The Blood-Devouring Mi Rakshasa tattoo I had just given Emma emitted a faint black gas, which drifted out from the tattoo as if alive before seeping into Emma's stomach.
Emma shivered, then looked at me in horror. I hadn't expected this either, and we stared at each other, too frightened to speak.
This was my first time doing Tattoos of Gods and Ghosts, and I had no idea how sinister this thing was.
Half a minute later, a wisp of black gas suddenly condensed into a tiny figure on Emma's belly. The small figure grabbed the snake and bit into it, while Emma screamed in agony, clutching her stomach and writhing on the tattoo bed.
Even more terrifying was the eerie laughter I heard coming from Emma's tattoo. It sent chills down my spine, but when I looked closely, the tattoo itself appeared unchanged.
I panicked. Had I messed up? Had I done the tattoo wrong? Could this have killed someone? And worse—what if it was already a corpse? After all, it was my first time doing Tattoos of Gods and Ghosts, and I was both nervous and scared.
I rushed over to check if Emma was okay, but she pushed me away and stormed off to the bathroom.
After ten long minutes, Emma finally emerged. To my relief, she said she was fine. When she lifted her shirt, the protruding little snake had disappeared. She told me she had passed a large amount of blood, but afterward, her whole body felt relaxed, and her stomach had returned to normal.
So, the black gas must have been the Blood-Devouring Mi Rakshasa tattoo taking effect. This Tattoo of Gods and Ghosts was a success—though undeniably eerie.
Emma thanked me profusely before finally pulling out ten thousand dollars from her bag and handing it to me before leaving happily. I was a little puzzled—why would a pregnant woman carry so much cash? But with the money in hand, I didn't dwell on it. After all, she was an acquaintance, and the payment was real.
I suddenly felt a surge of admiration for my grandfather. The old man was truly remarkable—how had he known someone would come for a Tattoo of Gods and Ghosts today? And if that was the case… would there still be a ghost next? The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine.
Today was the Ghost Festival. Damn it, old man, don't scare me like this. I tried calling him again, but his phone was still off. My anxiety grew as night fell and Grandpa hadn't returned, his phone remaining unreachable.
Around eight in the evening, I was about to close up the tattoo parlor and head home when someone walked in.
The man was around thirty years old, dressed in black, with pale skin and a gaunt face. His fingers were long, his stature tall, and he carried a black shoulder bag.
I knew everyone in the village, but this man… I had never seen before. He must have been an outsider.
"Is old Mr. Rhett in, please?" the man asked as he entered the shop.
"He's not here today. I'm his grandson, Roger. Are you looking to get a tattoo?" I replied.
The man frowned, as if my answer disappointed him, then continued, "Since you're his grandson, do you know how to do Tattoos of Gods and Ghosts?"
Good grief, another one asking for Tattoos of Gods and Ghosts. But it was already nighttime, and remembering my grandfather's warning, I grew wary. Studying the man's pale face, my heart began to pound. This guy couldn't be…
No, better to just refuse. If this was a ghost seeking a tattoo, wouldn't I be defying my grandfather's instructions?
"Sorry, I don't know how. If you want a tattoo, you'll have to wait for my grandfather to return."
To play it safe, I lied.
The man pressed further, "Then when will old Mr. Rhett be back?"
I gave a bitter smile. "I don't know. He didn't say."
The man let out an "Oh," his expression disappointed, but he didn't push the matter. He turned to leave—but after three steps, he suddenly turned back.
"Young man," he said abruptly, "there's black qi around your lips and cheeks, and your complexion has a faint greenish tint. I fear you've been haunted. Today is the Ghost Festival—you must be careful. My advice? Stay inside this tattoo parlor tonight. Don't leave until morning."
"What do you mean by that?" I snapped, irritated. "Just because you couldn't get a tattoo, you have to curse me?"
I was angry. Who goes around on the Ghost Festival telling people they're haunted? If he didn't explain himself, I wasn't letting this slide.
Instead of answering, the man's gaze dropped to the two bulging pockets I had been muttering about earlier.
"Empty your pockets," he said.
My pockets held money—the ten thousand dollars Emma had just given me, split between them.
I hesitated. Was this guy trying to rob me? He was a stranger, after all—anything could happen.
As if reading my mind, the man added, "You're carrying a dead person's money in your pockets. You must have encountered something unnatural today."
At his words, I immediately pulled out the cash—and sure enough, the bills in my hand were spirit money, the kind burned for the dead!
As the ten thousand yuan spilled onto the floor, I stood frozen. All of it was ghost money. My hands shook, scattering the cursed bills across the ground.
Impossible. When I first took the money, I had checked carefully—it was real. How could it have turned into spirit money?
This was evil—truly evil! And why would Emma give me spirit money? We're from the same village, we know each other well, and I even helped her. How could she give me this?
"Only the dead spend spirit money, young man. You've encountered a ghost," the man added.
Encountered a ghost? Did that mean Emma was a ghost?
"No way! It was broad daylight when I met her. How could there be ghosts? Besides, I know her—how could I not have known if she died?" I argued fiercely.
The man glanced outside at the darkened sky and asked, "What was the weather like today?"
I frowned, trying to recall. "Cloudy. The sun didn't come out at all today."
As soon as I said it, a chill ran down my spine. Not only had there been no sunlight all day, but Emma had even been holding an umbrella when she came.
Could Emma really have been a ghost? Was she dead? I was starting to believe the man's words a little.
I was about to rush to Emma's house to investigate, but the man stopped me, warning that it would be safest to stay in the shop now. If I went out, something terrible might happen.
In the end, I listened to him and stayed. Then, I found Emma's husband's number on WeChat.
Emma's husband's name was Wong. When he answered, his voice sounded off—hoarse, as if he'd been crying. After some small talk, I steered the conversation toward Emma. How could I bluntly ask if someone's wife had died?
To my shock, Wong replied that Emma had passed away—and had been buried just last night!