Having ghosts play ghosts not only let them play their own role, but also saved on special effects and makeup costs.

Zhong Jiudao had been dealing with ghosts and monsters since he was very young, so he knew them quite well.

Although fierce ghosts had once been human, their way of thinking was completely different from that of living humans due to death and the influence of resentment.

They were obsessive, stubborn, and one-sided, unable to view problems holistically or dialectically. Death had taken away most of their rationality and thinking ability. What remained in the human world were their obsessions and resentment, and they could only observe the world through these negative forces — there was no changing this.

After all, all normal ghosts without resentment had already left the living world. Resentment and obsession were the reasons these fierce ghosts remained. If you changed that, they would cease to exist.

Do not attempt to communicate with them; either you subdue them, or they will subdue you. This was the teaching Zhong Jiudao received since childhood.

Although he had never made a full-length film, Zhong Jiudao had shot many short films in school and interned in several crews. His mentor, after watching his work, once told him that he was remarkably gifted in filming techniques: Zhong Jiudao had a vivid sense of visual composition and could perfectly present images through technique.

His filming methods were fine, but he lacked something pure and essential.

“You have a steady personality, and handle matters calmly. You can always observe things from a detached perspective — this is an advantage in life, but in art, it’s a disadvantage,” his mentor said meaningfully. “Your works lack something extreme, something impactful that can reach people’s hearts. Don’t always be so steady — try going a little mad. Genius and madness are separated by only a thin line.”

Zhong Jiudao could not follow this teaching.

Because to uphold righteousness and dispel evil, he needed to stay true to his heart and remain unmoved by external influences. Excessive emotion could be exploited by fierce ghosts, confusing the mind. In encounters with these monsters, even a small mistake could lead to irreparable disaster.

This was the kind of training Zhong Jiudao had received since childhood, which ran contrary to artistic expression.

For his mentor, Zhong Jiudao was both a talent to be cherished and a source of regret.

He was like a perfect learning machine, capable of producing the best images. Unlike other students, whose works were full of flaws and roughness, his were smooth and high-quality.

But art can have flaws — it cannot be devoid of emotion.

To untie a bell, one must tie it first (NT: idiom: ie. the person who tied it in the first place is the one who knows how best to untie it. Figurative meaning : you can solve a problem only by addressing its source). It seemed that the side effects of ghost-slaying practice might also need to be resolved by learning from these fierce ghosts.

Looking at these fiercely opinionated ghosts, Zhong Jiudao couldn’t help but think of his new film.

Among the short videos Zhong Jiudao had made, the only one his mentor truly approved of was a horror suspense video.

It wasn’t that the story itself was exceptionally good, but Zhong Jiudao’s talent for capturing a terrifying atmosphere was extraordinary. He portrayed the scenes as if he had personally seen evil ghosts harming people. The images were not bloody, yet they could send chills down one’s spine.

For his first full-length film, Zhong Jiudao naturally chose the horror genre, the area he excelled in.

He took out the script for his new movie. Because the crew had severely limited funds and could not hire an excellent screenwriter, he purchased the script from a not very professional studio.

Because of his poor empathy and lack of professional writing skills, he could not independently complete the script. During school, most of his short video scripts had been purchased as original works. Now, shooting a full-length film, he again bought a script from a studio he often collaborated with.

But short films and feature films were fundamentally different. To control costs, the script he bought was too ordinary and routine, with awkward plot twists. Zhong Jiudao was not satisfied. He revised it multiple times personally, yet it still didn’t feel good enough.

The story was about a group of college students who, during summer vacation, all coincidentally received an invitation from a high school classmate. The classmate claimed to have recently moved into a new home and invited friends over to visit.

When the young people arrived at the classmate’s house, they found an unimaginably luxurious villa with a long history. They found it strange, because this classmate usually dressed plainly, giving no indication of such wealth.

The classmate’s parents wore cheongsams and long robes, and the household staff and drivers addressed the owners in a highly feudal manner. The students felt as if they had stepped back into the old society (NT: pre-1912 period).

