Grandma's Past

Chapter 20: "Grandma's Past"

The smell hit me first. Not the usual blend of sandalwood and dried herbs that always clung to Grandma Chen's shop, but something deeper, older. A musky, almost metallic scent layered underneath, like dried blood and ancient paper. It was oppressive, heavy in the air of the back room, making my chest tighten. I was cleaning, trying to distract myself from the gnawing unease that had settled in since I started seeing ghosts. Dishes piled up from a slow delivery night, greasy residue clinging to the plastic containers. The flickering tallow candle cast dancing shadows that stretched and contorted the shelves packed with charms, talismans, and dusty scrolls.

"Why does this book feel like it's breathing?" I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.

It was the Netherworld Ledger, lying open on the old wooden desk. I hadn’t touched it intentionally, but my hand had drifted, drawn to the worn leather cover. Now, my fingers traced the embossed symbols, and they seemed to writhe beneath my touch. The ink, normally a stark black, wasn't static. It swirled, like smoke rising from a dying ember. A sudden, bone-chilling cold gripped my arm, stealing the warmth from my fingertips. It wasn't the cold of a draft; it was something other, something ancient and hungry.

Then, the visions started.

It wasn’t a smooth transition, not a clear memory surfacing. It was more like being plunged into another reality, a fragmented mosaic of images and sensations. Rain. The relentless, hammering rain of a Taipei night, thirty years ago. Neon signs bleeding their colors onto the slick pavement. The cacophony of a crowded street—voices, the clatter of scooters, the hawkers’ cries—all overlaid with the rhythmic chanting of a Taoist ritual.

I was there, but not there. I was an observer, a detached spectator watching a younger version of Grandma Chen. She was different. Gone was the stooped posture, the perpetually tired look, the cloud of cheap cigarette smoke that seemed to permanently surround her. This woman stood tall, radiating a raw, almost brutal power. She wore a simple, dark tunic, her face etched with a grim determination. This wasn't the Chen I knew, the one who scolded me for tracking mud onto her linoleum floor. This was a Hunter.

She was in the center of the chaos, wielding a heavy brass bell with a practiced ease that was terrifying. The clang of the bell sliced through the rain and the chanting, reverberating through my… my spirit? My consciousness? I wasn’t sure. Beside her, a man with harsh features and a network of scars crisscrossed his face barked orders, his voice strained with worry.

"Chen, you’re pushing too hard! The boundary is thinning!"

I watched as she ignored him, her eyes fixed on the swirling shadows coalescing into a monstrous form. It was immense, a hulking tiger-like creature composed of darkness and malice, its eyes burning with an infernal glow. The ritual was an exorcism, a desperate attempt to force the entity back into the realm of the dead. She moved with a terrifying precision, chanting verses I didn't understand, her wooden sword flashing in the neon light.

She was fighting something big. Something that threatened to spill over into the human world.

The scene shifted, abruptly, violently. The triumph in her eyes was gone, replaced by a strained, desperate exhaustion. The rain seemed to intensify, washing away the neon colors, leaving only the stark black and white of a dilapidated temple ruins. The air was thick, suffocating, the chanting replaced by a high-pitched ringing that vibrated in my skull. The smell wasn't rain anymore; it was ozone, like the air right before a lightning strike, mixed with the pungent aroma of burnt offerings.

She faced something even larger than the Tiger General, something vast and formless, a swirling void in the sky where the lunar eclipse hung like a malevolent eye. Her ritual tools were breaking, the brass bell cracking, the wooden sword splintering under the strain. Her face was slick with sweat, her body trembling with fatigue.

"If the gate stays open," she gasped, her voice strained, her words barely audible over the ringing, "the city falls. I’ll take the hunger onto myself."

Then, it happened. A desperate, forbidden act. I couldn't see exactly what she did, but I felt it—a searing, psychic pain that ripped through my own senses. It was a sacrifice, a draining of her own spiritual capacity, a sealing spell that pushed her power to its absolute limit. The void flickered, then receded, the ringing diminished, and silence descended, a heavy, oppressive silence that felt like the end of the world.

Suddenly, I was back. Back in the cramped, incense-filled back room of Grandma Chen’s shop. I pulled my hand away from the Ledger, gasping for air, my heart pounding against my ribs. The candle had burned down to a nub, casting elongated shadows that danced on the walls. I looked at Grandma Chen.

She wasn’t looking at the Ledger. She was looking at me. And she didn’t look angry. She looked… tired. Profoundly, bone-wearingly tired. I’d always thought her hands were just weathered from years of running the shop, from handling herbs and charms. But now, I saw the truth. The scars weren't from work. They were from the ritual, the desperate sacrifice that had ended her career. Faint, silvery lines crisscrossed the backs of her hands, almost invisible in the dim light.

"Power is not a gift, A-Wei," she said, her voice raspy, rough as sandpaper. She lit another cigarette, the cherry glowing like a malevolent eye in the gloom. "It is a debt. And the spirits always come to collect."

I stared at her, the pieces of the puzzle starting to click into place. The strange delivery addresses, the feeling of being watched, the Red-Clad Woman haunting my every step... it all pointed to something bigger, something more dangerous.

“Are you hiding from the ghosts, Grandma?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Or are you hiding the fact that the gate is still cracked?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She just stared at the smoke curling from her cigarette, her eyes clouded with a distant sadness.

Then, I noticed it. Beneath the counter, tucked away in a dark corner, was an iron box. Not the flimsy kind you find at the hardware store. This was old, heavy, reinforced with intricate carvings. A rhythmic tapping came from inside, a slow, insistent beat that seemed to resonate in my bones. A tapping that sounded like… fingernails.

"What’s in the box?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

She didn't respond to my question, but her gaze sharpened, her eyes fixed on something beyond me. “The Master of the market… he’s patient. He thinks he can wait. But he’s wrong.”

The Red-Clad Woman. The ghost I'd seen at those unsettling delivery addresses. She wasn't just a random wandering spirit. She was… a tether. A remnant of the breach, leaking energy, waiting for something. Waiting for…

And then, it hit me. The faded tattoo on the back of her arm, a swirling pattern of ancient symbols. The same symbols I'd seen branded into my skin in Alley 404. They were fading, disappearing, as if her power was literally being erased. Her power… which she had sacrificed to contain something dangerous. Something that was tied to me.

The Festival. It was coming.

The front bell of the shop jingled. Not the pleasant chime of a customer entering. This was a heavy, metallic thud, like something incredibly massive and unseen had just stepped onto the doorstep, waiting for the Festival to begin.

As Grandma Chen reached out to close the Ledger, the ink spilled off the page and began to crawl up my arm, forming the same cryptic runes I saw in Alley 404.