(Time: Three Months Ago)
The city, like a tireless beast, breathed and stirred restlessly even in the dead of night. Outside the window, the ribbons of light formed by the traffic on the elevated highway snaked like dragons. Neon lights stained the rain-slicked asphalt in myriad colors, blurred by the dense drizzle into impressionistic oil paintings. I, Li Xue, was curled up at the small desk in my rented apartment tucked away in a corner of the city, my face pale in the cold glow of the screen.
The air was filled with the cheap, slightly bitter aroma of instant coffee, mingled with the greasy smell lingering from last night’s takeout containers, and the city's breath – exhaust fumes and damp dust – seeping in through the window cracks. On the desk, beside the open laptop, lay scattered interview notes, printed materials, a few empty pens, and an almost-full ashtray. Yes, I’d started smoking again recently. Whenever a deadline loomed, or when a certain indescribable restlessness and emptiness set in, nicotine seemed the only thing that could temporarily smooth the creases in my thoughts. This small, rented space was my nest in this steel jungle, a place cluttered with the wreckage of dreams and the anxieties of reality. A few faded travel posters tacked to the wall reminded me of distant places I once longed for, but now they looked more like a mockery.
As a social news reporter, neither seasoned nor a complete novice, I had entered this profession carrying the ideal of "upholding justice with iron shoulders, writing articles with a skillful hand". Back then, my eyes shone, my heart burned; I thought I could move the world with my pen, or at least reveal some truth, bring about some small change. But reality is often much harsher than ideals. It’s like an experienced boxer, always ready to land a punch—not too heavy, but enough to leave you reeling—just when you’re at your most spirited. Over the years, I’d covered neighborhood disputes, listened to countless accusations and complaints, written inconsequential policy interpretations. Those words felt like screws thrown into a giant machine—insignificant, unnoticed. I had also tracked a few social incidents that caused brief stirs – factory pollution, migrant workers demanding back pay, tainted food scandals. But each time, it felt like wrestling with an invisible, thick wall. The report would be published, make a small splash, and then quickly be drowned out by new hotspots, new clamor, leaving little trace. My name, Li Xue, printed in the corner of a newspaper or webpage, was like a small pebble tossed into the vast, noisy ocean of the city, barely capable of creating a decent ripple.
"City launches 'Civilized Dog Ownership' special rectification campaign with significant results..." The title of the latest article I had just submitted glowed on the screen. I stared at the words, a profound sense of powerlessness creeping into my heart like vines, tightening around my breath. It wasn't that this news wasn't important—cities need order, life needs regulation—it was just… too bland, too lacking in force. It couldn't satisfy my deep-seated expectations for the role of a "journalist". What I craved was in-depth reporting that could truly touch hearts, provoke thought, maybe even uncover some hidden truth. I needed a "big story," a topic that could prove I was more than just an information porter, a wordsmith on an assembly line. I needed to recapture the passion I felt when I first entered this industry, that belief that words could change something.
Under the weight of this anxious, bewildered mood, I wandered aimlessly online. My fingertips slid over the mouse, my gaze sweeping across sensational or bizarre headlines. Web pages flickered past, fragments of information washing over me like tides, mostly fleeting entertainment gossip, shocking social news, or utterly boring advertisements. My eyes were vacant, my fingers clicking mechanically, like a scavenger wandering aimlessly through an information junkyard.
Until an inconspicuous post, tucked among the glossy or gory content, accidentally caught my eye. It had no fancy pictures, and the title was simple, even a bit rustic: "Exploring China's Top Ten 'Ghost Villages,' How Many Have You Visited?".
Out of boredom, perhaps, or maybe driven by a latent curiosity for the unknown—after all, who doesn't harbor a little desire to peek into mystery, into the forbidden?—I clicked the link. The content was, as expected, mostly cobbled-together internet rumors and blurry photos, poorly written, logically chaotic, listing several villages in China said to be long-abandoned and rife with ghost stories. Names like "Luoyang Village," "Suolong Well," "Shuangrushan Village"… I scanned quickly, a slight, disdainful smile playing on my lips, dismissing them as cheap internet fodder designed to attract eyeballs and satisfy low-brow curiosity.
Until that name appeared—Henan, Fengmen Village.
Compared to the other villages, the post’s description of Fengmen Village wasn't long, but every word exuded an unusual, eerie aura. Located deep in the mountains of western Henan, extremely isolated, almost cut off from the world. The entire village's several hundred residents supposedly vanished mysteriously overnight sometime in the last century, the reason still unknown, subject to much speculation. Though the houses had been empty for years, many remained remarkably intact. There were even rumors that the tables and chairs in many homes were arranged facing a strange direction (supposedly out of the village), as if the owners had only left temporarily. In the old temple at the village center stood a mysterious grand chair; legend had it that anyone who sat in it would meet misfortune—illness at best, death at worst. More chillingly, over the years, many who attempted to explore the village, seek the truth, or simply seek thrills, had, like the vanished villagers, disappeared mysteriously, never to be heard from again. Below the post were a few photos purported to be of Fengmen Village, low-resolution, with a dim, gray-fog-like quality. They showed only the outlines of dilapidated houses half-hidden by rampant green vines and trees, and a muddy, winding path leading into unknown depths, seemingly swallowed by darkness. That path didn't look like it led to the world of the living.