After enjoying a lavish dinner, that night they stayed in the villa. In the middle of the night, they were jolted awake and discovered an extremely terrifying scene. The group tried to escape from mortal danger, but found the doors and windows locked, while their classmate’s entire family stood there smiling at them in a strange, unsettling way.

The villa turned into a massive labyrinth. For the students to escape, they had to uncover the reason why their classmate’s family had become like this. After a series of thrilling fights and frantic escapes, only the male and female leads successfully made it out of the villa. The male lead, looking back in relief after surviving, saw on the second floor of the villa a person who looked exactly the same as the heroine, silently staring at him.

In this day and age, such a story was nothing special. With Zhong Jiudao’s current resources, this was the best kind of script he could manage. If he wanted to add highlights on top of this basic framework, he would have to carefully work out the characters.

If Zhong Jiudao had enough funding to hire well-known, skilled actors, the actors themselves could fill in the blank spaces of the characters. But he had no money. The only people he could afford were ordinary students still studying at film schools or who had just graduated. Some of these did have talent and a natural aura, but finding such actors was like searching for a needle in a haystack and required extraordinary luck.

The best approach was for Zhong Jiudao to personally write character profiles, have clear images of each role in his mind, and then give one-on-one direction tailored to the actors’ traits. With post-production editing and musical scoring, he could then shape characters that stood out.

Zhong Jiudao’s gaze swept over the group of ghosts, and he silently made a decision in his heart.

The Suit Ghost was crouched in front of the DVD player, changing discs. Feeling Zhong Jiudao’s gaze fall upon it, its entire soul instantly froze. It vanished in a way that was self-deceptive and futile, leaving only a disc floating eerily in mid-air.

Somehow, the number of ghosts in the theatre had increased. At the doorway stood a simple-faced middle-aged woman holding a rag — she must be Auntie Yang, the one who had been diligently cleaning the villa. When she noticed Zhong Jiudao had spotted her, she gave an awkward smile, picked up her rag to wipe the door, and said: “Master, I came to clean the room.”

Having found an excuse, Auntie Yang suddenly grew righteous and confident, and went straight into the room to start wiping the windows. She even warmly asked Zhong Jiudao: “Master, would you like your laundry washed?”

If no one had made excuses, it would have been fine — but Auntie Yang’s justification made the rest of the ghosts feel awkward. The Suit Ghost quickly reappeared and said: “I studied abroad and know some Western gadgets. Allow me to serve you, Master — no need for you to do it yourself.”

With that, it firmly pushed the disc into the drive, insisting that they must watch another movie.

The White Cheongsam Ghost turned her candle into a wine jug and cups, poured a drink, and handed it to Zhong Jiudao. Her expression grew even more mournfully beautiful, like a delicate white lotus in bloom (NT: metaphor for fragile, pitiful beauty). “I have no special skills,” she said softly, “but I can drink with you to cheer up the mood. I also know some little songs — would Master like to hear them?”

Zhong Jiudao: “……”

For the first time, he realized how impoverished the spiritual lives of these fierce ghosts were. Just to watch a few movies, they were willing to humble themselves to this degree, serving a Celestial Master like servants. It was no different from a mouse grooming a cat.

“Let’s stop watching movies for now,” Zhong Jiudao said, opening the script. “Take a look at this instead.”

The White Cheongsam Ghost, being closest, leaned over to glance at it. Tears immediately began to fall “pa-da, pa-da” onto the pages. She said pitifully: “I… I cannot read… wu wu wu…”

Ghostly weeping was enough to kill a person. If not for Zhong Jiudao’s strong magical power, the White Cheongsam Ghost’s crying would have been enough to make an ordinary person’s soul leave their body.

A ghost in a gray scholar’s robe stepped forward and said: “In life, I was a xiùcái (NT: the lowest degree in the imperial civil examination system). I can recite this book aloud for Master.”

“Mm.” Zhong Jiudao nodded in silent approval.

The script floated in mid-air. The Scholar Ghost was initially stunned, muttered, “So many simplified characters,” and then began reading aloud.

As the Scholar Ghost read, some of the other ghosts grimaced as if they had a headache at the idea of reading and tried to leave the room, but under Zhong Jiudao’s overwhelming authority, they dared not move.

