The entire courtyard seemed to sense something. The ground trembled, and cracks of various sizes split open the hard, frozen earth, revealing all sorts of skeletons buried beneath. Some were large, some small; some had been there for many years, others for only a short time. Their colors varied. Gradually, they were shaken up to the surface, each one flashing its hollow eyes. After a series of faint bone-clattering sounds, it was as if someone had arranged them—all of them faced the same direction.

More and more skulls appeared on the ground, eerily gazing toward the direction of the great fire in a posture almost like pilgrims, emitting a chilling clatter with each tremor of the earth.

Logan Sullivan reached out to shield William Sherman behind him, then scooped up Darrin Grant: “Fatty, don’t run around!”

“That’s karmic fire.” Zach Warren had somehow appeared behind them. Her hood had fallen back at some point, revealing a lifeless face like that of an inflatable doll. William Sherman hadn’t even had time to see clearly what this plastic thing really was before “Zach Warren” suddenly collapsed limply to the ground.

William Sherman instinctively reached out to catch her, but the moment he touched the doll’s body, it let out a long, fake moan. Startled, the upright teacher Sherman’s hand shook, and he immediately dropped it to the ground.

A girl in a white dress had appeared in front of him at some point, speaking in Zach Warren’s voice, which William Sherman recognized: “When the four gates and four paths admit sinners, the gates open and the karmic fire comes to greet them. They say this fire comes from hell and burns only the guilty.”

Logan Sullivan: “Bullshit, shut up.”

Zach Warren pointed: “If you don’t believe me, look.”

At some point, all the skulls in the courtyard had turned their heads, staring in unison at the door of the small wooden house. Their dark, hollow eyes made everyone’s skin crawl. Their jaws opened and bobbed up and down, making them look as if they were laughing.

Everyone, including the cat, broke out in goosebumps—except for Zach Warren, who looked at these skeletons, twitching like they’d caught fleas, with neither joy nor sorrow, and said blandly, “My clansmen. They all wish they could skin me, pull out my tendons, and drink my blood.”

Logan Sullivan calmly pulled a gun from his pocket: “Zach Warren, get back in your body. William Sherman, get inside.”

Zach Warren ignored him and sighed.

“But…” she said, dazed and bitter, “I’m already dead.”

“Are you menopausal? Still nagging? Get the hell in there!” Logan Sullivan grabbed Zach Warren’s translucent soul out of thin air and, with extreme roughness, stuffed her back into the plastic doll’s body. Then he picked up the doll and tossed it into the arms of Holly Harlow, who had just gotten up in alarm.

Suddenly, the skulls in the courtyard opened their mouths wide and lunged at them. Logan Sullivan reached out to bolt the door and fired three shots in quick succession.

It seemed his gun wasn’t loaded with ordinary bullets. The moment the charging skulls were hit, they let out human-like screams and then turned into white smoke.

Logan Sullivan took the opportunity to slam the door shut. One skull was caught in the crack; with incredible speed, Logan Sullivan shoved his gun away, pulled a short knife from his pant leg, and, using the sheath, smashed down hard, cracking the skull like an eggshell before slamming the door closed.

Outside, the skulls kept banging against the door, as if countless hands were knocking. They leapt high, peering menacingly through the window cracks. The sound of bones clashing was like something out of the worst nightmare.

Several students were suddenly startled awake. Before they could even rub their eyes, they saw this scene. For a moment, their reaction was almost calm—any normal person would think they were dreaming.

Even Charles Gray was calm—after all, in this little mountain cabin, they had the all-powerful Director Sullivan, a talking, fierce big cat, a fake monk who could subdue hungry ghosts with a small bottle, a snake demoness who ate raw lamb, and the Carter Shaw he still didn’t dare approach. Charles Gray firmly believed that, while it looked dangerous, it was actually very safe here.

…This unlucky kid had blind faith in his colleagues.

Chapter 32: The Mountain and River Awl …

“Amitabha,” Julian West and Logan Sullivan braced the door together. The fake monk, panting, stared wide-eyed at the skulls jumping outside the window. “I’m utterly hopeless about this world where even skeletons act cute! What the hell are these things?”

