Chapter 4 Hanging ghost

　　We trudged onward with no temple in sight. The fog had thinned to frayed veils, but battalions of darkness advanced, visibility worse than ever.

　　"Make camp here," I urged.

　　"Negative. Never block the trail."

　　"Block... whom?"

　　"Those who walk these mountains after dark," Mr. Egg murmured, squinting into the gloom.

　　"You're joking!" I recoiled. "A tenured professor endorsing superstition?"

　　"Some forces defy syllabi."

　　"Such as?" I edged closer, wary of taboo.

　　"Ever heard of *guǐ dǎ qiáng*?"

　　"Ha! The 'ghost barrier'?" I shook my head. "Pure physiology! Leg-length discrepancy plus Coriolis effect equals walking circles. Don't tell me decades in academia missed that?"

　　"Allow me to present... Exhibit A." His eyes glinted with scholarly defiance.

　　"Mushroom foraging solo last monsoon season. Lost on an unmarked trail at dusk. Followed my GPS track—still looped for hours. Exhausted, I bivouacked in a clearing." He leaned in. "Dawn revealed my night path: a 40-meter cliff scaled *vertically—repeatedly*—with no rope."

　　"Track log interpolation error," I countered. "Recorded straight lines between waypoints."

　　"Impossible."

　　"Proof?"

　　"My boot prints stamped into earthen ledges—*perpendicular to the ground*. I'd scampered up a precipice like a gecko half the night."

　　Silence. My worldview shattered. A man his bulk, defying gravity sans gear? Yet his integrity was unquestionable—leaving only the inexplicable.

　　"Hence, certain truths demand... acknowledgment," he concluded. Then added matter-of-factly: "Also, avoiding poachers and tomb raiders. ——And boars."

　　"So... find a clearing off-trail?"

　　"Affirmative."

　　The forest held its breath in that mist-cloaked stillness, shadows of trees swaying like drowsy dancers. I was laser-focused on scouting clearings when my clumsy snowshoes thumped the ground, startling a pika—its tiny round ears and pointy snout straight out of a cartoon. Zipped away before I could blink.

　　“What’re you hunting?”

　　“Pika!” I muttered—but my eyes snagged on something swaying at the edge of vision. Squinting through the gauzy fog got me nowhere. Trudging closer in snowshoes, I leaned in…

　　Distant shapes blurred as the haze peeled back like cheap theater curtains. Then—there it was. Hanging from a gnarled, skeletal tree: a human form. Head lolling, body swaying like a broken puppet in the wind.

　　“Holy moth—”

　　A calloused palm smothered my curse.

　　“Shut it!” Mr. Egg’s whisper was razor-sharp against my ear.

　　My heart tried to punch through my ribs. Eyes glued to that figure—couldn’t blink. Then… it pivoted. Slowly. Until its faceless void aimed right at us. Freezing. Wind screamed through branches like tearing metal. Ice flooded my veins.

　　“MOVE YOUR ASS!” Mr. Egg hauled me backward. My snowshoes skidded wildly.

　　“WHAT IS THAT THING?!” I bellowed, ducking as a whip-crack branch snapped at my eyes. We crashed through brush like spooked deer—gasping, wheezing—until my legs folded.

　　“Stop… gasp… just stop—” Dread still wrapped around my brain like wet gauze.

　　Mr. Egg slumped against pine bark, sweat rivering down his face. “Damn… wiped out…”

　　“Mr. Egg!” My voice cracked.

　　“What now?” he grunted.

　　“Corpse… corpse behind you—!” I jabbed a shaking finger past his shoulder.

　　“Coats? Yeah…” He pawed at his soaked shirt, baffled. “Gotta change before we catch our death—literally.”

　　“Dead body!” Hinson finally gulped enough air to spit the words whole.

　　“Wha—?” Mr. Egg spun—and froze. The hanged silhouette now dangled right behind him, tattered sleeves billowing like funeral shrouds.

　　“LORD ALMIGHTY!” He near cracked his skull on a branch recoiling upward.

　　“RUN!” Now it was Hinson dragging him. Their heaving breaths echoed like bellows.

　　But physics doesn’t care about panic—not with 30-pound packs. Even synthetic adrenaline couldn’t fix this. They shuffled, boots dragging through slush, putting pathetic distance between them and the clinging specter.

　　Mist thinned. Sunset bled tarnished gold over snow-dusted jackets. Wind stabbed deep, melting flakes into fabric only to refreeze—ice armor encasing them. Icicle fangs gnawed their backpacks. Two more hours? Their “breathable” gear would sweat-poison them. Hypothermia wasn’t coming; it was unzipping its sleeping bag.

　　“Camp. NOW. Or we’re corpsicles!” Hinson jammed his headlamp on, blocking the path.

