蔡书生

Scholar Cai was a man of broad temperament and exceptional courage. One autumn, he set out alone on a journey of study. As evening fell, he found himself in a remote mountain village with no inn in sight. The only shelter was an abandoned temple荒寺 (huāng sì) — an abandoned or desolate temple. In classical Chinese literature, abandoned temples are among the most common settings for encounters with ghosts and spirits, representing liminal spaces between the human and supernatural worlds. halfway up the hillside, its walls crumbling but still capable of keeping out wind and rain. Without hesitation, Scholar Cai pushed open the half-closed temple door and walked inside.

The hall was thick with cobwebs and coated in an inch of dust. The golden paint on the Buddha statue had flaked away, its features barely distinguishable. Unbothered, the scholar gathered some dry branches and dead leaves, kindling a small fire in the corner. By the faint glow, he surveyed the room. Then his eye caught something — hanging from the great beam above, there dangled a rope noose绳圈 (shéng quān) — a rope noose or loop. In Chinese folk religion, a rope noose in a temple is a strong omen associated with "hanging ghosts" (吊死鬼), spirits of those who died by suicide by hanging, who are believed to seek replacement victims.. The rope was thick and sturdy, its knot tied with exquisite precision, swaying gently in the dark air.

An ordinary man, seeing such a sight, would have fled in terror, his soul scattering to the four winds. But Scholar Cai merely furrowed his brow slightly. "This place has been abandoned for ages," he mused. "How could such a neatly kept rope be hanging here?" Though suspicious, he felt no fear. He dusted off his robes, placed his travel bundle under his head as a pillow, and lay down fully clothed beside the offering table in front of the Buddha. Before long, he fell into a deep sleep, not waking until midnight子时 (zǐ shí) — the period from 11:00 PM to 1:00 AM in the traditional Chinese system of twelve two-hour periods (十二时辰). Midnight, when yin energy is strongest and ghosts are most active, falls within this period..

At midnight, all was still. A mournful wind whistled through the broken windows. The fire had nearly died, leaving only a few dim red embers glowing in the darkness. Then, within this silence, a chill wind suddenly rose, and the temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees. Scholar Cai opened his eyes — he knew that something had arrived.

A wisp of white drifted slowly through the temple gate. As it drew nearer, illuminated by the dying firelight, it revealed itself as a young woman in plain white garments. Her face was pale as paper, her eyes devoid of life, yet her lips curled into an eerie smile. Long black hair hung loose across her shoulders, and her hands — pale and slender, with nails tinged faintly blue — reached forward. This was a hanging ghost吊死鬼 (diào sǐ guǐ) — a "hanging ghost," the spirit of someone who died by hanging. In Chinese folk belief, these ghosts are particularly feared because they are said to seek living replacements so their own souls can be released. They typically lure victims into hanging themselves., what Buddhist texts call the "strangling ghost" (缢鬼).

The ghost floated to the offering table, gazed down at the scholar lying on the floor, and spoke in a mournful whisper: "Dear scholar, the night is deep and the dew is heavy. Why not come up here and rest?" She extended a pale hand, pointing to the rope noose above. Her voice was ethereal and elusive, carrying a bewitching power魅惑 (mèi huò) — to bewitch, enchant, or seduce by supernatural means. Ghosts in Chinese folklore often possess this power, using it to lure victims to their deaths. The word carries connotations of both beauty and danger. that could cloud the mind. Any ordinary person, hearing it, would have found themselves compelled to obey.

Scholar Cai lay on the ground, looking up at the ghost with not a trace of fear on his face. He even rolled over, settling into a more comfortable position, and asked with genuine curiosity: "Is it comfortable up there?" The ghost was taken aback — she had claimed countless victims and never once encountered such a composed target. She urged him again, her voice more pitiful than before: "Come up and see… come up and see…" Yet the scholar remained unmoved. Instead, he sat up and studied his uninvited visitor with keen interest.