Logan Sullivan turned and asked Zach Warren, “What did you summon here? Biting people is one thing, but they even bite you. Aren’t they afraid of getting food poisoning from all the plasticizer in you?”

Julian West vaguely felt he’d let something slip and tugged secretly at his leader’s sleeve.

The female class monitor nearby burst out laughing, but perhaps realizing it was inappropriate, quickly covered her mouth under the strange stares of her classmates.

“In 1712, there was a civil war among the Hanga people.” With Holly Harlow’s help, Zach Warren stood up and pulled her hood over her face. “In the end, the rebels won. The old chieftain died, and his wives, children, and even the 112 warriors who followed him were all beheaded according to ancient custom. Their bodies were burned, and their heads buried in the mountain guardian’s yard. They are doomed to be enslaved for eternity, never to find peace.”

Holly Harlow was stunned: “You mean those in the yard?”

The banging on the door continued.

Logan Sullivan gave Carter Shaw a look.

Carter Shaw immediately unzipped his tactical jacket. The sweater underneath was extremely unconventional, with who knows how many pockets—he looked like a walking storage bag. He rummaged through every pocket, counting out a dozen talismans written in cinnabar on yellow paper, and went up to stick them on the four corners of the door.

The yellow paper emitted a faint white glow, and the door, which had been shaking from the skulls’ assault, immediately quieted down.

Then, like someone pasting flyers on a utility pole, Carter Shaw plastered talismans all over the windows and walls, sealing the whole house tight. The skeletons outside seemed to sense the danger and all retreated a meter or two, no longer daring to bang on the walls or try to gnaw at the windows.

Logan Sullivan let go of the door. Despite the freezing weather, he’d worked up a sweat.

Acting like a boss, he sat by the small stove, tore open a packet of milk powder, dumped it and some mineral water into a big bowl, and set it in the boiling pot. He ordered the just-recovered Zach Warren, “Cook it. Everyone gets a bowl. After you drink, you’ll have to give the organization a clear explanation of what’s going on here.”

“I’m sorry.”

That was all Zach Warren said. Her lips were as tight as an underground agent in old Chongqing—she wouldn’t say a word, no matter what. If pushed, she’d just repeat, “Open the door and throw me out. Without me, whatever’s outside won’t trouble you.”

After hearing this, Logan Sullivan calmly retorted, “Do you really think that’s a reasonable thing to say?”

Zach Warren, though scary in appearance, was actually a gentle soul. She didn’t talk much, wasn’t close to anyone, but was always polite. She rarely said such hurtful things. Realizing she’d lost her composure, she lowered her head and simply fell silent.

Carter Shaw stood by the window, pried open a crack, and looked outside. Seeing all the skulls had retreated because of the talismans, he turned back to Logan Sullivan and gestured: “Leave someone on watch. The rest can sleep. These are just minor nuisances, nothing to worry about.”

The crisis over, the tall, skinny boy, always eager for excitement, sidled up to William Sherman: “Teacher, can I take a few photos? I won’t go outside, just at the window.”

William Sherman looked as if he was trying to figure out what kind of upbringing could produce such a morbidly curious kid.

A salty hand reached over and slung around William Sherman’s shoulders. Logan Sullivan leaned in and lowered his voice to the tall boy: “Taking photos isn’t against the rules, but you should know, the old folks used to say that photos can steal your soul. As long as your soul stays in your body, it’s fine. But in a place full of wandering spirits like this… are you sure you want to take a few little skulls home and try growing them in flowerpots?”

The tall boy shivered at his “midnight ghost story” tone.

Logan Sullivan grinned and pressed on: “You could even bury them in your flowerpots at home. Then every night, at midnight, just like the news building’s hourly chime, you’ll hear them gnawing on your flowerpots. When they’re done with the pots, they’ll gnaw on your table, and after the table, your bed…”

He hadn’t finished before the tall boy started squirming in discomfort.

William Sherman’s mouth twitched: “What’s wrong with you?”