　　“Just… gasp… further! It’s bound to its—” “SWEET MERCY IT’S HERE!” Mr. Egg’s legs buckled.

　　There. Again. Hanging ahead. Head bowed, shedding snow in the dying bruise-colored light.

　　Wind. Rasping lungs. Snow ticking on nylon. Deafening. Then—**laughter**. A hyena-sob shredding the dark timber. They froze. Man. Man. Ghost. Stalemate under Qinling’s skeletal trees.

　　An ice-needle breeze pricked Hinson’s neck—

　　—it lunged. Claws raking toward Mr. Egg’s eyes.

　　“ROTTEN BASTARD—EAT STEEL!” Rage detonated in Mr. Egg. He speared forward with his tungsten-tipped pole.

　　*SKRRTCH!*

　　Metal pierced shadow-flesh—

　　—and the wraith’s mouth curled into a grin. Then, crisp as snapping bone:

　　*“Hinson.”*

　　*SHINK!* Mr. Egg’s pole pierced the "ghost," lifting it like a scarecrow on a pike. Wind whipped the tattered robe around his ice-crusted legs as he held it pinned. Hinson’s headlamp flared, catching Mr. Egg mid-heroics: frost gleaming like shattered quartz on his shoulders, the pole raised like a saint’s relic.

　　“MR. EGG—YOU GODDAMN LEGEND!”

　　The "corpse" slumped into a rag pile.

　　...And Mr. Egg collapsed beside it. Knees thumped onto frozen dirt.

　　“You hur—”

　　“HELP! MY LEGS ARE SPAGHETTI!”

　　“Sir?”

　　“DON’T ‘SIR’ ME—LIFT!”

　　Truth: Heroism expires faster than cheap fireworks.

　　Hinson strained to hoist him—groaning under professor-shaped lead weights.

　　“Professor… we need to discuss your dumpling intake.”

　　“TEMPLE! NOW!” He gasped like a stranded walrus. “Cold’s chewing my bones!”

　　“Temple?”

　　Mr. Egg’s shaking finger stabbed the gloom. “THERE! EYES ON THE PRIZE!”

　　A crumbling temple hunched behind skeletal birches.

　　“This ruin’s safe?”

　　“WALK!” He draped over Hinson like a human shawl.

　　Approaching the temple, Hinson edged around the "corpse"-cloth—

　　*STOMP! CRUNCH!*

　　Mr. Egg suddenly jumped on the rag, ground it into slush, and spat ice:

　　“BRAINLESS JACKASSES! WHO HANGS LAUNDRY IN A BLIZZARD?! NEARLY KILLED US!”

　　“Just… cloth? But—” Hinson’s mind reeled. That smile… The "Hinson" whisper… Had fear rewired his brain?

　　“Why’d it follow us?!”

　　“IDIOT CHILD!” Mr. Egg clawed at the snow. “OPEN YOUR OPTICS!”

　　Hinson’s light dropped. Their own snowshoe tracks—chaotic, looping spirals—woven like a lunatic’s crochet.

　　“Hell… We ran circles!”

　　“Trails here knot like a hangman’s rope,” Mr. Egg panted. “All lead to this rotten temple.”

　　The temple door hung crooked. Mr. Egg tore off its rusted wire latch.

　　*SCREEEEEEE—*

　　Darkness gulped them whole. Hinson’s headlamp speared inward—

　　*—DEAR GOD!*

　　A crimson-faced statue glared from its altar—eyes wide with painted rage beneath a crusted bronze helmet.

　　“Creepiest temple god alive…” Hinson whispered.

　　“Stick close,” Mr. Egg ordered.

　　Hinson maxed his lamp. The temple stank of wet rot and rat piss. Twenty feet wall-to-wall. Furnishings? Tragedy:

　　Crumbling altar (war-god judging their filth)

　　Dirt stove—cauldron STOLEN, only chopped logs left

　　A chair crippled like a broken wish

　　"Bed" of rat-gnawed vinyl, turds scattered like coarse black sand

　　Snow caves felt luxurious now. But Mr. Egg guarded his tent like Fort Knox, snarled at Hinson’s lamp for “blinding his academic vision,” then strung dim LED fairy lights over sagging beams.

　　“…Huh. These… help.” Hinson admitted, killing his beam.

　　“Hinson—FIRE. I’ll melt snow.” Mr. Egg vanished with a dented mixing bowl.

　　Hinson glared at the kindling like it owed him tuition. “Nearly… there…!” He torched pine over his Jetboil’s sputtering flame.

　　“HINSON—SWEET HEAVENS—” Mr. Egg skidded back, slamming the bowl. “—KILL THAT JETBOIL BEFORE WE GO BROKE!”

　　“How then?” Hinson blinked innocence.

　　Mr. Egg sighed like the weight of academia. “Move. Stuff logs into that stove before frostbite wins.”