The story of little Droma remains one of the most vividly etched in my memory—my dad told it so chillingly that I had nightmares for nights afterward.

When I was a kid, his stories fell into two types. Historical tales like the Battle of Red Cliffs? I loved those. The other kind—absurd, eerie stories like little Droma and her brother by the sunset-lit lake—I was scared stiff, yet couldn’t stop listening. I’d hide under the covers, a mix of fear and fascination.

Now, hearing Aunt Droma herself bring up this very story, a chill ran down my spine.

Honestly, I’d always assumed those tales were just my dad’s inventions. That thought made the fear feel manageable.

But seeing Aunt Droma before me—paralyzed from the waist down—I did the math. Little Droma, six years old in 1978, would be roughly Aunt Droma’s age today. In that moment, I felt I was staring straight at the tragedy’s protagonist.

So… were all my dad’s eerie stories *real*? I froze, forcing myself not to recall the others.

Meanwhile, Aunt Droma chatted animatedly with my mom about the past.

—

After the incident at age six, little Droma was haunted by a recurring nightmare.

A goat-headed, human-bodied monster with blood-red pupils and rows of sharp fangs, draped in a crimson silk robe, drifted above Erlangjian Lake. Worst of all was the sound—a hellish chant echoing in her ears, just as she’d heard that day.

Ten years blurred by. The nightmare returned every few days; that eerie voice stayed hauntingly clear.

Droma began blurring dreams and reality. She grew haggard, aged beyond her years.

Villagers whispered she was possessed by something unclean.

Her parents sought help far and wide, inviting dream interpreters. None offered answers. The nightmares persisted.

Then one day, a man came asking about her. That man was my dad, Wei Chuanyi.

Per Droma’s memory, he was young, handsome, calm-faced, and quiet.

He told her he could banish the nightmare—but needed her cooperation.

Willing to try anything, Droma led him to the lakeshore where it happened. Lungta—prayer flags—lined the bank. Common across Sichuan, Gansu, Qinghai, and Yunnan, these silk or cloth banners bear sacred mantras, acting as spiritual barriers to invite blessings and ward off evil.

It was deep November; Qinghai Lake lay frozen. Droma recounted every detail.

My dad surveyed the area silently, running his hands along the shore as if searching for something unseen.

Nothing happened that day. They returned by dusk.

At dawn next day, my dad found Droma’s father. He pressed a sum of money into his hands. “If I don’t return within ten days,” he said, “hang this on your wall. Her nightmares will end.”

He pulled out a metal necklace with a ring pendant, etched with tiny Arabic numerals.

A dream-healer who *gave* money? Droma’s impoverished family couldn’t refuse.

Still, my dad looked less like a mystic and more like an ordinary traveler.

He never returned. No one knew where he went. Faithful to his words, the family hung the necklace.

Droma already saw my dad as a saint. And slowly, her nightmares faded.

They revered him like a deity. With gratitude, they rebuilt their lives.

Five peaceful years passed. The nightmare vanished completely.

Then strangers arrived, inquiring about Droma. Seeing the ring on the wall, their faces froze in shock. After close inspection, they demanded its origin.

Droma told the whole story. They offered to buy it.

Her family refused at first. But when the sum grew astronomical, Droma wavered—glancing at their crumbling home, her parents’ gaunt, weary faces from years of hardship. She sold it.

With the money, she built a new house, bought livestock, and got herself a wheelchair. Their life skyrocketed.

Exactly one month after the strangers took the ring…

A rare “dragon water-spout” appeared over Qinghai Lake.

Scientifically, it’s a towering water column from intense convection. Folklore claims a true dragon dwells in the lake—the spout marks its emergence.

Droma was lakeside then, pushing her wheelchair while helping her father herd, chatting with her mother.

She stared, stunned, at the distant spectacle.

Then—an unsettling sound drifted with the water’s roar. A wave of familiar dread crashed over her.

*That hellish chant!* After five years… it was back.

Her mother turned. Droma was pale-faced, eyes vacant. She wheeled her home at once.

Horror struck: the nightmare returned that night. Worse—the goat-headed monster drew closer in her dreams; the voice grew sharper, clearer.

Regret seized her. *I sold Wei Chuanyi’s sacred ring. This is punishment.*

With no choice left, Droma silently vowed to find the ring—and atone.