[“Little Jie” just went home like that]

“Paper figure?”

Song Fusheng fell into his memories. He held his head in both hands, his gaze unfocused, voice mechanical—as if this method helped him temporarily retain his sanity while recounting the events.

“We… we were going to perform a ritual for Little Jie.”

Even though they were believers, when their son actually died, they still hoped he could continue enjoying parental love and material comfort just like when he was alive. So they sought out a paper figure shop.

A very expensive, but very exquisite shop.

In that store, they had everything custom-made for their son.

Song Fusheng trembled all over. Thinking back on it now, the shop looked different from any other at first glance—like everything inside had been arranged just to lure them in.

He shut his eyes, unwilling to remember, but still lowered his voice and continued: “We… we bought a Little Jie. A paper figure of Little Jie.”

Huo Zhenye’s expression shifted slightly.

Paper boats, silver bridges, golden boys and jade girls—these were ordinary offerings in funerary rituals. But what the Song couple had made for their son was far from ordinary.

They had ordered a full set of modern-style funerary paper offerings: Western-style houses, cars, even toy trains. They had even considered giving Little Jie companions.

Little Jie loved the family’s golden retriever. He often pretended to be a general, with the dog as his warhorse.

Out of motherly love, when Mrs. Song saw the mini mansion and car crafted by the shop owner, she begged him to also make a dog.

“Of course I can—but it’ll cost more,” the man had said. Judging from his voice, he sounded very young. He spoke from behind a curtain.

Money wasn’t an issue. They were willing to pay whatever it took. Two days later, they received a golden retriever that looked exactly like the real one.

When it sat there, you could hardly tell whether it was real or not.

Mrs. Song stared blankly at the paper dog, then suddenly burst into tears. The shop owner chuckled softly from behind the curtain: “If you want a paper person… it’s not impossible.”

Mrs. Song’s head snapped up. She looked like she wanted to pierce through the curtain with her gaze. “Really? You can?”

Song Fusheng frowned and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Yingying, we’ve done enough already. We can still have another child.”

He knew she had been tormenting herself with guilt, because Little Jie had been abducted while she took him out. But it wasn’t her fault—it was the kidnapper’s.

But ever since Mrs. Song had heard the shop owner’s words, she was obsessed. “No other child is Little Jie. I only want my Little Jie.”

Song Fusheng softened. “You can really make a paper figure that looks exactly like our son?”

The shop owner still sat behind the curtain, showing only a pair of long, slender hands. Those thin hands rested lightly together as he said, “Are you… truly sure about this?”

“We are,” Mrs. Song said urgently, afraid he’d change his mind. She didn’t have enough cash with her, so she took off her watch and placed it on the table as a deposit.

A week later, they received “Little Jie.”

“Little Jie” lay in a long cardboard box. He was much smaller than the real Little Jie, his face rounder, looking very childlike.

The shopkeeper hadn’t drawn eyes on “Little Jie.” Smiling slightly, he told them, “Don’t draw eyes on him.”

Song Fusheng frowned as he looked at the paper figure. “He doesn’t look like our son at all.” This wasn’t Little Jie—how could this be Little Jie?

But Mrs. Song was already completely entranced. As soon as she saw “Little Jie,” she clutched the box tightly. Gently caressing the paper figure’s face, she said, “Little Jie, Mommy’s taking you home.”

And so “Little Jie” came home.

At first, Mrs. Song only kept “Little Jie” in the room. She would hold him and pour out all her longing. Gradually, she started to believe her son was still alive.

She brought out the crib again. “Little Jie” would wake up in the morning and go to bed at night.

Song Fusheng was able to go back to work normally. His wife even made him black tea and baked cookies. It was as if they were living their old life again.

One day, Song Fusheng came home and saw that the paper figure “Little Jie” now had eyes. His wife held “Little Jie” with a blissful smile and said to him, “How can Little Jie not have eyes?”

Song Fusheng remembered the shopkeeper’s words, but he didn’t take it seriously. It was just a paper figure—whether it had eyes or not didn’t matter.

His wife bought more new toys, as if the paper “Little Jie” could play with her.

At first, Song Fusheng indulged her. His wife’s mental state seemed to improve; she was able to interact with people again, and they even went to church together.

But slowly, Song Fusheng began to sense that something was wrong. Toys would be scattered everywhere—in the living room, the garden.

The maids kept insisting they had cleaned up properly. Song Fusheng assumed the maids were just slacking off.

The golden retriever, whom Little Jie had loved when he was alive, was also sent away by his wife. She said with disgust, “He’s gone mad. He doesn’t recognize Little Jie anymore.”

That dog would constantly scratch at her bedroom door. As long as he was able to move, he would stick close to Mrs. Song’s side and growl lowly at the paper figure in the cradle.

After the dog was sent away, the maids all began to leave one by one.

One night, Song Fusheng was startled awake by a noise.

He got out of bed and saw his wife and “Little Jie” sitting on the carpet in the second-floor playroom, playing with toys.

At first, he felt heartbroken. His wife’s condition hadn’t improved—it had worsened. Just as he was about to go over and embrace her, he heard her speaking to the paper figure: “Little Jie, do you like this toy?”

“Little Jie” nodded.

Song Fusheng froze in fear at the doorway. His wife turned around, saw him, and smiled sweetly and gently, waving at him: “Fusheng, come here. Look how clever Little Jie is—he built the blocks all by himself.”

The blocks on the floor were crooked and wobbly—just like something a child would build.