For some reason, this name and these brief, bizarre descriptions pricked my restless, numb heart like a tiny, cold needle. Fengmen… Sealed Gate? Was it geographical isolation, being trapped by mountains? Or… did it hold a deeper, more ominous meaning?
My fingers seemed to develop a mind of their own, involuntarily typing "Fengmen Village" character by character into the search engine. The moment I hit Enter, my heart seemed to skip a beat.
Instantly, information flooded the screen like a burst dam. Links, headlines, images, video clips densely packed the entire page. I quickly scanned, noticing a peculiar split in the information about Fengmen Village.
On one hand, there were vague, brief reports from official media, usually tucked away in local news corners or geographical articles. These reports consistently described it as an abandoned village formed due to harsh natural conditions, inconvenient transportation, and lack of resources, leading to spontaneous, gradual migration—a normal phenomenon in urbanization. These reports downplayed or dismissed the so-called "supernatural legends" as nonsense.
On the other hand, information from online forums, personal blogs, and the recently popular "outdoor adventure live streaming" platforms painted a completely different picture. The content was varied, bizarre, and difficult to verify.
Some recounted, with conviction, their own or friends' terrifying experiences after entering the village: compasses spinning wildly like drunkards, phone signals vanishing instantly, encountering the legendary "ghost wall" (getting lost and circling the same area repeatedly), hearing horrifying women's cries or heavy footsteps echoing in empty houses late at night, even seeing inexplicable black shadows flitting through the woods or windows. These descriptions mostly lacked evidence but were rich in detail, spoken in terrified tones, sending chills down the spine.
Others posted alleged "ghost photos" taken in the village. These photos were invariably of poor quality, blurry, full of noise, some even showing obvious signs of editing. But it was precisely this ambiguity and uncertainty that left vast room for imagination, making one wonder what lay behind that blurred halo of light, that distorted human figure.
Of course, the internet never lacked rational voices. There were also many debunking posts attempting scientific explanations for Fengmen Village's various "paranormal phenomena" from geographical, psychological, and physical perspectives. For instance, the "ghost wall" could be due to abnormal magnetic fields in the mountains or getting disoriented in dense vegetation; "ghost shadows" might be tricks of light or visual fatigue; "crying sounds" could be wind howling through holes in abandoned houses. These explanations sounded plausible but somehow failed to completely dispel the eerie cloud hanging over Fengmen Village. Because, how could the disappearances be explained? Were they just accidents?
Like a long-starving person lunging at a feast, I plunged into this ocean of contradictory, unverifiable information. I opened link after link, comparing different accounts, noting down key times, places, and people (though many were usernames or pseudonyms), trying to tease out even a shred of reliable, coherent clues. My fingers flew across the keyboard, my eyes dry from staring at the screen for too long, but my mind was hyperactive.
While sorting through the information, I discovered an interesting, or rather, unsettling phenomenon: although legends about Fengmen Village were plentiful, truly in-depth, rigorous, and credible investigative reports were virtually non-existent. Official media seemed to avoid the place, offering nothing beyond the standard narrative of "natural relocation". And those private explorers or investigators who ventured deep often had their records abruptly stop at a certain point. Some adventure live streaming accounts went dark shortly after entering the Fengmen Village area, never updated again, leaving countless anxious inquiries and ominous speculations in the comments. Some expedition teams went in grandly but came out disheveled, tight-lipped about their experiences, leaving only vague warnings. And some, like those mentioned in the initial post, vanished completely, becoming new footnotes in the Fengmen Village legend.
"Vanished overnight," "mysterious grand chair," "compass failure," "ghost wall," "missing explorers"... These keywords, full of suspense and horror, hooked my attention like little barbs, igniting my journalistic instincts. Was this merely about geographical remoteness, harsh environment, and natural decay? Or was there truly an unknown secret hidden here? If the terrifying legends were just rumors spread by word of mouth, why were there so many similar descriptions from different sources? If some rumors were true… what was the truth? Why would an abandoned village possess such a powerful, seemingly life-devouring dark force?
