Chapter Thirty-Two: Tang Xin’s Peculiar Ritual

This strange stone held their attention for an entire afternoon, both of them staring and contemplating in silence. When night fell and their dormmates returned to rest, the lights went out and the stone was left in Tang Xin’s possession.

Each was lost in his own thoughts as night deepened. Tang Xin soon drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep, but Tan Da, surprisingly, could not manage to fall asleep. Watching Tang Xin snore so sweetly in his dreams stirred a certain jealousy in him—how could anyone sleep so soundly at a time like this? But eventually, reassured by the calm around him, Tan Da let himself relax.

Half-asleep, half-awake, Tan Da sensed someone slipping out of the dormitory. He tried to rouse himself, to see who it was, but despite repeated efforts, he could not wake. He vaguely felt the presence of someone standing on the balcony, gazing down for what seemed an eternity, the sensation growing ever more intense.

After struggling in this befuddled state for some time, Tan Da finally drifted into real sleep. When he managed to open his eyes, he sat up with a start and scanned the dorm suspiciously. All his roommates were asleep; the occasional rustle of turning bodies or bursts of snoring only accentuated the silence of the deep night.

“You’re saying you felt someone standing on the balcony in the middle of the night?” I was astonished. People’s minds are usually clear in that liminal state between wakefulness and sleep, just as they are about to doze off. And often, the sensations at this moment are the most mysterious. There was once a research project in the United States: “The moment before sleep is when human consciousness is at its strongest.” This secret research even yielded results—supposedly, a man sensed his parents were in a car accident just before falling asleep. He was startled awake by a phone call, and, worried, tried calling his parents, who were traveling in Las Vegas; no one answered. He immediately called the police. The next day, the police informed him that his parents had narrowly survived a car accident and were recovering in the hospital; had he called half an hour later, it would have been too late to save them.

Foreign media are truly formidable, able to uncover even such stories, but most people later dismissed it as a writer’s fanciful imagination, mere conversation fodder, not to be believed.

Tan Da’s feeling wasn’t without reason, but I only asked him, hoping to gather more details, assuming it was just a personal sensation before sleep.

However, Tan Da was confident. As a psychology student, he analyzed things objectively and with a certain calm. He assured me the feeling was unmistakably strong—he couldn't be wrong.

Subsequent events would prove him correct.

The next day, Tan Da had no classes in the morning and stayed in bed until noon. When he got up to wake Tang Xin for lunch, Tang Xin was sleeping so deeply that Tan Da had to shake him awake. Tang Xin sat up, ready to get out of bed and wash up, but found he couldn’t stand: “Da Dan, come help me up—my legs are so numb, even worse than after that long-distance run we did last time.”

“Da Dan” was Tan Da’s nickname—not because he was particularly brave, but because “Tan” and “Dan” sounded similar, and so those close to him called him “Da Dan.”

Tan Da was immediately reminded of his feeling from the previous night—it was as if the person standing on the balcony had been Tang Xin. But after some casual questioning, Tang Xin insisted he’d fallen asleep as soon as he got back. With his personality, he had no reason to lie.

Tan Da’s suspicions grew, but the day passed without incident; the two of them spent the daylight hours studying the stone, but nothing unusual happened. That night, as they prepared to rest, Tan Da stayed wide awake.

At one in the morning, Tan Da, trusting his own instincts, remained alert. Just as exhaustion was about to overtake him, someone sat up in bed. Because he slept on the lower bunk, Tan Da rolled over, adjusting his angle to observe. The one getting up was another classmate, who tiptoed toward the balcony. Tan Da followed quietly, barefoot to avoid making noise, passing Tang Xin’s bed where Tang Xin slept soundly.

Reaching the balcony, Tan Da found it empty except for the clothes hanging out to dry.

A chill ran through him—how could a living person, whom he’d followed so closely, vanish into thin air on the balcony? His chest heaved with nervous breaths.

Moonlight spilled across the balcony; aside from the occasional ant crawling at night or the distant shadows swaying in the wind, there was nothing to see. Images from supernatural tales flashed through Tan Da’s mind—ghosts, fox spirits, tree demons—each leaving him feeling icy cold.

As he hesitated, a gust of wind startled him, and he turned his head, only to be so frightened he tried to scream, but no sound came out. Terror seized every part of him, and the cry was choked off in his throat, reduced to a muffled groan.

Turning his head, he found himself face-to-face with a familiar visage—eyes wide, staring at him with a look deeper and more fearful than his own. Tan Da had never realized how clearly people’s eyes could be seen in the dark.

When he saw those eyes and the trembling face, he managed to compose himself and stifle his cry. It turned out that his roommate of two years hadn’t disappeared at all—he had simply gone to the bathroom, which was right next to the balcony. After midnight, the school prohibited lights, so the bathroom was pitch black.

Tan Da, barefoot and following closely, had made his companion uneasy as he entered the bathroom, feeling himself being tailed—a sensation particularly acute at night. So, once inside, his roommate held his breath, trying to discern what was behind him. Meanwhile, Tan Da, standing motionless at the bathroom door, unwittingly intensified the tension.

Half-awake, the roommate was now fully alert, his nerves taut. But this was his own dorm, after all, and with that thought, his courage surged. He flung the door open, and the two of them were nearly nose-to-nose.