Seeing that words alone were not enough, the ghost deployed her second tactic. She floated directly before the scholar and her face suddenly contorted into a horrifying visage — eyes bulging, a long tongue protruding from her mouth, skin shifting from white to greenish-blue, her ten fingers curving like hooks toward his throat. This was the classic "fierce ghost manifestation" (厉鬼显形), designed to shatter a victim's composure through sheer terror. Yet Scholar Cai did not so much as blink. He merely gazed at her coolly, as if watching a clumsy village play社戏 (shè xì) — village theatrical performances, traditionally staged during temple fairs and communal gatherings. Yuan Mei uses this comparison to humorous effect, suggesting the ghost's transformation is no more frightening than an amateur stage performance..

The ghost had exhausted every trick in her arsenal, yet the scholar before her remained as immovable as a mountain. Undaunted, she made one last appeal in her mournful voice: "Come up… come up…" At last, Scholar Cai stood. The ghost's heart leaped — at last, her prey was taking the bait! But the scholar did not slip his head into the noose. Instead, he calmly lifted one foot, gently placed it through the rope loop, then turned to face the ghost with a knowing smile.

Then he spoke, his tone carrying a hint of gentle mockery and pity: "You made a mistake, and that is why you are where you are today. I, however, will not make the same mistake." In twelve crisp characters, he delivered a message that was simultaneously mockery嘲讽 (cháo fěng) — to mock or satirize. Here, Scholar Cai's words carry a gentle but devastating mockery: the ghost who sought to lure him into the same trap that destroyed her is told, in essence, "I'm not as foolish as you were.", moral lesson, and a resounding slap — across the ghost's face, and across the superstition that "ghosts can beguile the living."

At these words, the ghost trembled from head to toe. Her three proud tactics — verbal seduction, shape-shifting terror, and the oppressive chill of ghostly energy — had all failed before this seemingly ordinary scholar. What mortified her most was that he had not merely resisted her; he had cut straight to her deepest shame — the foolish choice that had made her a hanging ghost in the first place. Humiliation crept across her features. A faint blush appeared on her deathly pale face. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

In the end, the ghost gave the scholar one long, lingering look — there was no hatred in her eyes, only boundless shame. Her form gradually faded, dissolving into a wisp of grey smoke that drifted out through a crack in the broken window, never to appear again. Scholar Cai watched her vanish, heaved a soft sigh, and lay back down beside the offering table, sleeping soundly until dawn. The next morning, he packed his belongings and continued on his way, as though nothing had happened at all. But the story survived, becoming one of the most celebrated tales in Zi Bu Yu《子不语》 — Full title What the Master Would Not Discuss, also known as New Qixie (新齐谐), comprising 24 volumes plus a 10-volume sequel. Yuan Mei spent decades compiling roughly one thousand supernatural tales. The title is an ironic reference to the Analerta: "The Master did not speak of strange events, feats, disorder, or spirits" — meaning, precisely what Confucius avoided, Yuan Mei chose to explore..

Yuan Mei's Anti-Superstition Stance

Scholar Cai is one of the most distilled expressions of Yuan Mei's anti-superstition thought. In traditional Chinese ghost narratives, ghosts almost always hold absolute dominion — they come and go without trace, shapeshift at will, and overpower humans, who are typically reduced to helpless victims. Yet Yuan Mei's Scholar Cai completely overturns this power dynamic. Faced with the ghost's threefold assault — verbal seduction, terrifying transformation, and oppressive spectral energy — the scholar remains calm, rational, and even humorous. He needs no Daoist talismans, no Buddhist monk's supernatural powers, no magical tools whatsoever. By simply "not being afraid" and "saying the right sentence," he sends a fierce ghost fleeing in shame. Yuan Mei's message is unmistakable: ghosts can harm people not because ghosts are powerful, but because people frighten themselves first.

Humor and Narrative Reversal

Yuan Mei's brilliance lies in dissolving fear through humor. When Scholar Cai places his foot in the noose and laughs, "You made a mistake, and that's why you're here today — I won't make the same mistake," the entire tone of the story pivots — from horror to comedy. This reversal is not mere slapstick but a deep form of deconstruction: when you face fear with jest, fear itself ceases to hold power. This "laughing away ghosts" technique recurs throughout Zi Bu Yu, becoming Yuan Mei's signature distinction from other supernatural writers like Pu Songling. Pu Songling wrote of ghosts to channel personal anguish and deep emotion; Yuan Mei wrote of ghosts with the cool, knowing smirk of a man who has seen through the world's pretensions.