Unexpectedly, as they listened, they realized that this book was different from what they were familiar with — it lacked the classical, formal phrasing of archaic Chinese particles, using plain, easy-to-understand words, so even the uneducated Auntie Yang could comprehend it.

Moreover, since this was a horror story with strong Republic of China-era colour, the ghosts found it easy to immerse themselves in the narrative and gradually became completely absorbed.

The script was not long, and the Scholar Ghost read quickly. Within a few hours, it finished. At this point, aside from the Western-dress Female Ghost serving as the power source, all the other fierce ghosts in the haunted house had gathered in the screening room to listen to the story. Counting them, there were more than thirty.

The Scholar Ghost did not need light to read, and considering the need to save electricity, Zhong Jiudao turned off the lights.

At around 2 a.m., in the pitch-black villa, Zhong Jiudao sat alone in the large room glowing with eerie green light. Periodically, sounds echoed through the room: clapping, shouts, sobbing, skulls rolling excitedly across the floor, and the weak “Spare… my life” from the Female Ghost downstairs.

If any ordinary person saw this scene, they would probably be rushed to the ICU (NT: hyperbolic idiom for “so scary you’d need emergency medical care”).

The Scholar Ghost did not suffer from dry mouth or exhaustion. It read continuously for five to six hours, finally finishing the entire script past 3 a.m.

Upon hearing the last line of the script, the ghosts could no longer restrain themselves and happily began to discuss it.

“Great!”

“I thought it would be another story where the protagonist dies, but there’s a hidden twist.”

“Compared to killing everyone off, this method is the right one. By leaving the villa with that man, absorbing his vitality, and then possessing him to seek out others, they can not only grow stronger but also escape confinement. This is the righteous path !”

“This book is far better than the movie we just watched. If only it could be adapted into a film.”

Zhong Jiudao: “……”

To claim that his dry, plain script was better than a famous director’s classic film from ten-plus years ago — the ghosts’ sense of aesthetics was truly extraordinary.

The Suit Ghost removed its eyeball, wiped the tears from it with a handkerchief, and its eye on its palm was full of envy: “The villa in this book looks like our house. The protagonists in the story… they’re just like us. If only we could do that too.”

Zhong Jiudao: “You have extreme resentment, so you must have harmed some people, right?”

The White Cheongsam Ghost replied: “Decades ago, some foreign invaders with Western guns occupied this villa. We drove them out and absorbed some vitality. But after they left, no one lived here until three years ago. We only caused a few disturbances, and that family was scared away. After that, it was your turn, Master.”

Zhong Jiudao understood the history of this haunted house: during the war, it had been occupied by invaders, some died, some fled, leaving behind a legend of a haunted house. No one dared move in until modern descendants returned from overseas, inherited the property, sold it, and it was bought by the current owner.

These malevolent ghosts, born of chaotic times, had survived for many years by chance. If not for Zhong Jiudao’s powerful magic, any other exorcist would likely have failed.

Ideally, such fierce ghosts should be exorcised. However, since the Zhong family forbade him from using exorcism techniques, leaving them alone wasn’t a big deal — mere restraint was enough.

Zhong Jiudao said: “I am a director and intend to turn this script into a film similar to the one we just watched. I need…”

He wanted to say that he needed to write character profiles and consult the ghosts’ opinions for reference.

Before he could finish, the Suit Ghost excitedly said: “Master, do you need actors? I can do it!”

“Me too!” “Me as well!”

The ghosts clamoured in front of Zhong Jiudao, jostling for roles, nearly coming to blows. Tongues, eyeballs, arms, and skulls flew around — a scene of chaotic demon dance.

Zhong Jiudao: “……”

It seemed feasible. As long as he drew a “reveal” talisman on the camera (NT: occult talisman to make spirits visible), he could shoot a paranormal video. Having ghosts play ghosts was their natural acting and also saved on special effects and makeup costs.

Moreover, they didn’t seem to need human money. Burning spirit currency as payment was enough. Whether one million, two million, or even ten or twenty billion — paying the actors’ wages was no problem.

 

Translator : DarNan