She even said to the paper figure, “Little Jie, go call Daddy.”

“Little Jie” stood up. He ran to the door, took Song Fusheng’s hand, and led him into the playroom. Daddy and Mommy sat together, watching him play.

Song Fusheng forced a smile and played with “Little Jie” until dawn.

Finally, dawn came!

His wife went to bed holding “Little Jie,” while he frantically rushed to the paper figure shop—he wanted the shopkeeper to take “Little Jie” back.

But the shop was gone. It was closed.

“Every night,” Song Fusheng tore at his hair in clumps, “every single night, it comes to find me.”

Even closing the study door didn’t help. It would crouch at the gap and stare at him. It would even climb up to the window and knock, wanting Daddy to come play.

Its demands grew and grew. Though it never spoke, his wife understood everything it wanted—like wanting toys, wanting playmates.

Huo Zhenye listened in silence. Then he asked, “Those three children… were they the playmates it chose?”

He used the word ‘chose’, as if immediately accepting that the paper figure could move and think. Song Fusheng, on the brink of collapse, actually sobered up a bit upon hearing Huo speak so calmly.

He looked at Huo Zhenye with a strange expression and let out a nervous, stifled laugh: “It wants… it wants to be human.”

Huo Zhenye was puzzled. “It wants to be human? How?”

Song Fusheng said nothing. He didn’t know either. But his wife clearly understood—she brought home, one by one, the children who had been born on the same day as Little Jie.

“And then?”

Huo Zhenye’s unnaturally calm demeanor made Song Fusheng feel slightly better. He was finally able to talk. Though his body was nearing its limit, his mind began to ease.

“Little Jie… it drinks Yingying’s blood.” The paper figure didn’t need to eat, of course, but his wife had treated it as if it were real. She personally cooked meals for it, laid out a full table, hoping her son would take even one bite.

But “Little Jie” never showed interest. He was a paper doll—of course he didn’t eat. Until the day when Yingying accidentally cut her finger.

It looked at its mother… with longing in its eyes. And Yingying offered her finger to it.

At last, Song Fusheng grabbed Huo Zhenye’s hand, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. “Where is it? Where’s Yingying?! It’s not Little Jie—it’ll drain her dry. I’m begging you, burn it. Burn it!”

That young man once said, “If you don’t want it, just burn it.”

“Where is that shop?”

“It’s no use. I can’t find it anymore,” Song Fusheng was still yanking out handfuls of his own hair. “I go there every day, every day—but it never opens. It’s like that store never even existed.”

In his despair, he had practically searched every inch of the land, but no matter what, he couldn’t find a trace of the shopkeeper.

“Give me the address.”

“Number 77, San Guan Tang.”

Huo Zhenye noted down the address and tucked his fountain pen into his pocket. He said to Song Fusheng, “You should know how this case will end.”

Even if Song Fusheng were willing to talk, no one else would believe him. They would say Mrs. Song kidnapped the children and hid them in the attic of their own house, and that Song Fusheng was either an accomplice or knew about it and kept quiet.

Song Fusheng had been hiding it all along, because he was afraid—afraid of exactly this. If he had come to his senses sooner, things wouldn’t have gone this far.

Huo Zhenye thought of Little Kai, whose soul had been taken, and felt not the slightest sympathy for Song Fusheng. He stood up and left the interrogation room. “You’d better think carefully about what you want to say.”

As soon as he stepped out, Da Tou came over eagerly. “Young Master Huo, did you get anything out of him?”

“No,” Huo Zhenye shook the empty statement form in his hand. “He didn’t say a word.”

Da Tou had been knocked out unexpectedly—luckily, he had a thick skull—but he hadn’t seen clearly who had hit him, and assumed it was Mrs. Song.

“Chief Song says it doesn’t matter if he talks or not. At least the children have been found.”

Technically, the case was already solved—at least the kids were safe. But in reality, it wasn’t over. Mrs. Song was still missing without a trace.

The oldest of the children had finally started talking. He said Mrs. Song brought them home. She kept them locked up, and Song Fusheng would secretly bring them food.

Huo Zhenye gave Da Tou a glance. “He said… his son wanted playmates.”

“What?” Da Tou’s mouth dropped open. Song Mingjie had already been dead for a year—this man really had gone mad.

“You don’t believe it?” Huo Zhenye asked.

“How could I?” Da Tou, still holding the white gauze, was about to burst out laughing.

Huo Zhenye shoved the blank statement form into his hands. “Yeah, I don’t believe it either.”

But the reporters loved stories like this.

The Shenbao had a whole column dedicated to the supernatural—stories about ghosts seeking justice in dreams, high judges punished by vengeful spirits for wrongful convictions…

All that half-Western, half-Chinese ghost lore and spiritual nonsense. And now, with a case like this, how could they pass it up?

Reporters crowded outside the police bureau, eager to dig into this kidnapping case.

Huo Zhenye hurried away from the station to the Bai residence. This time, Bai Zhun opened the door. He only cracked it slightly, his gaze cold as he looked at Huo Zhenye. “What is it?”

Through the gap, Huo could see a glimpse of flannel pajamas on the floor—Bai Zhun had deliberately tossed them there so he would notice.

Huo Zhenye held back a smile. He knew Bai was still angry—nearly nightfall and still sulking over something from the morning.

But he came prepared. He reached a hand through the narrow opening, palm up, holding a tiny paper yellow finch.

“Look—I found Ah Jiu.”

—

Author’s note:

Ah Jiu: Do you even have any shame?