People can scare each other to death. In the commotion, Tan Da’s scream caught in his throat, while his roommate, after an initial shriek and realizing it was Tan Da, patted his chest and cursed, “Damn, Da Dan, you’re brave, but do you have to scare me like this in the middle of the night?”

Tan Da could only shake his head, realizing how tightly wound he’d become lately.

After this episode, sleep still eluded Tan Da. His mind raced with questions—the mystery of the stone, the identity of the girl named Yue Yue, her whereabouts.

Who were the pursuers? Who would dare to commit murder in broad daylight with guns, like a scene out of a movie? Given the sheer number of vehicles and weapons involved, who had such power? Suddenly, he remembered that one of the men chasing him had spoken fluent Japanese. Could they have been Japanese? And how had he returned to school after fainting?

As I analyzed Tan Da’s account, it seemed that all the recent events in my own life were also somehow connected to the Japanese. This was a promising lead, and it was the best way forward.

Tan Da’s thoughts kept circling back to the stone, and he glanced unconsciously at Tang Xin.

But where was Tang Xin? A chill ran through Tan Da. The bed across from his, where Tang Xin usually slept, was empty. Since Tang Xin’s bunk was directly above and opposite his, Tan Da would have noticed if he’d gotten up.

Tan Da scanned the dorm—quiet, all the other roommates in place, only Tang Xin missing.

He checked the time: three thirty in the morning.

Slipping out of bed, he instinctively glanced at the balcony. There, someone was standing.

Looking closely, Tan Da saw it was Tang Xin. When had he gotten up? What was he doing on the balcony?

But Tang Xin’s posture was odd. He held the stone tightly, head tilted skyward, knees slightly bent, standing utterly motionless.

He stood like that, head raised, knees bent, unmoving. After half an hour, he still hadn’t moved, appearing as devout and motionless as a pious worshipper praying in a cathedral. Tan Da, deeply curious, watched from afar for half an hour before approaching and calling out to him. When there was no response, he shook Tang Xin, but still there was no reaction. Even a deep sleeper would stir after being shaken, but Tang Xin was entirely unresponsive, his legs remaining bent.

Tan Da recalled the feeling from the previous night—most likely it had been Tang Xin on the balcony, which explained why his legs had been numb that morning.

But Tang Xin’s state left Tan Da both fascinated and frightened. In all the years he’d known him, Tang Xin had never acted this way—it was as if he were possessed.

Tan Da looked at me and asked, “That was the second time Tang Xin did this, completely unaware, like sleepwalking. But could it really be sleepwalking, or was it something supernatural?”

I pondered for a moment before answering, “Sleepwalking, or somnambulism, is a sleep disorder. It typically involves someone suddenly waking from deep sleep, eyes open but expressionless, slowly rising from bed and moving about aimlessly—sometimes pacing, fumbling with clothes or bedding, or even performing complex tasks like opening doors or cooking. Episodes usually last four to six minutes, with repetitive behaviors. Tang Xin’s symptoms do resemble sleepwalking.”

Tan Da muttered, “I hope it’s just sleepwalking; anything else would be too much.” But almost immediately, he exclaimed, “No, that can’t be right. Sleepwalking doesn’t last so long—he stood there for over half an hour without moving. And sleepwalkers usually wake up on their own; he didn’t.”

“How did he wake up?” I asked, intrigued. I’d assumed Tang Xin’s state was due to sleepwalking, but typically, sleepwalkers can’t be awakened by outside stimuli; if you forcefully wake them, it can cause severe neurological damage, even mental breakdowns—a common fact known to anyone studying psychology. So when Tan Da said Tang Xin wasn’t roused naturally, my curiosity was piqued.

Tang Xin seemed to be performing some kind of ritual, body bent in that same posture. At first, Tan Da assumed it was sleepwalking, but the way Tang Xin stood made him suspicious. Finally, seeing the stone in Tang Xin’s hand, he pried open Tang Xin’s fingers and took the stone. The moment he did, Tang Xin collapsed limply onto him as if all weight had left his body.

Supporting him, Tan Da found that Tang Xin had woken up, bewildered to find himself on the balcony. Complaining of soreness in his legs and head, he pressed Tan Da for answers.

Tan Da told him everything, expecting Tang Xin to be shocked, but instead he remained perfectly calm, as if he already knew what would happen, not the least bit surprised. After washing his face, he climbed into bed and buried himself in sleep.

Tan Da was deeply unsettled by Tang Xin’s indifferent reaction—he was certain Tang Xin knew more than he let on.

The next morning, Tan Da got up as soon as he saw Tang Xin awake, pulling him aside to speak in hushed tones: “We need to talk. There’s something important I need to discuss with you.”

Tang Xin glanced at him coldly and replied, “Let’s talk tonight. I have plans today.” With those words, he turned and left.

Tan Da called after him a few times, but Tang Xin didn’t respond at all. I asked Tan Da about the day Tang Xin went out. According to him, it was the very day I gave a lecture at the university, the night before our trip to Xi’an.

That was also the day Tang Xin asked me a strange question: “Do you believe in ghosts?”

That evening, he waited outside my house for a long while, borrowing Swedenborg’s “Heaven and Hell” from me. I also gave him Gu Jing’s contact information and quietly inscribed a talisman of peace on his back.

Gu Jing later told me over the phone that if it hadn’t been for my protective charm, Tang Xin might not have survived.

Could what happened to Tang Xin be related to all this?