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My heart began to race uncontrollably, blood seeming to rush faster through my veins. A long-lost excitement mixed with a strange chill shot through my body like an electric current. Wasn't this the story I had been desperately searching for? An investigative topic brimming with ultimate mystery, latent news value, capable of attracting widespread attention and in-depth discussion! If I could personally go to Fengmen Village, see with my own eyes, record with my own recorder, bring back firsthand, authentic information—whether the final result was thoroughly debunking a long-standing rumor, exposing some charlatanry, or… confirming some unsettling, even terrifying facts—it would be enough to write a powerful, sensational report! This report could perhaps become the turning point in my career, rescuing me from this half-dead state.
Once this idea took root in my mind, it grew wildly like weeds after rain, impossible to suppress. It was like a flame, instantly igniting my long-dormant passion and ambition.
I began collecting information more frantically, more purposefully. I sifted through digital copies of all related historical documents I could find, trying to understand Fengmen Village's origins, development, and the exact timeline and reasons for its final abandonment, but records were scarce and contradictory. I joined some online communities for outdoor adventurers and paranormal enthusiasts, lurking, observing their discussions, trying to find someone who had actually been deep into Fengmen Village and returned safely, hoping for reliable information. But the results were disappointing; most accounts were similar, full of subjective assumptions and exaggerations, making it hard to judge their authenticity. Some claimed to have "exclusive inside information" but often required payment or membership, making me even more suspicious.
Persistence paid off. In an extremely obscure old forum dedicated to local folklore studies, I unexpectedly discovered a digitized audio clip labeled "1980s Folk Custom Interview Recording from Western Henan Mountain Area". The uploader seemed to be a deceased scholar. I clicked on it. The audio quality was terrible, full of static hiss and muffled background noise. In the recording, an old voice, thick with a local accent, spoke intermittently. Holding my breath, I turned the volume to maximum, listened dozens of times, and barely managed to catch a few key phrases: "...snake... White Snake Grandma... mountain god angered... sacrifice... sacrifice cannot stop... otherwise... all will suffer...".
These fragmented words, like stones dropped into a dark pool, didn't cause huge waves but left ripples spreading in my mind. "White Snake Grandma? Sacrifice?" I murmured, quickly scribbling the words down in my notebook, feeling I had inadvertently touched upon something deeper, related to ancient local beliefs or taboos. Was this connected to the abandonment of Fengmen Village and its eerie legends? Was this the source of the "uncleanness" the villagers were so reticent about?
At that moment, all hesitation and worry were replaced by a powerful impulse. I made my decision. I had to go to Fengmen Village. Personally. Immediately.
This time, my drive wasn't just curiosity, nor just the pursuit of a "big story" or a career breakthrough. A stronger desire, stemming from a journalist's instinct to seek truth, combined with a curiosity for the primitive and unknown world long suppressed by modern city life, merged like two converging currents, pushing me. I had to lift the heavy fog shrouding Fengmen Village. I needed to know what really happened there. Where did the villagers who vanished overnight go? What happened to the explorers who disappeared one after another? Were the decades-old eerie legends baseless fantasies, or did they have chilling roots in reality?
Of course, I wasn't entirely swept away by impulse. The voice of reason still warned from a corner of my mind. The unsettling descriptions online, the named examples of disappearances—they were all warning signs, reminding me of the immense risks involved. I wasn't a professional outdoor explorer; my fitness was average, my wilderness survival skills near zero. Against potential supernatural forces (if they truly existed), I was utterly defenseless. Did I have enough preparation and capability to face all this?
But then, a more persuasive thought took over: perhaps it was precisely the long-term lack of professional, objective, in-depth investigation that allowed the legends of Fengmen Village to snowball, becoming distorted beyond recognition. My intervention, as a journalist, with the purpose of recording and verifying, might bring a different perspective, clear the fog, restore some part of the truth. Besides, I would make the most thorough preparations, buy the best professional gear, plan a detailed route, set up multiple emergency protocols… I tried hard to convince myself that with enough caution, proceeding step by step, the risks could be managed. Moreover, if I wasn't willing to take even a little risk, what was the point of pursuing truth, of in-depth reporting? How would I be different from those editors sitting in offices, copying and pasting online information?
I took a deep breath, closed the messy, sensational web pages on my computer, leaving only a few photos said to be of the entrance and interior of Fengmen Village. I enlarged them, studying them carefully. The photos remained blurry, the tones somber and oppressive, yet I felt I could almost perceive, through the coarse pixels, a cold, alluring aura emanating from the distant mountains. It felt like a silent invitation, yet also like a deadly trap.
I stood up, walked to the window, and forcefully pushed open the pane that had only been slightly ajar. The damp, cold night wind immediately rushed in, carrying the fresh scent of rain, dispersing the stuffy air inside, and slightly cooling my feverish head, overheated from excitement and lack of sleep. The street noise below seemed to recede with the wind. I gazed at the city nightscape, washed clean by the rain—the flashing neon lights, the flowing traffic—forming a picture of modern civilization's prosperity. But in my heart, all this had begun to fade. My thoughts had already traversed this concrete jungle, flying towards that mysterious name, barely marked on any map, nestled deep within the mountains—Fengmen Village.
