Feng Yunting was a man of Taihang. Once, on a visit to the prefecture, he was lying down in the daytime in his lodgings. He was young and had lately lost his wife, and in his loneliness he was given to longing. As he gazed at the wall he saw the shadow of a woman on it, faint, like a painting. He thought it must be his own imaginings. But it stayed a long while without moving and without fading, and he wondered at it. He got up to look, and it grew clearer; he went closer, and it was plainly a young girl, her face pinched, her tongue hanging out, a rope round her lovely neck. While he still stared in alarm, she began slowly to come down. He knew her for the ghost of a hanged woman, but broad daylight gave him courage and he was not much afraid. “Lady,” he said, “if you have suffered some strange wrong, I will do all I can.” And the shadow did come down. “We are strangers, met by chance like duckweed on the water,” she said. “How could I dare burden a gentleman with a heavy task at once? But my withered bones lie at the Yellow Springs1, my tongue cannot draw back in, the rope cannot be taken off. I beg you to break the roof beam and burn it. Your kindness would be as great as the mountains.” He promised, and she vanished. He called the landlord and asked about what he had seen. “Ten years ago,” the landlord said, “this was the house of the Mei family. One night a thief broke in. Mei caught him and took him to the jail warden2. The warden took three hundred cash from the thief and accused Mei’s daughter of carrying on with him, and was going to have her taken in for questioning and a physical examination. When she heard, she hanged herself. Afterwards Mei and his wife died one after the other, and the house came to me. Lodgers often see strange things, and I have no way to put a stop to it.” Feng told the landlord what the ghost had said. Pulling down the house and replacing the timbers would cost a great deal, so the landlord was reluctant; Feng put in his share and helped with the work. When it was done he moved back in. That night Miss Mei came. When she had made her thanks she was all happiness, and lovely in every movement. Feng was charmed and wanted to make love to her. She looked down, ashamed. “The cold dark air of the dead would do you no good. And if I did this, the filth they put on my name while I lived could not be washed away by all the West River. We will come together in time, but the day is not yet.” “When?” he asked. She only smiled and said nothing. “Will you drink?” asked Feng. “I don’t drink.” “Sitting across from a beauty and staring glumly at each other,” said Feng, “what pleasure is there in that?” “The only game I ever knew in life was the horse game3,” she said. “But two is too few for it, and this late at night there is no board to be had. Still, the night is long and must be passed somehow, so let us play cat’s cradle.” Feng agreed. Knee to knee, fingers spread, they passed the string back and forth a long while, until Feng was lost and did not know what to do next; then she would tell him, pointing with her chin, and the figures grew stranger and stranger, her tricks never running out. “This is the high art of the women’s quarters,” said Feng, laughing. “I worked it out myself,” she said. “With a double string you can make any pattern. People just never notice.” Late in the night he grew tired, and she made him go to bed. “I am of the dark world and do not sleep,” she said. “Please rest. I know a little massage; let me do my best, to see you into sweet dreams.” Feng did as she asked. She laid one palm over the other and pressed lightly all over him, from crown to heel; wherever her hands passed, his bones felt drunk. Then she closed her fingers and tapped him gently, like the touch of balls of cotton wool, and his body felt easier than words can say. By the time she reached his waist his mouth and eyes were heavy; by his thighs he was sound asleep. When he woke it was nearly noon. His joints felt light and easy as never before. He loved her all the more, and went round the room calling her, but there was no answer.

Not until evening did she come. “Where do you live, my dear,” said Feng, “that I called for you everywhere?” “A ghost has no fixed home,” she said. “Mostly we are under the ground.” “Are there cracks in the ground big enough to hold you?” “A ghost does not see the earth, any more than a fish sees the water.” Feng took her wrist. “If only you were alive, I would spend all I have to win you.” She laughed. “No need to spend all you have.” They played until midnight, and Feng pressed her hard. “Don’t pester me,” she said. “There is a courtesan from Zhejiang called Aiqing who has just come to lodge next door to the north, a very charming woman. Tomorrow night I’ll bring her along to take my place. How would that be?” Feng agreed.

The next evening she did come, with a young married woman of nearly thirty whose eyes roved and darted with a hint of wantonness. The three of them sat close together and played the horse game. When the game was over Miss Mei rose. “The happy meeting is just warming up. I’ll be going.” Feng tried to hold her back, but she had drifted away. The two of them went to bed and took great pleasure together. He asked about her family, but she was vague and would not tell him all of it. She only said, “If you care for me, flick the north wall with your finger and call softly, ‘Little Gourd,’ and I’ll come. If I don’t answer after three calls, you’ll know I’m busy; don’t call again.” At dawn she went into a crack in the north wall and was gone.