October 1978. The West Sea was already bitterly cold.
At dusk, six-year-old little Droma and her older brother collected stones by the lakeside near Erlangjian. Droma’s cheeks were flushed red from the chill, yet she beamed with joy, cradling the pockets of her tiny cotton coat now brimming with pretty stones.
...
Beneath the setting sun, the lake rippled with deep, desolate crimson.
Little Droma stared blankly toward the far horizon…
When she snapped out of her daze, it was already time to go home.
...
Due to an acquired condition, little Droma was paralyzed from the waist down. To step outside, she relied entirely on her brother’s sturdy back.
He was only four years older than her.
...
What little Droma loved most was sitting on the West Sea shore at dusk, clutching the stones her brother gathered for her, gazing dreamily at the shimmering water.
Today was no different.
...
She waved and called out to her brother—but he didn’t react at all.
He stood frozen, staring intently toward the far end of Erlangjian, no longer picking stones.
She called again. And again. No response.
...
Then, a strange sound crept into her ears—like countless voices chanting a sorrowful poem in an unknown tongue.
It swelled: desolate, mournful, vast, terrifying—a hellish chorus.
Droma had never heard anything like it. Fear rooted her to the spot.
She felt, with chilling certainty, that one careless breath would let the sound steal her soul across the lake.
Trembling, voice cracking with tears, she let out one final, heart-wrenching cry for her brother.
Tears and snot streamed down her face. Covering her ears did nothing against the maddening chant.
...
Less than fifty meters away, her brother suddenly stirred.
In that instant, little Droma witnessed a sight she would never forget.
...
His body, still turned away, tilted slightly toward her.
Yet his head snapped back with unnatural speed—
Before his torso fully turned, his face was already staring straight at her.
Hollow eyes, no pupils. A faint, twisted smirk curled his lips.
...
Under the eerie chant, Droma’s eyes widened in horror.
Her whole body shook uncontrollably. A few stones tumbled from her pockets, *tap-tap*, clattering against the rocks.
...
Her brother moved like a puppet—jerking stiffly to his knees.
That grotesque grin stayed locked on her.
Then he crawled forward, body contorted, limbs moving with mechanical rigidity.
He crept toward the lake, water swallowing him inch by inch…
Until he vanished beneath the blood-red surface.
A few bubbles rose. Silence fell. The chanting ceased.
...
Just like that, her brother disappeared under the setting sun.
...
Overwhelmed, little Droma collapsed.
...
After nightfall, her family found her huddled tightly by the shore, frozen stiff.
They wrapped her in a coat and rushed her home.
Only then did she slowly regain consciousness.
When asked about her brother, her eyes went vacant. She buried her face in a relative’s chest and sobbed heartbreakingly.
Later, she recounted everything. Adults listened, baffled.
...
They searched around Erlangjian for nearly a month—nothing.
By November, the West Sea froze solid. The search paused.
...
Afterward, little Droma often dreamed of a crimson-robed figure: human body, goat’s head, leading her brother away with a rope toward Erlangjian’s edge.
Her brother’s face remained twisted.
Slowly, he turned his head and flashed her that same grotesque grin.
...
...
They searched longer, hoping to find remains. Nothing.
Some whispered suicide. Others blamed the lake’s legendary monster.
Theories swirled—but no truth emerged.
...
Only little Droma knew what truly happened that dusk.
She could never forget.
...
Later, she planted prayer flags along the West Sea shore, praying for her brother’s peace.
That eerie chant echoed endlessly in her dreams.
The terror clung to her for the rest of her life.
2004. Wei Shenji, age eight:
"Alright, story’s over. Now close your eyes and sleep."
My heart hammered. "Dad… was that real?"
Dad met my wide, curious eyes with a smug grin. Just as he opened his mouth—
Mom yanked him out by the ear:
"Why tell her *that* again? Can’t you share something nice for once?"
Dad pleaded, shot me a wink, and mouthed two silent words.
I read his lips: *"Good night."*
...
Another strange story…
Strange thoughts swirling, I drifted quickly into sleep.
...
"Good night."
