeper recounted the eerie events, his voice trembling, his eyes darting nervously towards the wide windows overlooking the sluggish river.

  "It's the ferryman, Master Taoist," Pang whispered, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cool air. "Not Old Cao... the other one. The one who comes when the mists rise. He's taking people. He's ruining me. This inn... it was my father's, and his father's before him. Now..." He gestured helplessly at the empty tables.

  Xuanzhen listened intently, his gaze calm but penetrating. He walked towards the window, looking out at the grey water and the forlorn ferry landing. Even in the daylight, the air near the river felt heavy, stagnant. His senses picked up the tell-tale signs of lingering resentment, of sorrow curdled into something cold and persistent. It wasn't the raw, chaotic energy of a powerful demon, nor the simple lingering presence of a recently departed soul. This felt older, rooted, entwined with the place itself.

  "Tell me about the landing, the inn," Xuanzhen requested. "Its history. Any tragedies connected to the river here?"

  Old Pang hesitated, then sighed. "The inn has stood for nearly a century, Master. The ferry crossing... much longer. As for tragedies..." He lowered his voice. "The river claims its share, always has. Floods, boating accidents... And there was... something else. Long ago. Before my time, even before my father's."

  He recounted a fragmented story pieced together from village lore – a tale from perhaps seventy years prior, concerning a previous innkeeper, a distant relative named Feng. Feng had apparently run the inn and the ferry service himself. He was known to be miserly and ill-tempered. The story went that during a harsh winter, a desperate family – refugees fleeing famine further north – arrived seeking passage. They had little money. Feng, according to the tale, demanded an exorbitant price. They couldn't pay. He refused them passage, refused them shelter in the inn, turning them out into the freezing night. The next morning, the family – parents and a young child – were found frozen to death on the riverbank, huddled together for warmth. Feng himself died a few years later, childless and unmourned. The inn passed to other relatives.

  "Just an old story," Pang finished uneasily. "Likely embellished over time."

  "Sometimes old stories hold the deepest truths," Xuanzhen murmured, his eyes still fixed on the river. "Resentment, injustice... these can leave powerful echoes, especially when tied to a specific place and a desperate end."

  Xuanzhen decided to spend the night at the inn, choosing a room on the ground floor with a clear view of the landing. He instructed Pang and the few remaining staff (a cook and a stable hand) to remain in their quarters after sunset, no matter what they heard. As dusk bled into night, a thick, unnatural mist began to rise from the river, swirling in ghostly tendrils, blanketing the landing and muffling all sound save the river's eternal murmur. The temperature dropped sharply.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Xuanzhen sat in meditation, his senses extended. He felt the cold presence coalesce near the water's edge, a knot of bitterness and icy despair. He heard it then – not with his ears, but with his inner senses – a faint, sibilant whispering carried on the mist, impossible to decipher, yet filled with a chilling sense of loss and accusation.

  He rose and walked slowly towards the door, pushing it open. The mist swirled around him, unnaturally cold. Standing by the water, barely visible through the vapour, was a figure. Tall and gaunt, clad in ragged clothes ill-suited for the damp, holding a long ferryman's pole. Its features were indistinct, lost in shadow and mist, but the sheer intensity of its sorrowful, accusing presence was palpable. It didn't move, didn't gesture, simply stood, an embodiment of cold despair anchored to the spot.

  Xuanzhen didn't approach aggressively. He stood on the inn's threshold, a figure of calm amidst the swirling dread. "Your suffering lingers here," he called out, his voice steady, cutting through the whispers. "But clinging to this shore brings no peace. What binds you to this place?"

  The figure didn't respond with words, but a wave of icy emotion washed over Xuanzhen – betrayal, helplessness, the biting cold of a final, desperate night, the image of a small, frozen hand clutching at nothing. He felt the ghost's confusion, its inability to move on, trapped in the echo of its demise, forever seeking a passage it was denied. It wasn't actively malevolent in its intent, perhaps, but its profound misery and lingering connection to the place had become toxic, drawing the life and warmth from the surroundings, and perhaps, in its confusion, luring others into its cold embrace.