"Fengmen Village..." Facing the night wind, I whispered the name. My fingertips touched the cold window frame, but an irrepressible flame burned fiercely in my heart.
I barely slept that night. My mind replayed the legends of Fengmen Village, the blurry, eerie photos, and the boundless憧憬 for an investigative report that could potentially make waves and change my life. A complex emotion—a mix of indescribable excitement, intense anticipation, and a faint, unshakeable, hidden fear—washed over me repeatedly like a tide.
The next morning, before the sun had pierced the clouds above the city, I sat before my computer, sporting two distinct dark circles under my eyes but brimming with manic energy, starting to list the equipment and supplies needed for Fengmen Village: high-top waterproof hiking boots, Gore-Tex jacket and pants, a large-capacity backpack of at least 60 liters, a down sleeping bag capable of withstanding low nighttime mountain temperatures, high-calorie compressed biscuits and energy bars, a portable water filter or purification tablets, a bright flashlight and headlamp powerful enough to cut through dense fog, enough spare batteries and power banks to last several days, a high-precision handheld GPS device, and an expensive but potentially life-saving satellite phone (though I knew many who had gone said even satellite signals might be blocked there, it was better to be prepared; this was the final backup). And, of course, my tools of the trade—a mirrorless camera with HD video capability and good image stabilization, several large-capacity high-speed memory cards, and the digital voice recorder that had accompanied me for years, captured countless interviewees' voices, and now held my high hopes.
While searching and comparing outdoor gear online, I saw someone on an outdoor forum mention again that for a place like Fengmen Village, it was best to travel in a group, at least three people, for mutual support, and to share the load and risks. I hesitated for a moment, my finger hovering over the mouse, flashing through faces of potential companions. Should I find an experienced outdoor enthusiast? But their focus might be more on challenging nature and adventure itself, not necessarily understanding my needs as an investigative journalist. Should I ask a colleague from the newspaper? Old Wang from the photography department was a skilled outdoorsman, but he had a family; he might not be willing to risk accompanying me to a supposedly "ghost village". Besides, more people meant more opinions, potentially hindering my freedom and efficiency in conducting an independent investigation.
Ultimately, after brief deliberation, I decided to go alone. I trusted my judgment and believed that sufficient material preparation and a cautious attitude could handle most foreseeable difficulties. More importantly, deep down, I had a fixation: I wanted this to be a discovery journey entirely my own, free from others' interference, where I personally unveiled all the mysteries. This idea of facing the unknown alone brought both a sense of loneliness and fear, and a strange, exhilarating feeling of being in control.
As I filled my online shopping cart with professional gear, preparing to check out, my finger paused for the briefest moment over the red "Confirm Payment" button. That fragmented recording about "White Snake Grandma" and "sacrifice" found in the obscure forum resurfaced in my mind like an uninvited ghost. The old, mumbled voice seemed to issue an ancient warning. But I quickly shook my head hard, dismissing the sudden doubt and unease. It was likely just some long-lost, irrelevant local superstition, a crude way for locals to explain phenomena they couldn't understand.
What I needed were facts, evidence, things that could be recorded unequivocally by camera and recorder. And all that lay quietly in that place called Fengmen Village, waiting for me to personally unearth it.
I closed the shopping website, opened a blank Word document, took a deep breath, and began seriously drafting my interview and investigation plan. Route, schedule, interview outline (though I didn't know if I'd find anyone to interview), potential breakthroughs, emergency plans… I tried to anticipate every possible scenario. At the top of the document, I typed the title for this operation, tentatively called— "Fengmen Chronicle: An Investigation into the Truth of a 'Ghost Village'".
The sky outside remained overcast, but a faint light seemed to be struggling through the thick clouds. The colossal, noisy beast of the city seemed to be gradually awakening from last night's fatigue, starting a new day's operation. Only the monotonous hum of my room's external air conditioning unit continued, like an accompaniment to my impending, unknown journey. My thoughts, however, no longer belonged to this concrete jungle; they had already flown to those deep mountains in western Henan, shrouded in endless fog and eerie legends.
I knew this would be a journey full of unknowns and potential dangers. It could make me famous, or it could cost me dearly. But I had no choice, or rather, I willingly chose this thorny path. Because behind that "sealed gate," locked layer upon layer by legend and fear, might lie the answer I had been desperately seeking, the "big story" that could lift me out of mediocrity and prove my worth.
Back then, wrapped in ideals and ambition, I naively believed I was merely chasing a mystery that needed patience and courage to unravel. I never truly considered that some doors, once pushed open by curiosity, might never allow one to turn back. And the truth behind the door is sometimes far darker, far more terrifying, and far more… fatal than the wildest legends passed down through generations. My voice recorder would capture it all, or… become the only proof I ever existed.
