This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MangoNotBanana on 2024-09-25 11:44:51+00:00.

Ah Lang and I had always loved the outdoors. The wilderness felt like a hidden world, far removed from the concrete entrapment of Hong Kong. There was something magical in the silence of nature, a quiet that held secrets. This weekend, we’d decided to escape to one of the smaller islands near Lamma. It was perfect—just the two of us, away from the endless hum of the city. Alone, at last.

Our friends were supposed to join us later, but we opted for the earlier boat. A head start, we told ourselves. A bit of calm before the inevitable chaos of company. But as we stepped off the boat onto the island’s rocky shore, something… shifted.

The boatman was old, older than I had first realized. His skin was weathered, creased by countless sunrises, his eyes dark as if they’d seen too many things best left unspoken. He lingered as we gathered our gear, his gaze heavy, as though weighing something invisible. Ah Lang, usually so confident, shifted beside me, his unease palpable.

The boatman cleared his throat, the sound like sandpaper scraping against stone.

“You boys sure you want to camp here tonight?”

I forced a smile, perhaps a little too quickly. “Yeah, we’ve got it all planned out.”

The old man said nothing, but his eyes flicked upwards, scanning the dimming sky with the practiced gaze of someone who knows more than they ever let on. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost to himself.

“You know what day it is on the lunar calendar?”

Ah Lang shrugged, trying for casual. “We don’t really follow the lunar calendar, uncle. Is there something special about today?”

A sigh escaped the old man’s lips, the kind of sigh that carried years of forgotten stories, stories that lingered just out of reach. He looked at us again, more tired than before.

“If you need me,” he muttered, “just radio. I’ll come.”

And with that, he turned, his boat slipping away into the grey horizon, leaving behind a silence that felt too still, too deliberate.

The air, once lively with the whispers of the sea breeze, grew thick. The usual sounds of nature—birds, crickets, anything—were conspicuously absent. I could feel something watching, but from where, or what, I couldn’t say.

But we laughed it off. We had to. The quiet was unnerving, but it wasn’t enough to shake us yet. We hiked inland, trading half-hearted jokes, hoping they’d dispel the strange weight that had settled over us.

“You know,” Ah Lang said with a sly grin, nudging me, “once we set up the tent, we could reenact that one scene from Brokeback Mountain.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to match his ease. “You’re always thinking about that, aren’t you?”

“Can you blame me?” he laughed, the sound a little too loud in the empty space. “You make it hard to focus on anything else.”

We found a clearing by a stream, the kind of place that should’ve felt perfect—if not for the feeling. A low, nagging hum in the back of my mind, as though the trees themselves were watching, waiting for something to happen. But we ignored it. We had to.

The tent was up just as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a sky streaked with hues of burnt orange and purple. I checked my phone. The signal was weak, but enough for a message from Mei.

Sorry! Missed the last boat. We won’t make it tonight. We’ll catch the first boat in the morning.

Ah Lang groaned theatrically, flopping onto the ground. “Great. I was really looking forward to a hot meal with everyone.”

I chuckled. “We’ve still got plenty of sausage right here.”

He shot me a playful grin. “Maybe later, we’ll get to that.”

But later never came as we planned. The sun had slipped away completely, and the air grew cold—colder than it should have for this time of year. We fumbled through our supplies, preparing for dinner, only to realize the most essential thing was missing: matches.

“Looks like we’ll have to wait until morning for a fire,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. But the cold had already started to sink deeper into my bones.

And that’s when Ah Lang noticed it.

“Do you see that?” he asked, his voice hushed, pointing down the hill.

A faint light flickered in the distance, soft and warm, like lanterns swaying gently in the breeze.

“I thought this island was supposed to be uninhabited,” I murmured, narrowing my eyes.

“Maybe there’s a village we didn’t know about,” Ah Lang suggested. “Where there’s a village, there’s food.”

We grabbed our flashlights, and I felt a pull, an inexplicable tug toward the lights. We descended into the darkness, the forest closing in around us, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound in a world that had gone eerily quiet.

