A Day in the Life: The Jiangshi
The Stiff Awakening
The coffin is cramped, smelling of cedar and centuries of decay. Deep in the earth, or perhaps in the back of a neglected ancestral shrine, the sun sets. The Yang energy of the day fades, giving way to the Yin of the night. Inside the box, eyes snap open—milky white, blind to light but sensitive to the flow of energy.
The Jiangshi tries to move, but it cannot bend its knees. It cannot flex its elbows. Rigor mortis has set in, not just as a biological process, but as a spiritual chain. Its body is as hard as iron, its skin pale with the greenish hue of fungus. It wears the robes of a Qing Dynasty official—a dark blue tunic with intricate embroidery, now tattered and stained with mold, and on its head sits a mandarin hat.
Hunger wakes it. Not a hunger for food, but for Qi—the life force. It needs the breath of the living to sustain its unnatural existence.
The Rise
With a burst of supernatural strength, it pushes the coffin lid open. Dirt cascades and wood splinters. It rises, but not by climbing; that requires bending. Instead, it levers itself upright, stiff as a board.
Now, movement. It cannot walk, for the joints are fused. It pushes off the ground with both feet. Hop. It lands a few feet away. Hop.
Looking ridiculous to the uninitiated, this method of locomotion is actually terrifyingly efficient. The Jiangshi moves with a rhythmic, relentless cadence. Thump. Thump. Thump. It clears obstacles, hopping over roots and stones, arms outstretched before it like a sleepwalker reaching for a dream. Long, sharp fingernails glint in the moonlight, ready to catch.
The Hunt for Qi
The village lies ahead, lanterns glowing warmly in the windows. The Jiangshi pauses, sniffing the air. It does not smell cooking rice or burning wood; it smells the exhalation of life. A villager is walking home late, carrying a basket of herbs. He breathes heavily, tired from the day's labor.
The Jiangshi reorients. The heavy breath acts like a beacon in the dark. It turns, hopping faster now. Thump-thump-thump. The villager hears the sound—a heavy, rhythmic pounding. He turns to see the figure in the antique official's robe hopping toward him, arms rigid, claws extended. He screams, drops his basket, and runs.
The Jiangshi pursues. It does not tire. It does not breathe. It simply follows the trail of Qi left in the man's wake.
The Threshold
The villager reaches his house, slams the door, and bars it, falling to the floor and gasping for air. Outside, the hopping stops. The Jiangshi stands before the door, sensing the concentration of Qi inside.
It strikes. The rigid arms slam into the wood. Bang. The door shudders under the immense strength of the creature. It hammers against the barrier, splintering the wood. Inside, the family huddles together in terror. The grandmother, however, knows what to do. She grabs a bag of glutinous rice and flings a handful out the window.
The rice hits the ground with a soft scatter sound. The Jiangshi freezes. A compulsion takes over. It looks down at the scattered grains. The part of its brain that retains its Obsessive-Compulsive nature from life kicks in. It must count them. It stops its assault, bends—stiffly, at the waist—and begins to pick up the grains of rice, one by one.
The Rooster's Crow
Hours pass. The Jiangshi is still counting. Four thousand, three hundred and two...
The eastern sky begins to purple. A rooster crows in the distance, the sound striking the creature like a physical blow. The sun is coming. Yang energy is returning.
Determination vanishes, replaced by panic. If the sun touches its skin, it will burn, turning to dust. Abandoning the rice, it turns and hops away, moving with desperate speed to seek the safety of the shadows. It finds a dark cave near the village outskirts and hops inside, retreating deep into the cool, damp dark where the sun cannot reach.
Leaning back against the rock wall, its arms drop. Its eyes close. The hunger remains, a dull ache in its withered gut. It has failed tonight. But the sun will set again. And when the moon rises, so will the Official.
