The Paranormal Streamer Chapter 7

"Young man, let's go. This place has many dangerous spots. I'll teach you the simplest method: just don't look, don't listen, keep walking forward, and there won't be big problems."

I asked puzzled, "Ma'am, why does Hollow Creek have such evil things at its entrance?"

"Since you want to hear, I'll tell you. Come, let's walk and talk." I slowly followed her footsteps, listening to her story.

Long ago, descendants of ancient tribes migrated here to reproduce. Gradually this became a settlement of several thousand people. Back then, everyone was hardworking. Young men followed their leader into battles, the elderly stayed home farming. Besides food for survival, everything else became military rations. Nobody complained—they owed their leader their lives. How could they object?

But after that great battle, a general's tomb was built here. Unexpectedly, disaster followed. His resentment was too deep. Guilty for not completing his mission, after death he didn't rest peacefully but became vengeful energy, harming local people. He mistook villagers for enemies.

The people were innocent, but they couldn't overcome him. The tribe was nearly extinct, fewer than a hundred left. The chief sent riders to inform their leader. Learning this, the leader immediately sent his divine weapon to subdue him.

Twenty men were needed to carry this weapon. After three days and nights they reached the tribe. Seeing the weapon and its immense divine power, the general's vengeful spirit fled in fear. Villagers couldn't let him escape, so they began chanting spells their leader had taught them.

Instantly, storms gathered. A white light descended from heaven, striking the general. His vengeful energy split into many small demons that scattered. Seeing his power greatly diminished, they trapped him in a specially made container.

Then the divine weapon transformed into a massive tomb. Strangely, the next day this tomb disappeared. Since then, nobody saw it again.

As for those small demons, under guidance from their leader's subordinates, villagers learned demon-catching arts—what outsiders now call shamanism. Their leader said these demons must be buried properly, or they'd cause great disaster.

Everyone was very devoted. During that period, basically everyone knew shamanism. Everyone could catch ghosts. Even village status was determined by how many ghosts you'd caught.

Later, their leader was killed by his enemy. Our people became peaceful. Because so many tombs were built to suppress evil spirits, there are nearly ten thousand graves here now. That demon-catching shamanism has almost been lost to our generation. The woman's eyes showed sadness saying this.

I asked curiously, "Why would it be lost?"

She said young people now all leave. Only the elderly stay—they're all near death. Of course it would be lost.

Her children and daughter-in-law were also killed by mountain spirits, losing their lives. I sighed inwardly. Before I knew it, the woman and I had entered the village. I discovered Hollow Creek really wasn't simple.

The village wasn't large—maybe a few dozen households. You could see the whole thing at a glance. Strangely, the houses weren't arranged normally—they were tilted toward one direction. What was this principle? Following her into the village, I discovered every household's doors were closed. These weren't modern cement houses but ancient mud houses, roofs made of thatch, walls full of holes.

Following her through building after building, I got dizzy again—maybe the exertion made the snake venom act up. I endured the pain, leaning against a wooden door. The woman seemed to know I couldn't hold on. She immediately pushed open the door. Inside was cool and drafty. Only she was in the room. I didn't know what she was doing. Then I heard an animal cry. Seemed like all the village doors suddenly opened. Through wall cracks, I saw many villagers walking out with heads down, all heading one direction, like they were possessed.

Strange thing was, the woman seemed fine. I saw her behind the door, watching through the crack.

That night, the woman was too worried to sleep. I really couldn't stay awake anymore—my eyelids were fighting. I drowsily fell asleep.

When daylight came, sunlight shone on my face. I slowly opened my eyes. Long-missed sunlight—first time seeing it in so many days. Felt so comfortable. Recently I'd been in graves and caves too long. So long since I'd felt sunlight.

I sat up, looking for the woman. Didn't see her. Looking at my feet wrapped in herbal medicine—must have been her. But where was she? My foot still hurt a bit. Then I heard sounds outside. The footsteps seemed heavy. Not someone strange, I hope. I fearfully watched the wooden door. It opened—turned out to be the woman. She brought me breakfast. She didn't say much, just handed me the food. I felt touched. Before, when I was sick, nobody cared. First time someone dressed my wounds and brought food. Maybe this is what maternal love feels like.

"Eat quickly, young man. After eating, I'll heal your foot completely, then you can leave."

I was confused. Leave?

Seeing my shocked expression, she smiled: "Send you home, of course. What, did you think I'd do something to you? Young man, quite interesting."

I chatted with her about those villagers from yesterday. She said she suspected the general had been released. She'd even done divination—the result showed great misfortune.

She said, "Yesterday I saw the village people all walking toward the sunrise. They must have been bewitched by that general, summoned to be puppets."