At the bottom, we stumbled upon it: a roadside stall, dimly lit by lanterns that swayed like forgotten dreams. An old man stood behind a boiling pot, his face lined with age, his eyes sharp—too sharp.

“You boys just arrived?” he asked, his voice low, raspy, almost… amused.

“Yeah,” I replied, feeling a cold knot twist in my gut. “Just tonight.”

His eyes flicked over us, then softened, a shadow of something… pity, perhaps? “So young…” he muttered, almost to himself.

He gestured for us to sit, and soon, the rich aroma of wonton noodles filled the air, warm and savory. My stomach growled, and despite the unease gnawing at me, I ate. The broth was warm, the noodles perfect. But with each bite, the feeling grew heavier, pressing down like the weight of something long forgotten.

When Ah Lang offered him money—a hundred-dollar note—the old man’s eyes widened. His hands trembled as he pushed the bill back.

“No… no need,” he said, his voice quivering. “Just… leave. You shouldn’t be here.”

My stomach twisted, the unease now blooming into full dread. “What do you mean?” I asked.

He glanced around, eyes flicking into the shadows as if something was waiting just beyond the light. “Don’t ask questions. Just go.”

We left. We had no choice. As we walked, the village—if you could call it that—fell silent. The lanterns flickered, and I felt the weight of too many eyes on us. I whispered to Ah Lang, “Maybe it’s some kind of retirement village for rich folks.”

But as soon as I spoke, everything stopped.

The villagers, once slow-moving and frail, turned. Their eyes gleamed in the lantern light, sharp and unnatural. One old woman, her face a mask of decay and hunger, approached, sniffing the air like a wolf scenting prey.

“Fresh… humans,” she whispered, her voice rasping like dry leaves.

My heart stopped. Ah Lang took a step back, pale. “What the hell?”

The woman grinned, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. “So much fresh Qi…”

The villagers moved then, their limbs jerking, twisting into shapes that no human should take. They surged toward us, their hunger palpable, their silence terrifying.

“Run!” Ah Lang shouted, and we bolted, the world a blur of shadows and flickering lights as we sprinted back toward the trees.

They were fast, impossibly fast. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I didn’t dare slow down.

“There!” I gasped, pointing to a rundown cabin hidden among the trees. “Hide inside!”

We threw ourselves into the cabin, slamming the door shut. The air inside was thick with rot, but we bolted the door and backed away, our hearts pounding in the oppressive silence.

Outside, we could hear them, whispering, scratching, their voices like the wind through dead branches.

“I can smell their Yang Qi…” one hissed.

I clamped my hand over Ah Lang’s mouth. We waited. The night stretched on, an eternity of whispers and scratches, until, slowly, the voices faded, leaving behind only silence.

When I woke, the cabin was gone. We lay on the cold ground, dirt and leaves scattered around us.

Ah Lang sat up, confused. “What the hell…? I swear we were in a cabin last night.”

I nodded, too stunned to speak. Then I saw it. A small, weathered shrine stood nearby, its roof covered in moss and vines.

“Wait,” I whispered. “This is a shrine to Tu Di Gong…”

Ah Lang looked at me, wide-eyed. “The Earth God? You think he protected us?”

“He must have,” I murmured. The realization sent a chill through me.

We packed up in silence, and as we made our way back, I glanced down the hill. What had been a village was now a sprawling cemetery, tombstones standing like silent witnesses in the morning light.

“It’s not a village,” I whispered. “It’s a cemetery.”

We rushed to the dock, where our friends were waiting. Mei smiled apologetically.

“Sorry again! None of the boatmen would take us here last night. They said it was the 14th day of the 7th lunar month.”

My heart sank. “The Ghost Festival?”

She nodded. “Yeah. They said the spirits were out… bad luck to be on the water at night.”

And that’s when it hit. The memory of the wonton noodles, the weight of the night, the gnawing dread that hadn’t left since we ate.

My stomach twisted, and I doubled over. Ah Lang, beside me, did the same. We coughed and retched, something thick and grainy forcing its way out.

It wasn’t food.

It was dirt.

Wet, foul-smelling, clumpy mud.