The Stiff Awakening
The coffin is cramped. It smells of cedar and 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. They are milky white, blind to light but sensitive to energy.
The Jiangshi tries to move. 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 is pale, with a 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. 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 or wood splinters give way. It rises.
It does not climb out. That requires bending. Instead, it levers itself upright, stiff as a board.
Now, movement. It cannot walk. 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 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.
The Hunt for Qi
The village lies ahead. Lanterns glow warmly in the windows. The Jiangshi pauses. It sniffs 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 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. He sees the figure in the antique official's robe hopping toward him, arms rigid, claws extended.
He screams. He 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. He slams the door and bars it. He falls to the floor, gasping for air.
Outside, the hopping stops. The Jiangshi stands before the door. It senses the concentration of Qi inside.
It strikes. The rigid arms slam into the wood. Bang. The door shudders. The creature's strength is immense. It hammers against the barrier, splintering the wood.
The family inside huddles together. The grandmother knows what to do. She grabs a bag of glutinous rice. She flings a handful out the window.
The rice hits the ground.
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. It 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 strikes the creature like a physical blow. The sun is coming. Yang energy is returning.
Determination vanishes. Panic sets in. If the sun touches its skin, it will burn. It will turn to dust.
Abandoning the rice, it turns and hops away. It moves with desperate speed now, seeking the safety of the shadows.
It finds a dark cave near the village outskirts. It hops inside, deep into the cool, damp dark where the sun cannot reach.
It leans 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.