  Xuanzhen realized this wasn't just the spirit of one person, but the compounded despair of the family turned away by the miserly Feng. They were bound here by the injustice, forever waiting on the cold bank. The spectral ferryman wasn't Feng, but perhaps an amalgamation of their waiting, their denied passage, given form by the river's energy and the site's history.

  Direct confrontation, a forceful exorcism, might shatter the spirit but wouldn't resolve the underlying injustice that anchored it. Harmony, Xuanzhen knew, required addressing the root cause.

  He retreated into the inn, the spectral figure remaining motionless in the mist. He found Old Pang huddled by the dying embers of the kitchen fire, shivering despite his bulk.

  "Master Taoist? Did you... see it?"

  "I felt its sorrow," Xuanzhen replied. "It is tied to the story you told me. The family denied passage, left to perish in the cold. Their despair haunts this landing."

  Pang looked horrified. "But... that was Feng! My ancestor, yes, but generations ago! What can be done?"

  "An injustice was committed here," Xuanzhen stated. "A debt of compassion remains unpaid. The spirits linger because their journey was cruelly halted. To give them peace, we must offer what was denied."

  Under Xuanzhen's guidance, they prepared. Not weapons or aggressive talismans, but items of symbolic passage and solace. Xuanzhen inscribed talismans not for banishment, but for guidance and safe travel onto small wooden plaques. Pang, spurred by a mixture of fear and a dawning sense of inherited responsibility, brought out warm blankets, food offerings (simple rice cakes and steamed buns), and three small copper coins for each soul – the traditional fare for passage.

  As the mist thickened again the following night, Xuanzhen and a trembling Pang carried these offerings to the water's edge. The spectral figure stood waiting, radiating an aura of intense cold and sorrow. The whispers seemed louder tonight, tinged with a desperate yearning.

  Xuanzhen placed the offerings carefully on the damp earth near the landing stage. He lit sticks of calming incense, their fragrant smoke momentarily pushing back the cloying mist. He struck a small, clear-toned chime, its pure note cutting through the oppressive silence.

  "Souls who linger by the water's edge," Xuanzhen began, his voice resonating with compassion. "An old wrong was done to you here. Shelter was denied, passage refused, compassion withheld. We cannot undo the past, but we offer now what should have been given then."

  He gestured to the offerings. "Here is warmth against the cold," he said, indicating the blankets. "Here is sustenance for your journey," pointing to the food. "And here is the fare for your passage," touching the coins. "The ferry awaits, not the one of denial, but the one that carries souls to peace. Your waiting is over. Go now, and find rest."

  He then placed the inscribed wooden plaques gently into the river, watching as the current caught them. He chanted verses from Taoist scriptures concerning the guidance of souls, his voice calm and steady, weaving a thread of peace into the fabric of the night.

  The spectral figure seemed to waver. The intense cold lessened slightly. The accusing whispers softened, morphing into something that sounded almost like a sigh. It didn't dissolve dramatically, but rather seemed to... fade. The mist swirled, and when it parted momentarily, the figure was gone. The oppressive weight on the air lifted, replaced by a clean, cool emptiness. The river flowed on, but the chilling presence that had clung to the landing was absent.

  Old Pang let out a sob, a mixture of relief and awe. He looked at Xuanzhen, his eyes filled with gratitude.

  Over the next few days, the unnatural mists ceased to rise. The feeling of dread dissipated. Old Cao, the ferryman, cautiously resumed his evening crossings, reporting nothing unusual. Travellers began to trickle back to the River's Bend Inn, drawn by the news that the haunting had ceased. Life slowly returned to the riverside.

  Xuanzhen stayed a few more days, ensuring the balance held. He advised Old Pang to maintain a small, simple shrine near the landing, not to the ghost, but as a quiet acknowledgement of the past and a reminder of compassion.

  Before departing Fengling, Xuanzhen stood once more by the riverbank, watching the water flow towards the sea. The Whispering Ferryman was gone, its sorrow finally released, not by force, but by acknowledging an old debt, by offering symbolic restitution for a forgotten act of cruelty. It was a potent reminder, he reflected, that the deepest hauntings often arose not from monstrous entities, but from the unaddressed wounds of human injustice, their echoes capable of poisoning the present until balance, and compassion, were finally restored. The river flowed on, carrying away the last vestiges of the haunting, leaving behind a quiet inn and the enduring weight of the past.