Comparison with Liaozhai Ghost Stories

Comparing Scholar Cai with the ghost stories in Pu Songling's Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio (聊斋志异) throws the stylistic differences between the two authors into sharp relief. The female ghosts in Liaozhai are often beautiful and passionate — like Nie Xiaoqian in "The Painted Skin," a ghost who, despite her spectral nature, is kind and tender, eventually moving heaven and earth to be restored to life. Liaozhai's ghosts are sympathized with, romanticized, and given full human personality. Yuan Mei's ghost, by contrast, is a purely functional character — a device for testing the limits of human reason. Yuan Mei neither romanticizes nor demonizes her; he simply uses her as a mirror to reflect authentic human responses to the unknown. In Liaozhai, the ghost is another "person"; in Zi Bu Yu, the ghost is just a ghost.

The Philosophy of "Fearlessness Defeats Ghosts"

Beneath this tale lies a profound philosophical proposition: fear is the foundation upon which ghosts exist. There is a Chinese folk saying, "Suspicion breeds dark ghosts" (疑心生暗鬼) — meaning that once the heart fills with fear and suspicion, the mind itself conjures demons and spirits to torment itself. Yuan Mei distilled this folk wisdom into a vivid, concrete story. Scholar Cai's victory depends on no martial arts, no spells, no external aid — only an inner state of being: fearlessness, rationality, and freedom from superstition. This idea occupied an important place in the Enlightenment thought of the Qing dynasty, resonating alongside the era's evidential scholarship and practical learning, together forming a rational re-examination of traditional ghost-and-spirit beliefs.

Folk Legends of Hanging Ghosts

In Chinese folk belief, hanging ghosts吊死鬼 (diào sǐ guǐ) — spirits of those who died by hanging are among the most feared ghost types in Chinese folklore. They are considered "unclean deaths" (横死), meaning the person did not die naturally. Such spirits are believed to be trapped between worlds, unable to reincarnate unless they find a living "replacement" (替死鬼). are among the most dreaded of all spirits. Death by hanging is classified as a "violent death" (横死), meaning an unnatural end. Such spirits are believed to be trapped between worlds, unable to reincarnate unless they find a living "replacement" (替死鬼) — luring another person to die in the same manner. Consequently, folk literature abounds with tales of hanging ghosts haunting abandoned houses, ancient temples, and old trees, luring passersby to their doom. These legends served a social function: they warned people to cherish life and avoid suicide, while also reflecting the ancients' fear and rejection of those who died unnatural deaths.

The "Outwitting the Ghost" Narrative Tradition

"Outwitting ghosts" (以智胜鬼) is a major narrative thread in Chinese supernatural literature. From Song Dingbo catching a ghost in Gan Bao's In Search of the Supernatural (搜神记, Jin dynasty) to Scholar Cai fooling a ghost in Yuan Mei's Zi Bu Yu (Qing dynasty), the core motif of these tales remains constant: humans defeating supernatural forces through reason, wit, and courage. The protagonists need no spells or divine protection — their weapon is the mind. This provides an interesting contrast to Western "dragon-slaying hero" narratives, where heroes rely on strength and valor to defeat monsters, while Chinese wise men rely on calm composure and a single well-chosen sentence. This difference reflects the supreme value Chinese culture places on "wisdom" (智): among the three Confucian virtues of wisdom, benevolence, and courage, wisdom takes the foremost position.

"You Made a Mistake" — The Brilliance of a Pun

The genius of Scholar Cai's line, "You made a mistake, and that is why you are here today — I shall not make the same mistake," lies in its simultaneous accomplishment of several things: First, it unequivocally rejects the ghost's seduction. Second, through inverted empathy — mockery — it identifies the cause of the ghost's death. Third, it weaves together two meanings of the character 误 (wù): "to err" and "to bewitch/deceive." The ghost is simultaneously a pitiable soul who "erred" unto death and a predator who seeks to "bewitch" others to their doom. In one sentence, the scholar exposes both identities. This kind of linguistic precision and wit is Yuan Mei's signature craft as both poet and prose master.